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http://www.archive.org/details/centuryillustratnewy
T?e CENTU RY
ILLUSTRATED MONTHLY
MAGAZINE
November ISS4 to April 1885
TS? CENTURY C? , NEW-YORK.
F.WARNE EvC?, LONDON.
Vol XXIX. New Series Vol. VII.
Copyright, 1885, by The Century Co.
Press of Theo. L. De Vinne & Co.
New-York.
INDEX
TO
THE CENTURY MAGAZINE.
VOL. XXIX. NEW SERIES: VOL. VII.
Page.
Architecture, Recent, in America. IV. (Churches) Mrs. Schuyler van Rensselaer, 323
Illustrations by Harry Fenn, Rotch and Tildcn, W. R. Emerson, and G. Fletcher Babb : North Church, Springfield
— Trinity Church, N. Y. — Trinity Church, Boston — Tower of Trinity Church — Chancel of Trinity Church — St.
Paul's Church, North Andover — Interior of St. Stephen's, Lynn — St. Paul's Church, Stockbridge — Episcopal
Church, Rockland — St. Sylvia's Church, Mt. Desert — Yale College Chapel.
Astronomy, The New S. P. Langley 224, 700
Twenty-eight illustrations by the author and others.
Bostonians, The Henry Ja??ies 530, 686, 893
Canada as a Winter Resort W. George Beers 514
Illustrations by Henry Sandham : Driving in the Streets of Montreal — Curling — Tobogganing at Night — Old
Indian Making Snow-shoes — A Skating Carnival — Going Tobogganing — On a Toboggan Hill — The Head of a
Slide — Race Between a White Man and an Indian — A Brush at the Hurdle — The "Whipper-in" — Supper at the
Club-house — A Snow-shoe Concert — Snow-shoeing by Torchlight.
Chinese Theater, The ^ Henry Burden McDowell. . . 27
Illustrations drawn by T. Wores and Kenyon Cox: A Candy-seller — The Guard of the Goddess of Mercy — A
Hunter— A Painted-face King — In the Women's Gallery — Making Up — An Entrance — Box-office — Post-office
— Exterior — A Pirate — A God of Thunder — Interior — Two Princes Playing Checkers — The Eclipse.
Christianity and Popular Amusements Washington Gladden 384
Colonists, The, at Home Edward Eggleston 873
With numerous illustrations.
Dublin City Edward Dowden 163
Illustrations by Joseph Pennell : The Custom-house — Dublin Castle — Goldsmith's Statue — Trinity College — The
College Green — Burke's Statue — An Alleyway — Bank of Ireland — Old Houses on the Liffey — Tom Moore's
Statue — Sackville Street and Nelson's Column — Foot of Nelson's Monument — St. Patrick's Close and Cathedral —
In Phoenix Park — Monument in Phoenix Park — Donnybrook Fair-ground — Up the River — Tail-piece.
Dutch Portraiture W.J. Stillman 578
Illustrations from paintings by Bakhuizen and Rembrandt. (See Frontispiece facing page 483.)
iv INDEX.
Page.
False Prophet, the, The Land of R. E. Colston 643
Illustrations, after photographs and drawings by the author, drawn by J. D. Woodward, F. J. Meeker, Francis C.
Jones, Harry Fenn, L. C. Vogt, W. Taber, J. R. Wiles, and C. J. Taylor: Khartoum — A Camel-driver— The First
Cataract — Port of Assouan — New Dongola — A Dongola Girl — Wady Ollakee — Map — The Second Cataract —
Gebel and Wady Hegatt — Camels Drinking — A Dandy of Suakim — Son of Ex-Sultan — Rocks of Konossoo — The
Dahabieh — Suakim — Mohammed Ibrahim — A Girl from Central Africa — Jebel Arrawak — Colonel Gordon —
Headquarters of the Mahdi — Tail-piece.
Florentine Mosaic, A W. D. Hmvells >iL .483, 803
f.
Illustrations by Joseph Pennell and S. W. Van Schaick _: An Orange-vender — School-boy — A Chestnut-vender — A
Laborer — In the Sun — Florence on the Arno — The Virginia Cigar — A Florentine Flower-girl — At Doney's — A
Street in Florence — John of Bologna's Devil — Ponte Vecchio — In the Boboli Gardens — In the Old Market — Door
of Dante's House — Church where Dante was Married — San Martino : Exterior — An Arched Passage — In the
Bargello — On the Ponte Vecchio — The Porta Romana — Ponte Santa Trinita — Tail-piece.
Freedman's, The, Case in Equity George W. Cable 409
(See also " In Plain Black and White," and under Topics, " Responsibility, A Grave," " Peace, Let us Have," and
"Discussion, Freedom of. ")
Free Joe and the Rest of the World Joel Chandler Harris 117
Four illustrations by A. B. Frost.
Hale, Edward Everett William Sloane Kennedy . . . 338
Illustration : Frontispiece portrait (facing page 323), engraved by T. Johnson from a photograph by G. C. Cox.
Heine, The Poet Emma Lazarus 210
Hodson's Hide-out Maurice Thompson 678
Five illustrations by E. W. Kemble.
Holmes, Oliver Wendell Edmitnd Clarence Stedman. . 502
Illustration : Portrait engraved by T. Johnson from an old daguerreotype.
House-Drainage, The Principles and Practice of George E. Waring, Jr. . . .45, 255
With eight diagrams.
Huckleberry Finn, An Adventure of .Mark Twain 268
Five illustrations by E. W. Kemble. (See also pages 456 and 544.)
Hunting. See " Rocky Mountain Goat."
In Plain Black and White Henry W. Grady 909
Jim's Investments and King Sollermun Mark Twain 456
Three illustrations by E. W. Kemble.
Kalispel Country, The Eugene V. Smalley 447
With map.
Khayyam, Omar, The Song of. See " Vedder. "
Knight, The, of the Black Forest Grace Denio Litchfield 180
344, 568
Three illustrations by Mary Hallock Foote. (See also page 638.)
Legislation, State, Phases of Theodore Roosevelt 820
Lost Mine, The Thomas A. Janvier 53
Illustration by Mary Hallock Foote.
Mediations of Mr. Archie Kittrell, The Richard Malcolm Johnston. . 843
Seven illustrations by E. W. Kemble.
Museum, a, The Making of Ernest Jngersoll 354
Illustrations by C. H. Stephens, F. C. Jones, A. C. Redwood, Henry Farny, and Alfred Brennan : Spencer F.
Baird — G. Brown Goode — The National Museum — Preparing an Exhibit — Putting Up a Chinese Pagoda — Indian
Canoes — A Mexican Cart — New Arrivals — Setting up the Paper Whale — A Model of Zufii — In the Repairing-
room — Japanese Masks.
INDEX. v
Page.
National Museum, The. See "Museum."
Negative Gravity, A Tale of Frank R. Stockton 135
O'Conor, Charles, Some Recollections of John Bigelow 725
Illustration : Portrait engraved by T. Johnson from a photograph.
Orpiment and Gamboge Ivory Black (Thos. A. Janvier) 397
Two illustrations by W. A. Rogers.
Painters in Pastel, American Mrs. Schuyler van Rensselaer, 204
Illustration from a pastel by Robert Blum.
Presidents, How shall we Elect our George Ticknor Curtis 124
Puget Sound, From, to the Upper Columbia Eugene V. Smalley 832
Illustrations drawn by John A. Fraser after sketches by G. T. Brown : Mount Tacoma — Tyler Glacier.
Reade, Charles, An Acquaintance with. (With Letters hitherto
unpublished) Mrs. James T. Fields 67
Rise of Silas Lapham, The W. D. Howells 13
242, 370, 581, 663, 858
(See also under Open Letters, "Anachronism.")
Rocky Mountain Goat, Hunting the William A. Baillie-Grohman, 193
Illustrations by George Inness, Jr. : Crossing the Timber-line — Stalking — An Old Ram on the Lookout — At the
Lake — Brought to Bay — Among the Clouds.
Royalty on the Mississippi Mark Twain 544
Thirteen illustrations by E. W. Kemble.
Shakspere, The W.orship of O. B. Frothingham 780
Sculptors of the Early Italian Renaissance Kenyon Cox 62
Illustrations by the author : Head-piece — Count Delia Luna — Unknown Woman, Louvre (Two Views) — Young
Clerk, Fifteenth Century — Warrior — Laughing Child — Lady with the Rose.
Social Science, A Phase of ' Rt. Rev. Henry C. Potter, D.D. 113
Soudan. See " False Prophet."
Vedder's Accompaniment to the Song of Omar Khayyam Horace E. Scudder 3
Six illustrations, including frontispiece drawn by Elihu Vedder.
Webster, Daniel, Reminiscences of Stephen M. Allen 721
Illustration : Frontispiece portrait (facing page 643), engraved by T. Johnson from a daguerreotype.
Winter Neighbors John Burroughs 218
BATTLES AND LEADERS OF THE CIVIL WAR.
BELMONT. See « Western Flotilla."
BULL RUN, THE BATTLE OF G. T. Beauregard 80
Illustrations by A. C. Redwood, W. Taber, Harry Fenn, J. Pennell, and T. de Thulstrup : A Louisiana Tiger —
Topographical Map — Outline Map — Bull Run — Portrait and autograph of Gen. McDowell — Stone House on the
Warrenton Turnpike — Sudley Springs Hotel — Sudley Springs Ford — Portrait and Autograph of Gen. J. E. John-
ston— Col. F. S. Bartow — Ruins of the Stone Bridge — Gen. B. E. Bee — Rallying the Troops — Gen. Thomas J.
("Stonewall") Jackson — The Main Battle Ground — Capt. James B. Ricketts — Stone Church, Centreville — Capt.
Charles Griffin — Confederate Quaker Guns — Confederate Fortifications — Charge of the Federal Line.
The Number of Men Engaged \ ^NION J%"s B-Fl7 I1?
} Confederate Thomas Jordan 318
Gen. Robert Patterson and the Battle of Bull Run .Robert E. Patterson 635
Uniform of the Highlanders at Bull Run William Todd 635
Gen. R. S. Ewell at Bull Run Campbell Brown 777
vi INDEX.
Page.
DONELSON, FORT, THE CAPTURE OF Lew Wallace 284
(See also "Western Flotilla.")
Illustrations by W. Taber, W. H. Drake, Harry Fenn, R. F. Zogbaum, and H. C. Stephens : Frontispiece portrait
and autograph of Gen. Grant (facing page 163). On the Skirmish Line — Dover — Gen. Simon B. Buckner — Gen.
John B. Floyd — Map of the Lower Tennessee and Cumberland Region — Gen. Gideon J. Pillow — Dover Tavern
— Maj.-Gen. C. F. Smith — Maj. -Gen. John A. McClernand — Glimpse of the Cumberland River — The Crisp Farm
— Mrs. Crisp's House — Map of Fort Donelson — The Bivouac in the Snow — Pillow's Defenses in front of McCler-
nand— McAllister's Battery — Position of the Gun-boats and the West Bank— View near Dover — Rowlett's Mill —
Branch of Hickman's Creek — Copy of General Grant's "Unconditional Surrender" Dispatch.
Erratum 779
FOOTE AND THE GUN-BOATS, RECOLLECTIONS OF James B. Eads 419
(See also "Western Flotilla.")
HAMPTON ROADS. *See "Iron-Clads."
HENRY, FORT. See " Western Flotilla."
IRON-CLADS, THE FIRST FIGHT OF John Taylor Wood 738
Illustrations from photographs and by J. O. Davidson and W. H. Drake: U. S. Frigate Merrimac — Burning of
the Me rrimac — Remodeling the Merrimac — Lieut. Catesby ap R. Jones — Section of the Merrimac — The Mer-
rimac, from a sketch made the day before the fight — Map of Hampton Roads and vicinity — Commodore Franklin
Buchanan and Commodore John Tatnall — The Merrimac ramming the Cumberland — Lieut. George U. Morris — The
Merrimac driving the Congress from her anchorage — Escape of the Crew — The Explosion on the burning Congress
— Lieut. Joseph B. Smith — Capt. Van Brunt — The Encounter at short range — The late Com. S. D. Greene.
In the Monitor Turret Commander S. D. Greene . . . 754
Illustrations from photographs and by J. O. Davidson and Kenyon Cox : Captain John Ericsson — Side Elevation
and Deck Plan of the Monitor — The effect of Shot on the Monitor — Portrait and autograph of John L. Worden —
Arrival of the Monitor at Hampton Roads — Bird's-eye View of the Engagement — Lieut. John Taylor Wood —
Sinking of the Monitor — Part of the Crew of the Monitor — First Assistant Engineer Isaac Newton — Transverse
section of the Monitor — The Monitor in Battle Trim.
Watching the Merrimac R. E. Colston 763
Illustration by J. O. Davidson : The Merrimac passing the Confederate Battery on Craney Island.
ISLAND NO. 10. See "Western Flotilla."
JACKSON, FORT. See " Mississippi."
JOHNSTON, ALBERT SIDNEY. By his son Wm. Preston Johnston 614
(See also " Shiloh.")
JOHNSTON, GEN. A. S., THE OFFER OF UNION COMMAND TO, Fiiz John Porter 634
MEMPHIS. See "Western Flotilla."
ME PRIMA C. See " Iron-Clads."
MISSISSIPPI, LOWER, THE OPENING OF THE David D. Porter 923
Illustrations by T. de Thulstrup, A. C. Redwood, J. O. Davidson, and E. J. Meeker: Portrait and autograph
of D. G. Farragut — Present aspect of Fort Jackson — Maps of the Lower Mississipi — Maps showing the defenses
— Entrance to Fort St. Philip — Mortar-schooners — Plan of Fort Jackson — Maj.-Gen. Mansfield Lovell — Com-
mander David D. Porter — Maj.-Gen. Benjamin F. Butler — Confederate Sharp-shooters — The Passage of the
Forts — Commander John K. Mitchell — The Louisiana — Charles F. Mcintosh — Lieut. John Wilkinson — Plan
of the Louisiana — Capt. Theodoras Bailey — The Cayuga breaking through the Confederate Fleet — Engage-
ment between the Varuna and the Governor Moore and Stonewall Jackson — Fight between the Iroquois and Con-
federate vessels — Commander Charles S. Boggs— Section of Fort St. Philip — Lieut. Thomas B. Huger — Hartford
attacked by a fire-raft — U. S. S. Brooklyn attacked by the Manassas — Commander Melancton Smith — U. S. S.
Mississippi attempting to run down Manassas — Mortar-steamers attacking the Water Battery — Commander Porter
receiving Confederate officer;. — The flagship Hartford.
New Orleans Before the Capture George W. Cable 918
MONITOR. See "Iron-Clads." •
NEW ORLEANS BEFORE THE CAPTURE George W. Cable 918
Illustration by T. de Thulstrup.
See also "Mississippi.")
PATTERSON, GEN. ROBERT, AND THE BATTLE OF BULL > M^ £ , Pattersm ....... 635
RUN %
PILLOW, FORT. See "Western Flotilla."
PRIVATE, RECOLLECTIONS OF A Warren Lee Goss. . . 107, 279, 767
The Battle of Bull Run — Campaigning to no Purpose — Up
the Peninsula with McClellan :
Illustrations by W. Taber, R. F. Zogbaum, W. H. Shelton, and E. J. Meeker: A Soldier of 1861 — A Cavalry-man
— A Sutler's Tent — Confederate Prisoners — Long Bridge — Harper's Ferry — An Orderly at Headquarters — Trans-
ports on the Potomac — Maj. Theodore Winthrop — Mrs. T 's Exodus — Federal Mortar Battery — " Get those mules
out of the mud!" — Federal Water Battery — Confederate Water Battery — Exploded Gun — An Angle of the Con-
federate Fortifications at Yorktown — Camp of the Federal Army near White House on the Pamunkey River — Federal
Camp at Cumberland Landing — Outline Map of the Peninsula Campaign — A Tempting Breastwork — Foraging.
INDEX. vii
Page.
ST. PHILIP, FORT. See " Mississippi."
SHILOH, THE BATTLE OF U. S. Grant 593
Illustrations by W. H. Drake, F. B. Schell, A. C. Redwood, R. F. Zogbaum, T. de Thulstrup, Edwin Forbes, and
from photographs : New Shiloh Church — Shiloh Spring— Gen. W. H. L. Wallace — Outline Map — Pittsburg Land-
ing— Gen. Lew Wallace — The Landing at Savanna — Mrs. Crump's House — Bridge over Snake Creek — Topographical
Plan of Battle Field — Confederate Charge — Portrait and Autograph of Gen. D. C. Buell — Gen. John C. Breckin-
ridge— Ford where the Hamburg Road crosses Lick Creek — A Federal Battery — The Old Hamburgh Road —
Stragglers — Checking the Confederate Advance — Gen. W. J. Hardee — Buell's Troops Debarking — Bivouac of the
Federal Troops — The Last Stand — Portrait and Autograph of Gen. G. T. Beauregard — Capture of a Confederate
Battery — Gen. Leonidas Polk, Bishop of Louisiana.
Albert Sidney Johnston and the Shiloh Campaign. By his son, William Preston Johnston. . . 614
Illustrations: Portrait and Autograph of Gen. Albert Sidney Johnston — Map of Kentucky and Tennessee — Map
used by the Confederate Generals — Scene of Gen. Johnston's Death.
Notes of a Confederate Staff Officer Thomas Jordan 629
The Offer of Union Command to Gen. A. S. Johnston Fitz John Porter 634
WESTERN FLOTILLA, OPERATIONS OF THE Henry Walke 423
Including engagements at Belmont, Fort Henry, Fort Donelson, Island No. io, Fort Pillow, and Memphis.
Illustrations after sketches by the author: Foote in the Wheel-house — Region of Foote's Operations — Portrait and
autograph of James B. Eads — Gun-boats Taylor and Lexington, during the Battle of Belmont — U. S. Gun-boat
Taylor — Cross-section of a Confederate Torpedo — Map of Fort Henry — U. S. Gun-boat St. Louis — Battle of Fort
Henry — Gen. Lloyd Tilghman — Between Decks : Serving the Guns — The Gun-boats at Fort Donelson — Rear-
Admiral Andrew Hull Foote — Explosion of a Gun on the Carondelet — Mortar-boats at Island No. 10 — Gen. W. W.
Mackall — U. S. Gun-boat Carondelet — Map of Operations about Island No. 10 — Practicing on a River Picket.
Recollections of Foote and the Gun-boats James B. Eads. 419
Names of Western Gun-boats 779
POETRY.
Autumn Meditation, An Richard Watson Gilder 459
Dream of Dreams, The C. T. Dazey 267
Grown Old with Nature John Vance Cheney 736
How Squire Coyote brought Fire to the Cahrocs John Vance Cheney 393
Three illustrations from clay sketches in bas-relief by George D. Brush.
In April Helen Jackson 857
In November W. P. Foster 44
In the Sierras Charles Warren Stoddard . . . 501
In Winter Lotiise Chandler Moulton . . . 908
Longfellow in Westminster Abbey Edgar Fawcett 592
Longing WiV;am M. Briggs 419
Love's Change Anna R. Aldrich 819
Mariana Stuart Sterne 369
Old Sedan Chair, The _. Austin Dobson 10
Five illustrations by Reginald Birch.
Poet's Advent, The James T. McKay 193
Rain in the Night Samuel Willoughby Duffield. 529
Retrospect Mary A. Leonard 455
Romance Roger Riordan 144
Song by the Barada, The Edna Dean Proctor 52
To a Debutante Henry Tyrrell 580
To a Face at a Concert E. R. Sill 396
Unlooked-for Return Charlotte Fiske Bates 408
Vigil, A Edmund Clarence Stedman . . 677
Wayside Music C. H Crandall 831
Winter O. C. Auringer 217
Vlll
INDEX.
TOPICS OF
Page.
American Way, Not the 953
Art-Tariff » 953
Bible in the Sunday-school, The 146
Bribery in Politics 148
Cholera. (See " Guest, An Undesired.")
Copyright. (See " Foreign Market for American
Goods.")
Degradation of Politics, The 460
Discussion, Freedom of 789
Divorce, One Way to Prevent 309
Foreign Market for American Goods, A
Ready-made 311
(See also under Open Letters, " Copyright Movement.")
Guest, An Undesired 788
THE TIME.
Page.
Issues, False 148
Lawyers' Morals 145
Newspaper and the Organ, The 461
(See also under Open Letters, " Making Light of It")
Niagara, An Attempt to Save 954
"Peace, Let us Have" 638
Politics 148, 460, 462, 635, 953
Poor, Economic Mistakes of the 310
Reforms, Some Practicable 635
Responsibility, A Grave 462
Stage, Three Comments on the 637
War Series, The "Century" 788
Was the Chinese Traveler Right? 309
Wisdom, Overmuch 637
OPEN LETTERS.
"About People " (Kate Gannett Wells), D. 796
Agriculture, Cooperative (J. W. Caldwell) . . 316
Alexandria, The Bombardment of (C. F.
Goodrich) 797
" Anachronism " (W. D. Howells) 477
Bancroft's (Hubert Howe) Historical
Enterprise (Noah Brooks) 469
"Ben Hur " (Lew Wallace) 155
Blue, The, and the Gray (C. N. Jenkins) 797
Chicago, The Claims of (George M. Higginson) . 790
"Christian League's Practicability, The "
(A Methodist Layman) 150
Church Music '(Edward Witherspoon) 474
(See also "Organ Loft.")
Club, Our Church (Julia C. R. Dorr) 472
Clubs, Women's, Plan for (M. L. N.) 474
(See also " Cooperative Studies.")
Cooperative Agriculture (J. W. Caldwell).. 316
Cooperative Studies 474
Copyright Movement, The Present State
OF the ( George Parsons Lathrop) 314
Courbet, the Artist (Mrs. Schuyler van
Rensselaer) 792
Craddock's (Charles Egbert) " In the Ten-
nessee Mountains " 154
"Crtme of Henry Vane, The " (J. S.,of Dale). 154
Dishonesty, The School of (T. W. Tyrer) .... 152
"Dishonesty, The School of" (P. H. Felker) 958
(See also under "Topics " "Was the Chinese Traveler Right?")
Electrical Progress (Charles Barnard) 313
Forestry, Progress in (B. G. Northrop) 794
Harris's (Joel Chandler) "Mingo" 153
Legal-Tender, The Re- { (Harty H. Neill) ) fi
cent, Decision ( (Isaac L. Rice) \ 47°
Making Light of It (John Stone Pardee) 798
"Mingo" (Joel Chandler Harris) 153
Natural Gas Wells (J. D. Dougherty) 466
New Orleans, The World's Exposition at
(Richard Nixon) 312
Old Questions and New^ Southern Democrat) 471
Organ Loft, A Word from the (Diapason). . 156
(See also " Church Music")
Political Party, a New, A Rallying Point
for (E. B.) 149
Political Work for Young Men (John H.
Wigmore) 468
South, The Solid (Edward P. Clark) 955
" South, We of the " (George W. Cable) 151
(See also " Old Questions and New" and "Blue, The, and the
Gray "; and under " Topics," " Peace, Let us Have.")
Stage, the, The Trouble with (J. Ranken
Towse) 462
(See also under "Topics.")
Tecumseh, Death of (Benjamin B. Griswold) . . 477
Wallace's (Lew) "Ben Hur" 155
Watts's (G. F.) Pictures in New York
(Edmund Gosse) 155
Wells's (Kate Gannett) "About People" 790
Women, The Apathy of (C. P. W.) 477
BRIC-A-BRAC.
Amy (H. C. Faulkner) 158
Aphorisms from the Quarters (J. A. Macon) 640
Atropos vs. Lachesis (Margaret Vandegrift) 959
Bessie Brown, M. D. (Samuel Minturn Peck). . . 480
Book of Nature, A (R. K. Munkitttick) 799
CiGAR, A (Frank Dempster Sherman) 100
Compensation (George W. Jones) 320
Could She Have Guessed? (Elaine Goodale). . 158
Distance (Berry Benson) 960
Ethiopiomania (Hemy Tyrrell) 960
Fair Physiologist, The (J.Harper Benson) 478
Grandmother's Rose (Mary A. Denison) 160
Half-Ring Moon, The (John B. Tabb) 480
Hen, A, on her Eggs (Cupid Jones) 480
Here by My Fire (Frank Dempster Sherman) .. . 480
Her Waiting (Emma C. Dowd) 479
In Arcadia (R. T. W. Duke, Jr.) 157
In Miss Kate L.'s Birthday Book (Charles
Henry Webb) 478
Love Passes By (Mary Ainge De Vere) 157
Love's Seasons (Frank Dempster Sherman) 960
Mad Poet, A (Nat Lee) 320
Modjeska as Rosalind, To (Oscar Fay Adams) 160
My Mural Chum (Frank Bellew) 158
New Play, The (George Birdseye) 160
Not too Early (John Vance Cheney) 158
Plantation Memories (Joel Chandler Harris ). . 640
Poetry made Practice (John Vance Cheney). . . . 320
"Stockton, If I my, should Forget " (Robert
Louis Stevenson) 800
Tender Heart, The (Helen Gray Cone) 800
Tryst, The ( Walter Learned) 800
"Tulips Blooming in the Snow" (R. R.)... 799
Uncle Esek's Wisdom ( Uncle Esek) 157
478, 638, 798
Untutored Mind, An (Frank Dempster Sherman) 800
Valentines, Two ( Frank Dempster Sherman ).. . 640
Waif, A (Alice Trumbull Learned) 960
CARTOONS.
A Discriminating Taste ( W. H. Hyde) 159
Foreign Languages ( W. H. Hyde) 319
Literal ( W. H. Hyde) 479
The Point of View (E. W. Kemble) 639
Natural History ( W. H. Hyde) 799
Changing the Subject ( W. H. Hyde) 959
The Century Magazine.
Vol. XXIX.
NOVEMBER, 1884.
No. 1.
VEDDER'S ACCOMPANIMENT TO THE SONG OF OMAR KHAYYAM.
In the latter half of the eleventh century
and the first quarter of the twelfth there lived
in Persia the astronomer-poet Omar, who bore
the additional name of Khayyam, or the
tent-maker. His scientific work remains not
wholly obscure, we are told, but for the most
part indistinguishable in the foundations up-
on which later astronomers have built. His
poetry retains its individuality, and gives joy
to scholars by reason of its varying form and
quantity in rival manuscripts and editions.
It was written in Rubaiyat, the Persian equiv-
alent for quatrains, and four or five hundred
of these stanzas, genuine or spurious, have
escaped the tooth of time and may be read
now, whether in their original tongue or by
versions in French, German, English, and
doubtless other western languages.
It was left for Mr. Edward Fitzgerald, an
English poet who put his strength into mascu-
line versions of foreign poetry — notably in the
case of the "Agamemnon " of ^schylus — to
domesticate these Rubaiyat in English litera-
ture, a dozen years ago, by rendering a hundred
and one of them into quatrains of marvel-
ous fineness of workmanship. He published
his version with an entertaining introduction
and helpful notes, and after three editions had
been issued the work was reprinted in America.
It has thus taken its place as a part of the in-
tellectual furnishing of many minds. In Mr.
Fitzgerald's handling the separate Rubaiyat
were molded into a poem which has a flex-
ible form, while each quatrain has an integrity
undisturbed by separation from the rest.
There are hints given by the translator that
in the exercise of his selective judgment he
aimed to give expression to Omar's philosophy
in a better proportion than appears in the
original Rubaiyat. At all events, it is quite
possible from these hundred and one quatrains
to construct a tolerably consistent scheme of
philosophy touching the elemental problems
of human life and destiny. Like every great
poem, it offers the reader the choice of catch-
ing in it minnows or whales ; and even to the
most thoughtful there is the possibility of a
widely diverse interpretation. Mr. Fitzgerald
quotes a writer in the " Calcutta Review "
who draws an interesting parallel between
Omar and Lucretius, and, mingling his own
reflections with those of the reviewer, sums
up the matter thus :
" Both, indeed, were men of subtle, strong,
and cultivated intellect, fine imagination, and
hearts passionate for truth and justice ; who
justly revolted from their country's false re-
ligion and false or foolish devotion to it ; but
who yet fell short of replacing what they sub-
verted by such better hope as others, with no
better revelation to guide them, had yet made
a law to themselves. Lucretius, indeed, with
such material as Epicurus furnished, satisfied
himself with the theory of so vast a machine
fortuitously constructed, and acting by a law
that implied no legislator, and so, composing
himself into a stoical rather than Epicurean
severity of attitude, sat down to contemplate
the mechanical drama of the universe which
he was part actor in ; himself and all about
him (as in his own sublime description of the
Roman theater) discolored with the lurid re-
flex of the curtain suspended between the
spectator and the sun. Omar, more desperate
or more careless of any so complicated system
as resulted in nothing but hopeless necessity,
flung his own genius and learning with a bit-
ter or humorous jest into the general ruin
which their insufficient glimpses only served
to reveal; and, pretending sensual pleasure
as the serious purpose of life, only diverted
himself with the speculative problems of Deity,
[Copyright, 1884, by The Century Co. All rights reserved.]
4 VEDDER'S ACCOMPANIMENT TO THE SONG OF OMAR KHAYYAM. .
destiny, matter and spirit, good and evil, and
other such questions, easier to start than to
run down, and the pursuit of which becomes
a very weary sport at last ! "
For all that, Mr. Fitzgerald's own version
affords quite sufficient excuse for any one to
read into Omar's Rubaiyat an interpretation
which would make a mask where Mr. Fitz-
gerald sees a face, and a face where he sees a
mask. Indeed, one may safely question his
own or his neighbor's western way of reading
an Oriental poem, and accept the possibility
that they are all merely using an antique coin
as an instrument of exchange.
Be this as it may, our purpose here is not
to seek an authoritative rendering into the
terms of modern thought of this ancient par-
able,— that would suppose a final answer to
the Sphinx's riddle, — but to call attention to
a very notable work, happily entitled an ac-
companiment to the Rubaiyat. As Mr. Fitz-
gerald used the material which he found in
the Persian poet's stanzas for the construction
of a noble English poem, and thereby offered
both an interpretation of the Rubaiyat and a
new propounding of the enigma of human
life and destiny, so Mr. Elihu Vedder has re-
produced Mr. Fitzgerald's quatrains in a series
of designs, mainly of a decorative character,
which restate the problem in line and shade
with such variations as spring from the intro-
duction of another personal equation. An
American artist has joined the Persian poet
and the English translator, and the result is a
trio which presents the original strain in a
richer, profounder harmony.
The form in which the Rubaiyat are now
presented is the artist's throughout, with as
little mechanical aid as was possible. The
original designs here engraved include the
text in the half-cursive, half-formal char-
acters which an artist would employ in
order to adjust the relation of text to dec-
oration. In the book the space assigned
has been undisturbed, but the lettering has
been replaced by careful hand-work in bold
reproduction of the best type-forms. Excel-
lent as this is, one wishes that the artist's own
hand had traced the characters, even at the
risk of some slight obscurity ; there would
have been a trifle more unification of text and
design. The drawings thus amended have
been reproduced by the albertype process,
which is, in effect, a photographic fac-simile
in a single color. The original designs in some
cases had two tints, and there is, therefore,
an occasional flatness in the reproductions
when compared with the originals. While, as
always happens in any mechanical process,
some of the spiritual quality of the original
work has evaporated, the loss is slighter than
could have occurred in any translation where
the activity of another mind found expression.
In an engraving there may indeed be gain ;
there can be no gain in a strictly mechanical
process, but there are degrees of loss, and,
short of a study of the original designs, the
reproduction is quite as satisfactory as one
could well ask.
We have said that the form is the artist's
throughout, and it is a pleasure to see how
minutely he has carried out his conception,
leaving absolutely nothing to the printer but
to take impressions of the prints furnished
him by the artist, and nothing to the binder
but to bind the leaves strongly together;
for the artist has supplied cover, title-page,
printer's device, and even lining-paper, and
he has made all these apparently formal or
conventional parts of the book instinct with
the life of the book itself. Thus the swirl
which appears on the cover is a deep note
sounding at the very entrance of the book.
It represents the moment and the instant of
life, the gradual concentration of the elements,
the pause as the movement is reversed, and
then the ever-widening dispersion again into
the primitive elements. Throughout the book
this swirl recurs now and again ; it is the bass
in the harmony. The potter's jar which forms
the homely incident, so to speak, of the poem,
is here, also, its full proportions interrupted by
the vine-leaf, as in the poem the vine con-
stantly runs athwart human life. Stars, too,
there are, of differing magnitude, set in cloudy
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6 VEDDER' S ACCOMPANIMENT TO THE SONG OF OMAR KHAYYAM.
heavens, as in the poem the astronomer is the beyond on the same lines. In illustration of
poet, and celestial things are a part of the vici- this, it is to be noted that there is no attempt at
nage of life. So, too, the background of the strict conformity with a Persian standard. The
title-page is again the potter's jar, in another incident of Persia is treated as lightly as it is
form, with vine-leaves and grape-clusters, and treated in Fitzgerald's translation. One feels
suggestions of the elements of earth, air, and a subtle presence of the Persian mood, but
water, with the swirl of life drawing the he knows that as the poem transcends its
thought to that firm central reality of To-day,
which poet and artist alike seek by so many
subtle means to make as real as they know it
to be. The printer's device presents a figure
locality, so the designs which accompany it
are not restricted by any hard and fast defi-
nitions of East and West. Mr. Vedder neither
follows a literal, archaeological treatment, nor
by a river-side launching paper boats in the does he throw away the advantage offered by
stream, watching those which are on the tide, the remoteness in place and time of the poem,
and holding another ready for venture. The He has adopted, so to speak, a convention
lining-paper is a decorative composition of of his own, which is faithful to great types,
flower and fruit, with the trail of the serpent Thus, to return to the frontispiece, the am
over it all, while the vine, emblematic of the
good in life, sends out its tendrils. The fron-
tispiece shows Omar in the midst of his com-
panions, looking down from a vine-clad arch
upon a group below, a tablet on the wall
containing one of the quatrains :
" Waste not your hour, nor in the vain pursuit
Of this and that endeavor and dispute ;
Better be jocund with the fruitful grape
Than sadden after none or bitter fruit."
By Omar are five companions bearing wine,
or playing upon musical instruments, or lean-
ing, with peacock fan in hand, in the opening
of the arch, — all careless, or, if intent at all,
intent on pleasure. Below are the ambitious
warrior, the miser, the student, the theologian.
Finally, facing the first stanzas of the poem,
is Omar's emblem of a nightingale singing on
a skull, while the rose of yesterday is floating
away on the stream. A worm has found its
way into the bud and caused the leaves to
fall from it. Again the swirl, while the
crumpled leaves of the rose have a sugges-
tion of repetition in the folds of the prophet's
mantle, upon which the title of the poem and
the poet's name are written.
Thus the preliminaries of the work have
already in a degree initiated the eye. A few
simple symbols have been employed, a clew has
been given to the mystery of the Rubaiyat, and
the artist's own temper and attitude have been
shown. Indeed, it is worth while to halt a mo-
ment at the frontispiece, which gathers the ex-
ternal meaning of the poem into a very intelligi-
ble, frank form, to observe the spirit in which
bitious warrior hints, in face and insignia, at
Roman imperialism ; the theologian, at Ro-
man ecclesiasticism ; the miser, at Moorish
rapacity ; the scholar, at Eastern occult
science. Indeed, one is permitted to fancy,
from a certain resemblance in face and dress,
a certain difference in expression, that Omar
the chapleted poet looks down upon Omar
the perplexed and inquiring astronomer.
These characteristics are generalized rather
than specialized ; as we said, there are hints of
the types employed, and the spectator is neither
teased into a learned inquiry nor annoyed by
incongruities. He is simply freed from much
concern as to the proprieties and bidden look
straight at the men and women themselves.
In the freedom of his use of the material
at hand, Mr. Vedder has re-arranged the
quatrains to suit the better purposes of the
constructive art of the series. We cannot go
through the work seriatim. Unless one had
the design before him, an analysis of the
motif in each would not be very profitable
reading, and we should be tempted, more-
over, into an interminable description, for the
wealth of symbolism starts one perpetually on
new roads of inquiry. A comment on the
Rubaiyat would, from the nature of the verse,
be itself a volume. Vedder's designs supply
such a comment, and when one comes to com-
ment on the commentary — " What ! follow
a man who is following a man ! "
Some glimpse can be had of the manifold
interest of the work, by taking up the few
examples* which are here reproduced through
the medium of wood-engraving. The origi-
Mr. Vedder has treated the subject, since it nal drawings vary in size, but retain the same
affords one key to his involution of the poem.
He has refused to be bound by a strict obedi-
ence to the letter of Omar Khayyam's poem ;
he has been faithful to the spirit of it, so faith-
ful that Omar might well say that this painter
had carried his thought now and then a step
proportions; in the albertypes they are all
brought to a scale of twelve inches in height
by nine in breadth. The Cup of Death stands
nearly midway in the series. It stands oppo-
site the design of the Cup of Love, where
Love, in the form of woman, offers the cup to
* Reproduced by arrangement with Mr. Vedder and Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Co., the publishers of
his work.
VEDDER'S ACCOMPANIMENT TO THE SONG OF OMAR KHAYYAM. 7
man, who takes it with hesitation, accepting
it with one trembling hand, while with the
other he doubts if he ought not to put aside
the gift. The contrast thus is a double one,
for here it is Love who is constrained to drink
of the cup offered by the angel of Death.
With one hand he puts it to her lips, with the
other he draws her, unresistant, to him. His
wings, tipped with light, mark the activity of
his being; his face, fixed as fate, changes not,
and his lips do not press Love's hand laid
helpless on his arm. She, clad in a robe which
has the lines of flame, her arm dropped list-
lessly by her side, receives the cup as a fate, not
as a gift. Her face has the calmness of sleep.
It is noticeable how, with no river moving
by, the figures nevertheless are, to the eye,
moving down irresistibly into the fatal flood.
This design is followed by the Suicide ; for
if death is to be accepted in the same spirit as
life is to be welcomed, then might one choose
to take advantage of the offer, reach out for
the cup, and drink the draught which is to
bring a change. In the cripple who goes by,
looking askance and with a certain severity
of judgment upon the lifeless body, the artist
has meant to typify the vast majority of man-
kind who prefer to remain in this " clay car-
cass" with which they are familiar. He sees,
however, only the clay carcass. To us it is
given to see the book which has absorbed the
spirit of the man who lies there ; that is, we
are advised by this that the man was a man
of thought, and if a man of thought, then
he was aware of the limitations of his bodily
existence, and had known of the air of
heaven, never breathed by the cripple. He
has wounded himself in his head, for there
was the seat of this higher knowledge; and
as he lies, entangled in his earthly robes,
the soul rises, flinging aside its garments,
which float off as a vapor, and itself plunges
upward to where the stars move in their fiery
course. The motif reminds one, by contrast,
of the well-known design by Blake, in his
series illustrating Blair's " Grave," where the
soul is reluctant to leave the body, and
hovers over it, drawn by its placid rest.
One of the most notable of the designs
not included in our examples takes its subject
from the quatrain,
" The moving finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on; nor all your piety nor wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a line,
Nor all your tears wash out a word of it."
The recording angel, with unmoving eyes
and lips, traces upon the leaves of a book ;
two figures attend it, one bringing, the other
taking away, the record, seeing with painful
gaze the crowd that comes and the crowd
that goes ; all three have their ears bandaged
that they may not hear the cries of humanity.
There is a dramatic painting of great power,
by Armitage, in which the figures shown are
those of noble Roman ladies witnessing a
gladiatorial show. The spectator does not
see the show ; he sees the reflection of it in
the faces of these dames. Somewhat thus is
it here. Without the lower half of the design
one might see in the faces of the three angels
the sight they look upon. A further appeal
is made to the ear, to use a violent phrase ;
for below, even reaching up to the bar of
judgment, are supplicating hands — hands that
are clasped in agonized entreaty ; hands of
strong men ; hands of beautiful women ; hands
which even touch the book of judgment as
they strain upward, thrust, as it were, into the
unpitying stone. Here the imagination of the
artist makes a very quick impact upon the
imagination of the spectator.
" Observe well the hands and feet," says
Blake, and the hands throughout this series
are made significant. Very full of meaning is
the design which symbolizes the verse,
" Oh Thou, who man of baser earth didst make,
And ev'n with Paradise devise the snake ;
For all the sin wherewith the face of man
Is blacken'd, man's forgiveness give — and take!"
Here the pardon-giving and pardon-im-
ploring hands, filled with the tangled skein of
human life, are instinct with meaning ; they are
thrust out of the dark mystery, and the tangled
skein forms itself into that mystic swirl which
is never absent from the painter's thought.
VEDDER'S ACCOMPANIMENT TO THE SONG OE OMAR KHAYYAM. 9
The final design concerns the last two
quatrains, with their tender in memoria??i
strain. Does death end all ? Even the poet,
who half suspects it, turns upon his own
speculation, and seems to petition for at least
a continuance of life in the memory of his
friends. The poppies stand in the garden, but
Love bends sorrowful over the grave upon
which she has turned down the empty glass,
the form of which, by the way, is from the
shallow Persian wine-cup, thet same form be-
ing preserved throughout the work.
The artist's notes, which have helped us in
our reading of his designs, give a quaint sig-
nificance to his signature, which he fancies
may represent the high and low notes, the
light and shade in which the work is done.
A broken reed has been hastily plucked and
rudely fashioned, but the double pipe thus
formed is yet capable of producing some
music worthy of the listening ear.
The designs thus rapidly described consti-
tute but a small part of the work, which in-
cludes some fifty-five pages. It has been
impossible in this brief paper to attempt any
interpretation of the synthesis of the artist's
complete work, but the reader will have
caught some hints of it. It may be said, at
least, that Mr. Vedder by his design has en-
larged the compass of the whole poem. The
Rubaiyat were in a measure fragmentary, al-
though they may easily have answered to a
whole in Omar's mind. The quatrains by
Fitzgerald bring together the scattered parts,
and hint at a series. As they now stand, in
Mr. Vedder's arrangement and with the en-
richment of his decoration, they have taken
on an almost systematic form. Certainly the
work ought now to be regarded as a whole ;
it has a firmness of conception which is
largely due to the strong setting it has re-
ceived, for Mr. Vedder's range of illustration
has made the poem no longer a Persian song,
but one to which voices contribute from many
quarters.
It is entirely possible to maintain that by
this treatment the poem has gradually under-
gone a transformation, and that it has been
taken too seriously. There is, no doubt, a
lightness in the verse itself, a delicate playing
with forms and symbols that must not be
pressed too closely for their meaning, and,
in general, a view of life which is not neces-
sarily even Omar's final creed. It is more to
the point to consider what we now have as an
independent song of life and death. Into this
subject we do not purpose to go. Doubt-
less the Rubaiyat, under Mr. Vedder's inter-
pretation, echoes the strain which rises to
many lips to-day. It is nevertheless quite per-
missible for one to recognize the truth and
the sadness and sweetness in it who yet finds
the Te Deum Laudamus a profounder hymn
of humanity ; or, if he must seek an Oriental
interpretation of the human and the divine,
may be better satisfied with the Book of Job.
H. E. Scudder.
Vol. XXIX.— 2.
THE OLD SED/1N CHHIR.
" What's not destroy'd by Time's devouring hand ?
Where's Troy — and where's the May-pole in the Strand?"
Bramston's "Art of Politics."
T STANDS in the stable-yard under the eaves,
Propped up by a broom-stick and covered with leaves.
It once was the pride of the gay and the fair,
But now 'tis a ruin — that old Sedan chair.
It is battered and tattered, — it little avails
That once it was lacquered, and glistened with nails ;
For its leather is cracked into lozenge and square —
Like a canvas by Wilkie — that old Sedan chair !
See, — here came the bearing-straps ; here were the holes
For the poles of the bearers — when once there were poles;
It was cushioned with silk, it was wadded with hair —
As the birds have discovered — that old Sedan chair.
^£?^
-**>«*>"
" Where's Troy ? " says the poet ! Here, under the seat,
Is a nest with four eggs ; — 'tis the favored retreat
Of the Muscovy hen, who has hatched, I dare swear,
Quite an army of chicks in that old Sedan chair!
And yet — can't you fancy her face in the frame
Of the window, — some high-headed damsel or dame,
Be-patched and be-powdered, just set by the stair,
While they raise up the lid of that old Sedan chair?
Can't you fancy Sir Plume, as beside her he stands,
With his ruffles a-droop on his delicate hands, —
With his cinnamon coat, and his laced solitaire, —
As he lifts her out light from that old Sedan chair?
Then it swings away slowly. Ah, many a league
It has trotted 'twixt sturdy-legged Terence and Teague ;
Stout fellows, — but prone, on a question of fare,
To brandish the poles of that old Sedan chair !
It has waited by portals where Garrick has played ;
It has waited by Heidegger's " Grand Masquerade " ;
For my Lady Codille, — for my Lady Bellair,
It has waited — and waited, that old Sedan chair.
Oh, the scandals it knows ! Oh, the tales it could tell
Of Drum and Ridotto, of Rake and of Belle, —
Of Cock-fight and Levee, and (scarcely more rare!)
Of Fete-days at Tyburn — that old Sedan chair !
" Hen / quantum mutata" I say as I go.
It deserves better fate than a stable-yard, though !
We must furbish it up, and dispatch it, — " With Care " —
To a Fine- Art Museum — that old Sedan chair !
Austin Dobson.
THE RISE OF SILAS LAPHAM.
BY W. D. HOWELLS,
Author of " Venetian Life," "A Chance Acquaintance," "A Modern Instance," "A Woman's Reason," etc.
I.
When Bartley Hubbard went to interview
Silas Lapham for the " Solid Men of Boston"
series, which he undertook to finish up in "The
Events," after he replaced their original project-
or on that newspaper, Lapham received him in
his private office by previous appointment.
" Walk right in ! " he called out to the
journalist, whom he caught sight of through
the door of the counting-room.
He did not rise from the desk at which he
was writing, but he gave Bartley his left hand
for welcome, and he rolled his large head in
the direction of a vacant chair. " Sit down !
I'll be with you in just half a minute."
" Take your time," said Bartley, with the
ease he instantly felt. " I'm in no hurry."
He took a note-book from his pocket, laid it
on his knee, and began to sharpen a pencil.
" There ! " Lapham pounded with his great
hairy fist on the envelope he had been ad-
dressing. " William ! " he called out, and he
handed the letter to a boy who came to get
it. " I want that to go right away. Well, sir,"
he continued, wheeling round in his leather-
cushioned swivel-chair, and facing Bartley,
seated so near that their knees almost touched,
"so you want my life, death, and Christian
sufferings, do you, young man ? "
" That's what I'm after," said Bartley.
"Your money or your life."
" I guess you wouldn't want my life without
the money," said Lapham, as if he were willing
to prolong these moments of preparation.
" Take 'em both," Bartley suggested.
" Don't want your money without your life,
if you come to that. But you're just one mill-
ion times more interesting to the public than
if you hadn't a dollar ; and you know that as
well as I do, Mr. Lapham. There's no use
beating about the bush."
" No," said Lapham, somewhat absently. He
put out his huge foot and pushed the ground-
glass door shut between his little den and the
book-keepers, in their larger den outside.
" In personal appearance," wrote Bartley
in the sketch for which he now studied his
subject, while he waited patiently for him to
continue, " Silas Lapham is a fine type of the
successful American. He has a square, bold
chin, only partially concealed by the short,
reddish-gray beard, growing to the edges of
Vol. XXIX.— 3.
his firmly closing lips. His nose is short and
straight ; his forehead good, but broad rather
than high ; his eyes blue, and with a light in
them that is kindly or sharp according to his
mood. He is of medium height, and fills an
average arm-chair with a solid bulk, which,
on the day of our interview, was unpreten-
tiously clad in a business suit of blue serge.
His head droops somewhat from a short neck,
which does not trouble itself to rise far from
a pair of massive shoulders."
" I don't know as I know just where you
want me to begin," said Lapham.
" Might begin with your birth ; that's where
most of us begin," replied Bartley.
A gleam of humorous appreciation shot
into Lapham's blue eyes.
" I didn't know whether you wanted me to
go quite so far back as that," he said. " But
there's no disgrace in having been born, and
I was born in the State of Vermont, pretty
well up under the Canada line — so well up, in
fact, that I came very near being an adoptive
citizen ; for I was bound to be an American
of some sort, from the word Go ! That was
about — well, let me see! — pretty near sixty-
years ago : this is '75, and that was '20. Well,
say I'm fifty-five years old; and I've lived 'em,
too ; not an hour of waste time about me, any-
wheres ! I was born on a farm, and "
" Worked in the fields summers and went
to school winters : regulation thing ? " Bartley
cut in.
" Regulation thing," said Lapham, accept-
ing this irreverent version of his history
somewhat dryly.
" Parents poor, of course," suggested the
journalist. " Any barefoot business ? Early
deprivations of any kind, that would encour-
age the youthful reader to go and do likewise ?
Orphan myself, you know," said Bartley,
with a smile of cynical good comradery.
Lapham looked at him silently, and then
said with quiet self-respect, " I guess if you see
these things as a joke, my life wont inters/ you."
" Oh, yes, it will," returned Bartley, un-
abashed. "You'll see; it'll come out all
right." And in fact it did so, in the interview
which Bartley printed.
" Mr. Lapham," he wrote, "passed rapidly
over the story of his early life, its poverty
and its hardships, sweetened, however, by the
recollections of a devoted mother, and a father
14
THE RISE OF SILAS LAPHAM.
who, if somewhat her inferior in education,
was no less ambitious for the advancement
of his children. They were quiet, unpreten-
tious people, religious, after the fashion of
that time, and of sterling morality, and they
taught their children the simple virtues of the
Old Testament and Poor Richard's Almanac."
Bartley could not deny himself this gibe ;
but he trusted to Lapham's unliterary habit
of mind for his security in making it, and
most other people would consider it sincere
reporter's rhetoric.
" You know," he explained to Lapham,
" that we have to look at all these facts as
material, and we get the habit of classifying
them. Sometimes a leading question will
draw out a whole line of facts that a man
himself would never think of." He went on
to put several queries, and it was from Lap-
ham's answers that he generalized the history
of his childhood. " Mr. Lapham, although
he did not dwell on his boyish trials and strug-
gles, spoke of them with deep feeling and an
abiding sense of their reality." This was what
he added in the interview, and by the time
he had got Lapham past the period where
risen Americans are all pathetically alike in
their narrow circumstances, their sufferings,
and their aspirations, he had beguiled him
into forgetfulness of the check he had re-
ceived, and had him talking again in perfect
enjoyment of his autobiography.
" Yes, sir," said Lapham, in a strain which
Bartley was careful not to interrupt again, " a
man never sees all that his mother has been
to him till it's too late to let her know that
he sees it. Why, my mother — " he stopped.
" It gives me a lump in the throat," he said
apologetically, with an attempt at a laugh.
Then he went on : " She was a little, frail
thing, not bigger than a good-sized intermedi-
ate school-girl ; but she did the whole work of
a family of boys, and boarded the hired men
besides. She cooked, swept, washed, ironed,
made and mended from daylight till dark —
and from dark till daylight, I was going to
say ; for I don't know how she got any time
for sleep. But I suppose she did. She got
time to go to church, and to teach us to read
the Bible, and to misunderstand it in the old
way. She was good. But it aint her on her
knees in church that comes back to me so
much like the sight of an angel, as her on
her knees before me at night, washing my
poor, dirty little feet, that I'd run bare in all
day, and making me decent for bed. There
were six of us boys ; it seems to me we were
all of a size ; and she was just so careful with
all of us. I can feel her hands on my feet
yet!" Bartley looked at Lapham's No. 10
boots and softly whistled through his teeth.
" We were patched all over ; but we wa'n't
ragged, /don't know how she got through
it. She didn't seem to think it was anything ;
and I guess it was no more than my father
expected of her. He worked like a horse in
doors and out — up at daylight, feeding the
stock, and groaning round all day with his
rheumatism, but not stopping."
Bartley hid a yawn over his note-book, and
probably, if he could have spoken his mind,
he would have suggested to Lapham that he
was not there for the purpose of interviewing
his ancestry. But Bartley had learned to
practice a patience with his victims which he
did not always feel, and to feign an interest
in their digressions till he could bring them
up with a round turn.
" I tell you," said Lapham, jabbing the
point of his penknife into the writing-pad on
the desk before him, " when I hear women
complaining nowadays that their lives are
stunted and empty, I want to tell 'em about
my mother's life, /could paint it out for 'em."
Bartley saw his opportunity at the word
paint, and cut in. " And you say, Mr. Lap-
ham, that you discovered this mineral paint
on the old farm yourself?"
Lapham acquiesced in the return to busi-
ness. "I didn't discover it," he said, scrupu-
lously. " My father found it one day, in a hole
made by a tree blowing down. There it was,
laying loose in the pit, and sticking to the
roots that had pulled up a big cake of dirt
with 'em. / don't know what give him the
idea that there was money in it, but he did
think so from the start. I guess, if they'd had
the word in those days, they'd considered him
pretty much of a crank about it. He was try-
ing as long as he lived to get that paint
introduced ; but he couldn't make it go. The
country was so poor they couldn't paint
their houses with anything ; and father hadn't
any facilities. It got to be a kind of joke
with us ; and I guess that paint-mine did as
much as any one thing to make us boys clear
out as soon as we got old enough. All my
brothers went West and took up land; but I
hung on to New England, and I hung on to
the old farm, not because the paint-mine was
on it, but because the old house was — and
the graves. Well," said Lapham, as if un-
willing to give himself too much credit,
" there wouldn't been any market for it, any-
way. You can go through that part of the
State and buy more farms than you can shake
a stick at for less money than it cost to build
the barns on 'em. Of course, it's turned out
a good thing. I keep the old house up in
good shape, and we spend a month or so
there every summer. M' wife kind of likes it,
and the girls. Pretty place ; sightly all round
THE RISE OF SILAS LAPHAM.
*5
it. I've got a force of men at work there the
whole time, and I've got a man and his wife in
the house. Had a family meeting there last
year; the whole connection from out West.
There ! " Lapham rose from his seat and took
down a large warped, unframed photograph
from the top of his desk, passing his hand
over it, and then blowing vigorously upon it, to
clear it of the dust. " There we are, all of us."
" I don't need to look twice at you" said
Bartley, putting his finger on one of the heads.
" Well, that's Bill," said Lapham, with a
gratified laugh. "He's about as brainy as any
of us, I guess. He's one of their leading law-
yers, out Dubuque way; been judge of the
Common Pleas once or twice. That's his son
— just graduated at Yale — alongside of my
youngest girl. Good-looking chap, aint he ? "
t " She's a good-looking chap," said Bartley,
with prompt irreverence. He hastened to add,
at the frown which gathered between Lap-
ham's eyes, " What a beautiful creature she
is ! What a lovely, refined, sensitive face !
And she looks good, too."
" She is good," said the father, relenting.
"And, after all, that's about the best thing
in a woman," said the potential reprobate.
" If my wife wasn't good enough to keep
both of us straight, I don't know what would
become of me."
" My other daughter," said Lapham, indi-
cating a girl with eyes that showed large,
and a face of singular gravity. " Mis' Lapham,"
he continued, touching his wife's effigy with
his little finger. " My brother Willard and
his family — farm at Kankakee. Hazard Lap-
ham and his wife — Baptist preacher in Kansas.
Jim and his three girls — milling business at
Minneapolis. Ben and his family — practicing
medicine in Fort Wayne."
The figures were clustered in an irregular
group in front of an old farm-house, whose
original ugliness had been smartened up with
a coat of Lapham's own paint and heightened
with an incongruous piazza. The photographer
had not been able to conceal the fact that
they were all decent, honest-looking, sensible
people, with a very fair share of beauty among
the young girls ; some of these were extremely
pretty, in fact. He had put them into awk-
ward and constrained attitudes, of course;
and they all looked as if they had the instrument
of torture which photographers call a head-
rest under their occiputs. Here and there an
elderly lady's face was a mere blur; and some of
the younger children had twitched themselves
into wavering shadows, and might have passed
for spirit- photographs of their own little ghosts.
It was the standard family-group photograph,
in which most Americans have figured at some
time or other ; and Lapham exhibited a just
satisfaction in it. " I presume," he mused aloud,
as he put it back on top of his desk, " that we
sha'n't soon get together again, all of us."
" And you say," suggested Bartley, " that
you staid right along on the old place, when
the rest cleared out West ? "
" No-o-o-o," said Lapham, with a long, loud
drawl ; " I cleared out West too, first off. Went
to Texas. Texas was all the cry in those da) s
But I got enough of the Lone Star in abou.
three months, and I come back with the idea
that Vermont was good enough for me."
" Fatted calf business ? " queried Bartley,
with his pencil poised above his note-book.
" I presume they were glad to see me,"
said Lapham, with dignity. " Mother," he
added gently, " died that winter, and I staid
on with father. I buried him in the spring ;
and then I came down to a little place called
Lumberville, and picked up what jobs I could
get. I worked round at the saw-mills, and I
was ostler awhile at the hotel — I always did
like a good horse. Well, I wcCrit exactly a
college graduate, and I went to school odd
times. I got to driving the stage after while,
and by and by I bought the stage and run
the business myself. Then I hired the tavern-
stand, and — well, to make a long story short,
then I got married. Yes," said Lapham,
with pride, " I married the school-teacher.
We did pretty well with the hotel, and my
wife she was always at me to paint up. Well,
I put it off, and put it off, as. a man will, till
one day I give in, and says I, ' Well, let's
paint up. Why, Pert,' — m' wife's name's Per-
sis, — ' I've got a whole paint-mine out on
the farm. Let's go out and look at it.' So we
drove out. I'd let the place for seventy-five
dollars a year to a shif less kind of a Kanuck
that had come down that way; and I'd hated
to see the house with him in it ; but we drove
out one Saturday afternoon, and we brought
back about a bushel of the stuff in the buggy-
seat, and I tried it crude, and I tried it burnt;
and I liked it. M'wife she liked it, too, There
wa'n't any painter by trade in the village, and
I mixed it myself. Well, sir, that tavern's got
that coat of paint on it yet, and it haint ever
had any other, and I don't know's it ever will.
Well, you know, I felt as if it was a kind of a
harumscarum experiment, all the while ; and
I presume I shouldn't have tried it, but I
kind of liked to do it because father'd always
set so much store by his paint-mine. And
when I'd got the first coat on," — Lapham
called it cut, — " I presume I must have set
as much as half an hour, looking at it and
thinking how he would have enjoyed it. I've
had my share of luck in this world, and I
aint a-going to complain on my oivn account,
but I've noticed that most things get along
i6
THE RISE OF SILAS LAPHAM.
too late for most people. It made me feel
bad, and it took all the pride out my success
with the paint, thinking of father. Seemed to me
I might 'a' taken more interest in it when he
was by to see ; but we've got to live and learn.
Well, I called my wife out, — I'd tried it on
the back of the house, you know, — and she
left her dishes, — I can remember she came
out with her sleeves rolled up and set down
alongside of me on the trestle, — and says I,
* What do you think, Persis ? ' And says she,
* Well, you haint got a paint-mine, Silas Lap-
ham; you've got a gold-mme,1 She always
was just so enthusiastic about things. Well,
it was just after two or three boats had
burnt up out West, and a lot of lives lost, and
there was a great cry about non-inflammable
paint, and I guess that was what was in her
mind. ' Well, I guess it aint any gold-mine,
Persis,' says I ; c but I guess it is a paint-mine.
I'm going to have it analyzed, and if it turns
out what I think it is, I'm going to work
it. And if father hadn't had such a long name,
I should call it the Nehemiah Lapham Min-
eral Paint. But, any rate, every barrel of it, and
every keg, and every bottle, and every package,
big or little, has got to have the initials and
figures N. L. f. 1835, S. L. t. 1855, on it. Father
found it in 1835, and I tried it in 1855.'"
« < s. T.— 1 860 —X.' business," said Bartley.
" Yes," said Lapham, " but I hadn't heard
of Plantation Bitters then, and I hadn't seen
any of the fellow's labels. I set to work and
I got a man down from Boston ; and I carried
him out to the farm, and he analyzed it —
made a regular job of it. Well, sir, we built
a kiln, and we kept a lot of that paint-ore red-
hot for forty-eight hours; kept the Kanuck
and his family up, firing. The presence of
iron in the ore showed with the magnet from
the start; and when he came to test it, he
found out that it contained about seventy-five
per cent, of the peroxide of iron."
Lapham pronounced the scientific phrases
with a sort of reverent satisfaction, as if awed
through his pride by a little lingering uncer-
tainty as to what peroxide was. He accented
it as if it were purr-ox-^Wy and Bartley
had to get him to spell it.
" Well, and what then ? " he asked, when
he had made a note of the percentage.
" What then ? " echoed Lapham. "Well, then,
the fellow set down and told me, * You've got
a paint here,' says he, ' that's going to drive
every other mineral paint out of the market.
Why,' says he, ' it'll drive 'em right into the
Back Bay ! ' Of course, I didn't know what
the Back Bay was then; but I begun to
open my eyes; thought I'd had 'em open
before, but I guess I hadn't. Says he, ' That
paint has got hydraulic cement in it, and it
can stand fire and water and acids ' ; he
named over a lot of things. Says he, ' It'll
mix easily with linseed oil, whether you want
to use it boiled or raw ; and it aint a-going to
crack nor fade any; and it aint a-going to
scale. When you've got your arrangements
for burning it properly, you're going to have
a paint that will stand like the everlasting
hills, in every climate under the sun.' Then
he went into a lot of particulars, and I begun
to think he was drawing a long bow, and
meant to make his bill accordingly. So I
kept pretty cool ; but the fellow's bill didn't
amount to anything hardly — said I might
pay him after I got going; young chap, and
pretty easy; but every word he said was
gospel. Well, I aint a-going to brag up my
paint ; I don't suppose you came here to hear
me blow — — "
"Oh, yes, I did," said Bartley. "That's
what I want. Tell all there is to tell, and
I can boil it down afterward. A man can't
make a greater mistake with a reporter than
to hold back anything out of modesty. It
may be the very thing we want to know.
What we want is the whole truth, and more ;
we've got so much modesty of our own that
we can temper almost any statement.
Lapham looked as if he did not quite like
this tone, and he resumed a little more quietly.
" Oh, there isn't really very much more to say
about the paint itself. But you can use it for
almost anything where a paint is wanted, in-
side or out. It'll prevent decay, and it'll stop
it, after it's begun, in tin or iron. You can
paint the inside of a cistern or a bath-tub
with it, and water wont hurt it ; and you can
paint a steam-boiler with it, and heat wont.
You can cover a brick wall with it, or a rail-
road car, or the deck of a steam-boat, and you
can't do a better thing for either."
" Never tried it on the human conscience,
I suppose," suggested Bartley.
" No, sir," replied Lapham, gravely. " I
guess you want to keep that as free from paint
as you can, if you want much use of it. I
never cared to try any of it on mine." Lap-
ham suddenly lifted his bulk up out of his
swivel-chair, and led the way out into the"
wareroom beyond the office partitions, where
rows and ranks of casks, barrels, and kegs
stretched dimly back to the rear of the build-
ing, and diffused an honest, clean, wholesome
smell of oil and paint. They were labeled
and branded as containing each so many
pounds of Lapham's Mineral Paint, and each
bore the mystic devices, JV. L. f. 1835 — S.
L. t. 1855. "There!" said Lapham, kicking
one of the largest casks with the toe of his
boot, " that's about our biggest package ; and
here," he added, laying his hand affectionately
THE RISE OF SILAS LAPHAM.
n
on the head of a very small keg, as if it were
the head of a child, which it resembled in
size, " this is the smallest. We used to put
the paint on the market dry, but now we grind
every ounce of it in oil — very best quality of
linseed oil — and warrant it. We find it gives
more satisfaction. Now, come back to the
office, and I'll show you our fancy brands."
It was very cool and pleasant in that dim
wareroom, with the rafters showing overhead
in a cloudy perspective, and darkening away
into the perpetual twilight at the rear of the
building ; and Bartley had found an agreeable
seat on the head of a half-barrel of the paint,
which he was reluctant to leave. But he rose
and followed the vigorous lead of Lapham
back to the office, where the sun of a long
summer afternoon was just beginning to glare
in at the window. On shelves opposite Lap-
ham's desk were tin cans of various sizes,
arranged in tapering cylinders, and showing,
in a pattern diminishing toward the top, the
same label borne by the casks and barrels in
the wareroom. Lapham merely waved his
hand toward these ; but when Bartley, after a
comprehensive glance at them, gave his whole
attention to a row of clean, smooth jars,
where different tints of the paint showed
through flawless glass, Lapham smiled and
waited in pleased expectation.
" Hello ! " said Bartley. " That's pretty ! "
" Yes/' assented Lapham, " it is rather nice.
It's our latest thing, and we find it takes with
customers first-rate. Look here ! " he said,
taking down one of the jars, and pointing to
the first line of the label.
Bartley read, " THE PERSIS BRAND,"
and then he looked at Lapham and smiled.
" After her, of course," said Lapham.
"Got it up and put the first of it on the
market her last birthday. She was pleased."
" I should think she might have been," said
Bartley, while he made a note of the appear-
ance of the jars.
" I don't know about your mentioning it in
your interview," said Lapham, dubiously.
" That's going into the interview, Mr. Lap-
ham, if nothing else does. Got a wife myself,
and I know just how you feel." It was in the
dawn of Bartley's prosperity on the " Boston
Events," before his troubles with Marcia had
seriously begun.
" Is that so ? " said Lapham, recognizing
with a smile another of the vast majority of
married Americans ; a few hate their wives,
but nearly all the rest think them supernal in
intelligence and capability. " Well," he added,
" we must see about that. Where'd you say
you lived ? "
" We don't live; we board. Mrs. Nash, 13
Canary Place."
" Well, we've all got to commence that
way," suggested Lapham, consolingly.
" Yes ; but we've about got to the end of
our string. I expect to be under a roof of
my own on Clover street before long. I sup-
pose," said Bartley, returning to business,
" that you didn't let the grass grow under your
feet much after you found out what was in
your paint-mine ? "
" No, sir," answered Lapham, withdrawing
his eyes from a long stare at Bartley, in which
he had been seeing himself a young man again,
in the first days of his married life. " I went
right back to Lumberville and sold out every-
thing, and put all I could rake and scrape
together into paint. And Mis' Lapham was
with me every time. No hang back about
her. I tell you she was a woman!"
Bartley laughed. " That's the sort most of
us marry."
" No, we don't," said Lapham. " Most of
us marry silly little girls grown up to look like
women."
"Well, I guess that's about so," assented
Bartley, as if upon second thought.
" If it hadn't been for her," resumed Lap-
ham, " the paint wouldn't have come to any-
thing. I used to tell her it wa'n't the seventy-
five per cent, of purr-ox-eyed of iron in the ore
that made that paint go ; it was the seventy-
five per cent, of purr-ox-eyed of iron in her."
" Good ! " cried Bartley. " I'll tell Marcia
that."
" In less'n six months there wa'n't a board-
fence, nor a bridge-girder, nor a dead wall, nor
a barn, nor a face of rock in that whole region
that didn't have ' Lapham's Mineral Paint —
Specimen ' on it in the three colors we begun
by making." Bartley had taken his seat on the
window-sill, and Lapham, standing before him,
now put up his huge foot close to Bartley's
thigh ; neither of them minded that.
" I've heard a good deal of talk about that
S. T. — i860 — X. man, and the stove-black-
ing man, and the kidney-cure man, because
they advertised in that way; and I've read
articles about it in the papers; but I don't
see where the joke comes in, exactly. So
long as the people that own the barns and
fences don't object, I don't see what the pub-
lic has got to do with it. And I never saw any-
thing so very sacred about a big rock, along
a river or in a pasture that it wouldn't do to
put mineral paint on it in three colors. I wish
some of the people that talk about the land-
scape, and write about it, had to bu'st one of
them rocks out of the landscape with powder,
or dig a hole to bury it in, as we used to have
to do up on the farm ; I guess they'd sing a
little different tune about the profanation of
scenery. There aint any man enjoys a sightly
i8
THE RISE OE SILAS LAPHAM.
bit of nature — a smooth piece of interval,
with half a dozen good-sized wine-glass elms
in it — more than / do. But I aint a-going
to stand up for every big ugly rock I come
across, as if we were all a set of dumn Druids.
I say the landscape was made for man, and
not man for the landscape."
" Yes," said Bartley, carelessly ; " it was
made for the stove-polish man and the
kidney-cure man."
" It was made for any man that knows
how to use it," Lapham returned, insensible
to Bartley's irony. " Let 'em go and live
with nature in the winter, up there along the
Canada line, and I guess they'll get enough
of her for one while. Well — where was I ? "
" Decorating the landscape," said Bartley.
" Yes, sir ; I started right there at Lumber-
ville, and it give the place a start, too. You
wont find it on the map now ; and you wont
find it in the gazetteer. I give a pretty good
lump of money to build a town-hall, about five
years back, and the first meeting they held in
it they voted to change the name, — Lumber-
ville wcCn't a name, — and it's Lapham now."
" Isn't it somewhere up in that region that
they get the old Brandon red?" asked Bartley.
" We're about fifty miles from Brandon.
The Brandon's a good paint," said Lapham,
conscientiously. " Like to show you round
up at our place some odd time, if you get off."
" Thanks. I should like it first-rate. Works
there ? "
" Yes ; Works there. Well, sir, just about
the time I get started, the war broke out ;
and it knocked my paint higher than a kite.
The thing dropped perfectly dead. I pre-
sume that if I'd had any sort of influence, I
might have got it into government hands, for
gun-carriages and army-wagons, and may be
on board government vessels. But I hadn't,
and we had to face the music. I was about
broken-hearted, but m'wife she looked at it
another way. ' / guess it's a providence,'
says she. ' Silas, I guess you've got a coun-
try that's worth fighting for. Any rate, you
better go out and give it a chance.' Well,
sir, I went. I knew she meant business. It
might kill her to have me go, but it would
kill her sure if I staid. She was one of
that kind. I went. Her last words was, ' I'll
look after the paint, Si.' We hadn't but just
one little girl then, — boy'd died, — and Mis'
Lapham's mother was livin' with us; and I
knew if times did anyways come up again,
m'wife'd know just what to do. So I went.
I got through; and you can call me Colonel,
if you want to. Feel there!" Lapham took
Bartley's thumb and forefinger and put them
on a bunch in his leg, just above the knee.
u Anything hard?"
"Ball?"
Lapham nodded. " Gettysburg. That's my
thermometer. If it wa'n't for that, I shouldn't
know enough to come in when it rains."
Bartley laughed at a joke which betrayed
some evidences of wear. " And when you
came back, you took hold of the paint and
rushed it."
" I took hold of the paint and rushed it — all
I could," said Lapham, with less satisfaction
than he had hitherto shown in his autobiog-
raphy. " But I found that I had got back to
another world. The day of small things was past,
and I don't suppose it will ever come again in
this country. My wife was at me all the time to
take a partner — somebody with capital; but
I couldn't seem to bear the idea. That paint
was like my own blood to me. To have any-
body else concerned in it was like — well, I
don't know what. I saw it was the thing to
do; but I tried to fight it off, and I tried to
joke it off. I used to say, ' Why didn't you
take a partner yourself, Persis, while I was
away?' And she'd say, ' Well, if you hadn't
come back, I should, Si.' Always did like a
joke about as well as any woman /ever saw.
Well, I had to come to it. I took a partner."
Lapham dropped the bold blue eyes with
which he had been till now staring into Bart-
ley's face, and the reporter knew that here
was a place for asterisks in his interview, if
interviews were faithful. " He had money
enough," continued Lapham, with a sup-
pressed sigh; " but he didn't know anything
about paint. We hung on together for a year
or two. And then we quit."
" And he had the experience," suggested
Bartley, with companionable ease.
" I had some of the experience too," said
Lapham, with a scowl; and Bartley divined,
through the freemasonry of all who have sore
places in their memories, that this was a point
which he must not touch again.
" And since that, I suppose, you've played
it alone."
" I've played it alone."
" You must ship some of this paint of
yours to foreign countries, Colonel?" sug-
gested Bartley, putting on a professional air.
" We ship it to all parts of the world. It goes
to South America, lots of it. It goes to Aus-
tralia, and it goes to India, and it goes to
China, and it goes to the Cape of Good Hope.
It'll stand any climate. Of course, we don't
export these fancy brands much. They're for
home use. But we're introducing them else-
where. Here." Lapham pulled open a drawer,
and showed Bartley a lot of labels in different
languages — Spanish, French, German, and
Italian. " We expect to do a good business
in all those co.untries. We've got our agen-
THE RISE OE SILAS LAPHAM.
19
cies in Cadiz now, and in Paris, and in Ham-
burg, and in Leghorn. It's a thing that's
bound to make its way. Yes, sir. Wherever a
man has got a ship, or a bridge, or a dock, or
a house, or a car, or a fence, or a pig-pen,
anywhere in God's universe, to paint, that's
the paint for him, and he's bound to find it
out sooner or later. You pass a ton of that
paint dry through a blast-furnace, and you'll
get a quarter of a ton of pig-iron. I believe
in my paint. I believe it's a blessing to the
world. When folks come in, and kind of smell
round, and ask me what I mix it with, I
always say, ' Well, in the first place, I mix it
with Eaith, and after that I grind it up with
the best quality of boiled linseed oil that
money will buy.' "
Lapham took out his watch and looked at
it, and Bartley perceived that his audience
was drawing to a close. " 'F you ever want
to run down and take a look at our Works,
pass you over the road," — he called it rud, —
" and it sha'n't cost you a cent."
"Well, may be I shall, sometime," said
Bartley. " Good afternoon, Colonel."
" Good afternoon. Or — hold on ! My
horse down there yet, William ? " he called to
the young man in the counting-room, who
had taken his letter at the beginning of the
interview. " Oh ! All right ! " he added, in
response to something the young man said.
" Can't I "set you down somewhere, Mr.
Hubbard ? I've got my horse at the door, and
I can drop you on my way home. I'm going
to take Mis' Lapham to look at a house I'm
driving piles for, down on the New Land."
" Don't care if I do," said Bartley.
Lapham put on a straw hat, gathered up
some papers lying on his desk, pulled down
its rolling cover, turned the key in it, and
gave the papers to an extremely handsome
young woman at one of the desks in the outer
office. She was stylishly dressed, as Bartley
saw, and her smooth, yellow hair was sculp-
turesquely waved over a low, white forehead.
" Here," said Lapham, with the same^prompt,
gruff kindness that he had used in addressing
the young man, " I want you should put
these in shape, and give me a type-writer copy
to-morrow."
" What an uncommonly pretty girl ! " said
Bartley, as they descended the rough stair-
way and found their way out to the street, past
the dangling rope of a block and tackle wander-
ing up into the cavernous darkness overhead.
" She does her work," said Lapham, shortly.
Bartley mounted to the left side of the open
buggy standing at the curb-stone, and Lapham,
gathering up the hitching- weight, slid it under
the buggy-seat and mounted beside him.
" No chance to speed a horse here, of
course," said Lapham, while the horse with a
spirited gentleness picked her way, with a
high, long action, over the pavement of the
street. The streets were all narrow, and most
of them crooked, in that quarter of the town;
but at the end of one the spars of a vessel
penciled themselves delicately against the cool
blue of the afternoon sky. The air was full of
a smell pleasantly compounded of oakum, of
leather, and of oil. It was not the busy season,
and they met only two or three trucks heavily
straggling toward the wharf with their long
string teams; but the cobble-stones of the
pavement were worn with the dint of ponder-
ous wheels, and discolored with iron-rust from
them; here and there, in wandering streaks
over its surface, was the gray stain of the salt
water with which the street had been sprinkled.
After an interval of some minutes, which
both men spent in looking round the dash-
board from opposite sides to watch the stride
of the horse, Bartley said, with a light sigh,
" I had a colt once down in Maine that step-
ped just like that mare."
"Well! "said Lapham, sympathetically rec-
ognizing the bond that this fact created be-
tween them. "Well, now, I tell you what you
do. You let me come for you 'most any after-
noon, now, and take you out over the Milldam,
and speed this mare a little. I'd like to show
you what this mare can do. Yes, I would. "
" All right," answered Bartley ; " I'll let you
know my first day off."
" Good," cried Lapham.
" Kentucky? " queried Bartley.
" No, sir. I don't ride behind anything but
Vermont; never did. Touch of Morgan, of
course ; but you can't have much Morgan in a
horse if you want speed. Hambletonian mostly.
Where'd you say you wanted to get out? "
" I guess you may put me down at the
1 Events ' office, just round the corner here. I've
got to write up this interview while it's fresh."
" All right," said Lapham, impersonally
assenting to Bartley's use of him as material.
He had not much to complain of in Bartley's
treatment, unless it was the strain of extrava-
gant compliment which it involved. But the
flattery was mainly for the paint, whose virtues
Lapham did not believe could be overstated,
and himself and his history had been treated
with as much respect as Bartley was capable
of showing any one. He made a very pictur-
esque thing of the discovery of the paint-mine.
"Deep in the heart of the virgin forests of Ver-
mont, far up toward the line of the Canadian
snows, on a desolate mountain-side, where an
autumnal storm had done its wild work, and
the great trees, strewn hither and thither, bore
witness to its violence, Nehemiah Lapham dis-
covered, just forty years ago, the mineral
20
THE RISE OF SILAS LAPHAM.
which the alchemy of his son's enterprise and
energy has transmuted into solid ingots of the
most precious of metals. The colossal fortune
of Colonel Silas Lapham lay at the bottom
of a hole which an uprooted tree had dug for
him, and which for many years remained a
paint-mine of no more appreciable value than
a soap-mine."
Here Bartley had not been able to deny
himself his grin ; but he compensated for it by
the high reverence with which he spoke of
Colonel Lapham's record during the war of
the rebellion, and of the motives which im-
pelled him to turn aside from an enterprise
in which his whole heart was engaged and
take part in the struggle. " The Colonel bears
imbedded in the muscle of his right leg a little
memento of the period in the shape of a minie-
ball, which he jocularly referred to as his ther-
mometer, and which relieves him from the
necessity of reading 'The Probabilities' in his
morning paper. This saves him just so much
time ; and for a man who, as he said, has not
a moment of waste time on him anywhere,
five minutes a day are something in the course
of a year. Simple, clear, bold, and straightfor-
ward in mind and action,Colonel Silas Lapham,
with a prompt comprehensiveness and a never-
failing business sagacity, is, in the best sense
of that much-abused term, one of nature's
noblemen, to the last inch of his five eleven
and a half. His life affords an example of
single-minded application and unwavering
perseverance which our young business men
would do well to emulate. There is nothing
showy or meretricious about the man. He
believes in mineral paint, and he puts his heart
and soul into it. He makes it a religion ;
though we would not imply that it is his
religion. Colonel Lapham is a regular at-
tendant at the Rev. Dr. Langworthy's church.
He subscribes liberally to the Associated
Charities, and no good object or worthy pub-
lic enterprise fails to receive his support. He
is not now actively in politics, and his paint
is not partisan ; but it is an open secret that
he is, and always has been, a stanch Repub-
lican. Without violating the sanctities of pri-
vate life, we cannot speak fully of various
details which came out in the free and unem-
barrassed interview which Colonel Lapham
accorded our representative. But we may
say that the success of which he is justly
proud he is also proud to attribute in great
measure to the sympathy and energy of his
wife — one of those women who, in whatever
walk of life, seem born to honor the name of
American Woman, and to redeem it from the
national reproach of Daisy Millerism. Of Col-
onel Lapham's family, we will simply add that
it consists of two young lady daughters.
" The subject of this very inadequate sketch
is building a house on the water side of Bea-
con street, after designs by one of our leading
architectural firms, which, when complete,
will be one of the finest ornaments of that
exclusive avenue. It will, we believe, be
ready for the occupancy of the family some-
time in the spring."
When Bartley had finished his article, which
he did with a good deal of inwrard derision,
he went home to Marcia, still smiling over
the thought of Lapham", whose burly simplic-
ity had peculiarly amused him.
" He regularly turned himself inside out to
me," he said, as he sat describing his inter-
view to Marcia.
" Then I know you could make something
nice out of it," said his wife; " and that will
please Mr. Witherby."
"Oh, yes, I've done pretty well; but I
couldn't let myself loose on him the way I
wanted to. Confound the limitations of de-
cency, anyway ! I should like to have told
just what Colonel Lapham thought of land-
scape advertising in Colonel Lapham's own
words. I'll tell you one thing, Marsh : he
had a girl there at one of the desks that you
wouldn't let me have within gunshot of my
office. Pretty ? It aint any name for it ! "
Marcia's eyes began to blaze, and Bartley
broke out into a laugh, in which he arrested
himself at sight of a formidable parcel in the
corner of the room.
" Hello ! What's that ? "
" Why, I don't know what it is," replied
Marcia, tremulously. " A man brought it just
before you came in, and I didn't like to open it."
" Think it was some kind of infernal ma-
chine ? " asked Bartley, getting down on his
knees to examine the package. " Mrs. B.
Hubbard, heigh ? " He cut the heavy hemp
string with his penknife. " We must look into
this thing. I should like to know who's sending
packages to Mrs. Hubbard in my absence."
He unfolded the wrappings of paper, growing
softer and finer inward, and presently pulled
out a handsome square glass jar, through which
a crimson mass showed richly. " The Persis
Brand ! " he yelled. " I knew it ! "
" Oh, what is it, Bartley ? " quavered Mar-
cia. Then, courageously drawing a little nearer:
" Is it some kind of jam ? " she implored.
" Jam ? No!" roared Bartley. " It's paint/
It's mineral paint — Lapham's paint ! "
" Paint ? " echoed Marcia, as she stood
over him while he stripped their wrappings
from the jars which showed the dark blue,
dark green, light brown, dark brown, and
black, with the dark crimson, forming the
gamut of color of the Lapham paint. Don't
tell me it's paint that / can use, Bartley ! "
THE RISE OF SILAS LAPHAM.
21
" Well, I shouldn't advise you to use much
of it — just at present," said her husband. " But
it's paint that you can use in moderation."
Marcia cast her arms round his neck and
kissed him. " O Bartley, I think I'm the
happiest girl in the world ! I was just won-
dering what I should do. There are places
in that Clover street house that need touch-
ing up so dreadfully. I shall be very careful.
You needn't be afraid I shall overdo. But
this just saves my life. Did you buy it, Bart-
ley? You know we couldn't afford it, and
you oughtn't to have done it ! And what
does the Persis Brand mean ? "
" Buy it ? " cried Bartley. " No ! The old
fool's sent it to you as a present. You'd better
wait for the facts before you pitch into me
for extravagance, Marcia. Persis is the name
of his wife ; and he named it after her be-
cause it's his finest brand. You'll see it in
my interview. Put it on the market her last
birthday for a surprise to her."
" What old fool ? " faltered Marcia.
"Why, Lapham — the mineral paint man."
" Oh, what a good man ! " sighed Marcia
from the bottom of her soul. " Bartley ! you
wont make fun of him, as you do of some of
those people ? Will you ? "
" Nothing that /^'ll ever find out," said
Bartley, getting up and brushing off the*
carpet-lint from his knees.
ii.
After dropping Bartley Hubbard at the
" Events " building, Lapham drove on down
Washington street to Nankeen Square at the
South End, where he had lived ever since the
mistaken movement of society in that direc-
tion ceased. He had not built, but had bought
very cheap of a terrified gentleman of good
extraction who discovered too late that the
South End was not the thing, and who in
the eagerness of his flight to the Back Bay
threw in his carpets and shades for almost
nothing. Mrs. Lapham was even better satis-
fied with their bargain than the Colonel him-
self, and they had lived in Nankeen Square
for twelve years. They had seen the sap-
lings planted in the pretty oval round which
the houses were built flourish up into
sturdy young trees, and their two little girls
in the same period had grown into young
ladies; the Colonel's tough frame had expanded
into the bulk which Bartley's interview indi-
cated; and Mrs. Lapham, while keeping a
more youthful outline, showed the sharp print
of the crow's-foot at the corners of her moth-
erly eyes, and certain slight creases in her
wholesome cheeks. The fact that they lived
in an unfashionable neighborhood was some-
thing that they had never been made to feel
to their personal disadvantage, and they had
hardly known it till the summer before this
story opens, when Mrs. Lapham and her
daughter Irene had met some other Bostonians
far from Boston, who made it memorable. They
were people whom chance had brought for
the time under a singular obligation to the
Lapham ladies, and they were gratefully re-
cognizant of it. They had ventured — a mother
and two daughters — as far as a rather wild
little Canadian watering-place on the St.
Lawrence, below Quebec, and had arrived
some days before their son and brother was
expected to join them. Two of their trunks
had gone astray, and on the night of their
arrival the mother was taken violently ill.
Mrs. Lapham came to their help, with her
skill as nurse, and with the abundance of her
own and her daughter's wardrobe, and a
profuse, single-hearted kindness. When a
doctor could be got at, he said that but for
Mrs. Lapham's timely care, the lady would
hardly have lived. He was a very effusive
little Frenchman, and fancied he was saying
something very pleasant to everybody.
A certain intimacy inevitably followed, and
when the son came he was even more grate-
ful than the others. Mrs. Lapham could not
quite understand why he should be as at-
tentive to her as to Irene; but she compared
him with other young men about the place,
and thought him nicer than any of them. She
had not the means of a wider comparison ;
for in Boston, with all her husband's pros-
perity, they had not had a social life. Their
first years there were given to careful getting
on Lapham's part, and careful saving on his
wife's. Suddenly the money began to come
so abundantly that she need not save ; and
then they did not know what to do with it.
A certain amount could be spent on horses,
and Lapham spent it ; his wife spent on rich
and rather ugly clothes and a luxury of
household appointments. Lapham had not
yet reached the picture-buying stage of
the rich man's development, but they dec-
orated their house with the costliest and most
abominable frescoes ; they went upon jour-
neys, and lavished upon cars and hotels; they
gave with both hands to their church and to
all the charities it brought them acquainted
with ; but they did not know how to spend
on society. Up to a certain period Mrs. Lap-
ham had the ladies of her neighborhood in to
tea, as her mother had done in the country
in her younger days. Lapham's idea of hos-
pitality was still to bring a heavy-buying
customer home to pot-luck ; neither of them
imagined dinners.
Their two girls had gone to the public
22
THE RISE OE SILAS LAPHAM.
schools, where they had not got on as fast
as some of the other girls; so that they were
a year behind in graduating from the gram-
mar-school, where Lapham thought that they
had got education enough. His wife was of
a different mind ; she would have liked them
to go to some private school for their finish-
ing. But Irene did not care for study; she
preferred housekeeping, and both the sisters
were afraid of being snubbed by the other
girls, who were of a different sort from the
girls of the grammar-school ; these were mostly
from the parks and squares, like themselves.
It ended in their going part of a year. But the
elder had an odd taste of her own for read-
ing, and she took some private lessons, and
read books out of the circulating library ; the
whole family were amazed at the number she
read, and rather proud of it.
They were not girls who embroidered or
abandoned themselves to needle-work. Irene
spent her abundant leisure in shopping for
herself and her mother, of whom both daugh-
ters made a kind of idol, buying her caps
and laces out of their pin-money, and getting
her dresses far beyond her capacity to wear.
Irene dressed herself very stylishly, and
spent hours on her toilet every day. Her
sister had a simpler taste, and, if she had done
altogether as she liked, might even hav»
slighted dress. They all three took long naps
every day, and sat hours together minutely
discussing what they saw out of the window.
In her self-guided search for self-improvement,
the elder sister went to many church lec-
tures on a vast variety of secular subjects,
and usually came home with a comic account
of them, and that made more matter of talk
for the whole family. She could make fun of
nearly everything ; Irene complained that she
scared away the young men whom they got ac-
quainted with at the dancing-school sociables.
They were, perhaps, not the wisest young men.
The girls had learned to dance at Papan-
ti's ; but they had not belonged to the private
classes. They did not even know of them,
and a great gulf divided them from those who
did. Their father did not like company, ex-
cept such as came informally in their way; and
their mother had remained too rustic to know
how to attract it in the sophisticated city fash-
ion. None of them had grasped the idea of
European travel ; but they had gone about to
mountain and sea-side resorts, the mother and
the two girls, where they witnessed the spec-
tacle which such resorts present throughout
New England, of multitudes of girls, lovely,
accomplished, exquisitely dressed, humbly glad
of the presence of any sort of young man ; but
the Laphams had no skill or courage to make
themselves noticed, far less courted by the soli-
tary invalid, or clergyman, or artist. They
lurked helplessly about in the hotel parlors,
looking on and not knowing how to put them-
selves forward. Perhaps they did not care a
great deal to do so. They had not a conceit of
themselves, but a sort of content in their own
ways that one may notice in certain families.
The very strength of their mutual affection was
a barrier to worldly knowledge ; they dressed
for one another ; they equipped their house
for their own satisfaction; they lived richly
to themselves, not because they were selfish,
but because they did not know how to do other-
wise. The elder daughter did not care for
society, apparently. The younger, who was
but three years younger, was not yet quite old
enough to be ambitious of it. With all her won-
derful beauty, she had an innocence almost
vegetable. When her beauty, which in its
immaturity was crude and harsh, suddenly
ripened, she bloomed and glowed with the
unconsciousness of a flower ; she not merely
did not feel herself admired, but hardly knew
herself discovered. If she dressed well, per-
haps too well, it was because she had the in-
stinct of dress ; but till she met this young man
who was so nice to her at Baie St. Joan, she
had scarcely lived a detached, individual life,
so wholly had she depended on her mother
and her sister for her opinions, almost her
sensations. She took account of everything
he did and said, pondering it, and trying to
make out exactly what he meant, to the in-
flection of a syllable, the slightest movement
or gesture. In this way she began for the first
time to form ideas which she had not derived
from her family, and they were none the less
her own because they were often mistaken.
One of the things which he partly said, partly
looked, and which was altogether casual, she
repeated to her mother, and they canvassed it,
as they did all things relating to these new ac-
quaintances, and made it part of a novel point
of view which they were acquiring. It was some-
thing that Mrs. Lapham especially submitted
to her husband when they got home ; she asked
him if it were true, and if it made any difference.
u It makes a difference in the price of prop-
erty," replied the Colonel, promptly.. " But as
long as we don't want to sell, it don't matter."
" Why, Silas Lapham," said his wife, " do
you mean to tell me that this house is worth
less than we gave for it ? "
" It's worth a good deal less. You see, they
have got in — and pretty thick, too — it's no
use denying it. And when they get in, they
send down the price of property. Of course,
there aint any sense in it ; I think it's all
dumn foolishness. It's cruel, and folks ought
to be ashamed. But there it is. You tell folks
that the Saviour himself was one, and the twelve
THE RISE OF SILAS LAPHAM.
23
apostles, and all the prophets, — I don't know
but what Adam was — guess he was, — and it
don't make a bit of difference. They send
down the price of real estate. Prices begin to
shade when the first one gets in."
Mrs. Lapham thought the facts over a few
moments. " Well, what do we care, so long as
we're comfortable in our home ? And they're
just as nice and as good neighbors as can be."
" Oh, it's all right as far as I'm concerned,"
said Lapham. " Who did you say those peo-
ple were that stirred you up about it ? "
Mrs. Lapham mentioned their name. Lap-
ham nodded his head. " Do you know them ?
What business is he in ? "
" I guess he aint in anything," said Lapham.
" They were very nice," said Mrs. Lapham,
impartially.
"Well, they'd ought to be," returned the
Colonel. " Never done anything else."
" They didn't seem stuck up," urged his wife.
" They no need to — with you. I could
buy him and sell him, twice over."
This answer satisfied Mrs. Lapham rather
with the fact than with her husband. " Well,
I guess I wouldn't brag, Silas," she said.
In the winter the ladies of this family, who
returned to town very late, came to call on
Mrs. Lapham. They were again very polite.
But the mother let drop, in apology for their
calling almost at nightfall, that the coachman
had not known the way exactly.
" Nearly all our friends are on the New
Land or on the Hill."
There was a barb in this that rankled after
the ladies had gone ; and on comparing notes
with her daughter, Mrs. Lapham found that a
barb had been left to rankle in her mind also.
" They said they had never been in this
part of the town before."
Upon a strict search of her memory, Irene
could not report that the fact had been stated
with anything like insinuation, but it was that
which gave it a more penetrating effect.
" Oh, well, of course," said Lapham, to
whom these facts were referred. " Those sort
of people haven't got much business up our
way, and they don't come. It's a fair thing
all round. We don't trouble the Hill or the
New Land much."
" We know where they are," suggested his
wife, thoughtfully.
" Yes," assented the Colonel. " / know
where they are. I've got a lot of land over on
the Back Bay."
" You have ? " eagerly demanded his wife.
" Want me to build on it ? " he asked in
reply, with a quizzical smile.
" I guess we can get along here for a while."
This was at night. In the morning Mrs.
Lapham saidr^
" I suppose we ought to do the best we
can for the children, in every way."
" I supposed we always had," replied her
husband.
" Yes, we have, according to our light."
" Have you got some new light ? "
" I don't know as it's light. But if the girls
are going to keep on living in Boston and
marry here, I presume we ought to try to get
them into society, some way ; or ought to
do something."
" Well, who's ever done more for their chil-
dren than we have?" demanded Lapham, with
a pang at the thought that he could possibly
have been outdone. " Don't they have every-
thing they want ? Don't they dress just as you
say ? Don't you go everywhere with 'em ? Is
there ever anything going on that's worth while
that they don't see it or hear it ? /don't know
what you mean. Why don't you get them into
society ? There's money enough ! "
"There's got tobesomethingbesides money,
I guess," said Mrs. Lapham, with a hopeless
sigh. " I presume we didn't go to work just
the right way about their schooling. We ought
to have got them into some school where they'd
have got acquainted with city girls — girls who
could help them along. Nearly everybody at
Miss Smillie's was from somewhere else."
" Well, it's pretty late to think about that
now," grumbled Lapham.
" And we've always gone our own way,
and not looked out for the future. We ought
to have gone out more, and had people come
to the house. Nobody comes."
" Well, is that my fault ? I guess nobody
ever makes people welcomer."
" We ought to have invited company more."
" Why don't you do it now ? If it's for
the girls,T don't care if you have the house
full all the while."
Mrs. Lapham was forced to a confession
full of humiliation. " I don't know who to ask."
" Well, you can't expect me to tell you."
" No ; we're both country people, and we've
kept our country ways, and we don't, either of
us, know what to do. You've had to work so
hard, and your luck was so long coming, and
then it came with such a rush, that we haven't
had any chance to learn what to do with it.
It's just the same with Irene's looks; I didn't
expect she was ever going to have any, she
was such a plain child, and, all at once, she's
blazed out this way. As long as it was Pen
that didn't seem to care for society, I didn't
give much mind to it. But I can see it's going
to be different with Irene. I don't believe but
what we're in the wrong neighborhood."
" Well," said the Colonel, " there aint a
prettier lot on the Back Bay than mine. It's
on the water side of Beacon, and it's twenty-
24
THE RISE OF SILAS LAPHAM.
eight feet wide and a hundred and fifty deep.
Let's build on it."
Mrs. Lapham was silent awhile. " No,"
she said finally ; " we've always got along well
enough here, and I guess we better stay."
At breakfast she said, casually : " Girls,
how would you like to have your father build
on the New Land ? "
The girls said they did not know. It was more
convenient to the horse-cars where they were.
Mrs. Lapham stole a look of relief at her hus-
band, and nothing more was said of the matter.
The mother of the family who had called
upon Mrs. Lapham brought her husband's
cards, and when Mrs. Lapham returned the
visit she was in some trouble about the proper
form of acknowledging the civility. The
Colonel had no card but a business card,
which advertised the principal depot and the
several agencies of the mineral paint; and
Mrs. Lapham doubted, till she wished to
goodness that she had never seen nor heard
of those people, whether to ignore her hus-
band in the transaction altogether, or to
write his name on her own card. She decided
finally upon this measure, and she had the
relief of not finding the family at home. As
far as she could judge, Irene seemed to suf-
fer a little disappointment from the fact.
For several months there was no commu-
nication between the families. Then there
came to Nankeen Square a lithographed cir-
cular from the people on the Hill, signed in
ink by the mother, and affording Mrs. Lap-
ham an opportunity to subscribe for a char-
ity of undeniable merit and acceptability.
She submitted it to her husband, who
promptly drew a check for five hundred dollars.
She tore it in two. " I will take a check for
a hundred, Silas," she said.
" Why ? " he asked, looking up guiltily at her.
" Because a hundred is enough ; and I don't
want to show off before them."
" Oh, I thought may be you did. Well,
Pert," he added, having satisfied human na-
ture by the preliminary thrust, " I guess
you're about right. When do you want I
should begin to build on Beacon street ? "
He handed her the new check, where she
stood over him, and then leaned back in his
chair and looked up at her.
" I don't want you should begin at all.
What do you mean, Silas ? " She rested
against the side of his desk.
" Well, I don't know as I mean anything.
But shouldn't you like to build ? Everybody
builds, at least once in a life-time."
" Where is your lot ? In the Diphtheria
District ? "
Up to a certain point in their prosperity
Mrs. Lapham had kept strict account of all
her husband's affairs ; but as they expanded,
and ceased to be of the retail nature with
which women successfully grapple, the inti-
mate knowledge of them made her nervous.
There was a period in which she felt that they
were being ruined, but the crash had not come ;
and, since his great success, she had abandoned
herself to a blind confidence in her husband's
judgment, which she had hitherto felt needed
her revision. He came and went, day by day,
unquestioned. He bought and sold and got
gain. She knew that he would tell her if ever
things went wrong, and he knew that she would
ask him whenever she was anxious.
" No, it aint in the Diphtheria District," said
Lapham, rather enjoying the insinuation. " I
looked after that when I was trading; and
I guess there's more diphtheria in the name
than anything else, anyway. I got that lot
for you, Pert ; I thought you'd want to build
on the Back Bay some day."
" Pshaw ! " said Mrs. Lapham, deeply
pleased inwardly, but not going to show it,
as she would have said. " I guess you want
to build there yourself." She insensibly got a
little nearer to her husband. They liked to
talk to each other in that blunt way ; it is the
New England way of expressing perfect con-
fidence and tenderness.
" Well, I guess I do," said Lapham, not
insisting upon the unselfish view of the mat-
ter. " I always did like the water side of
Beacon. There aint a sightlier place in the
world for a house. And some day there's
bound to be a drive-way all along behind
them houses, between them and the water,
and then a lot there is going to be worth the
gold that will cover it — coin. I've had offers
for that lot, Pert, twice over what I give for
it. Yes, I have. Don't you want to ride over
there some afternoon with me and see it ? "
" I'm satisfied where we be, Si," said Mrs.
Lapham, recurring to the parlance of her
youth in her pathos at her husband's kindness.
She sighed anxiously, for she felt the trouble
a woman knows in view of any great change.
They had often talked of altering over the
house in which they lived, but they had never
come to it ; and they had often talked of build-
ing, but it had always been a house in the
country that they had thought of. " I wish
you had sold that lot."
" I haint," said the Colonel, briefly.
" I don't know as I feel much like chang-
ing our way of living."
" Guess we could live there pretty much as
we live here. There's all kinds of people on
Beacon street ; you mustn't think they're all
big-bugs. I know one party that lives in a
house he built to sell, and his wife don't keep
any girl. You can have just as much style
THE RISE OF SILAS LAPHAM.
25
there as you want, or just as little. I guess
we live as well as most of 'em now, and set
as good a table. And if you come to style,
I don't know as anybody has got more of a
right to put it on than what we have."
" Well, I don't want to build on Beacon
street, Si," said Mrs. Lapham, gently. _
" Just as you please, Persis. I aint in any
hurry to leave."
Mrs. Lapham stood flapping the check
which she held in her right hand against the
edge of her left. " A Mr. Liliengarten has
bought the Gordon house across the square,"
she said, thoughtfully.
" Well, I'm agreeable. I suppose he's got
the money to pay for it."
" Oh, yes, they've all got money," sighed
Mrs. Lapham. " What are you going to do
this afternoon ? "
"I'm going to take a turn on the Brighton
road," said the Colonel.
" I don't believe but what I should like to
go along," said his wife.
" All right. You haint ever rode behind
that mare yet, Pert, and I want you should see
me let her out once. They say the snow's all
packed down already, and the going is A i."
At four o'clock in the afternoon, with a cold,
red winter sunset before them, the Colonel
and his wife were driving slowly down Beacon
street in the light, high-seated cutter, where,
as he said, they were a pretty tight fit. He
was holding the mare in till the time came to
speed her, and the mare was springily jolting
over the snow, looking intelligently from side
to side, and cocking this ear and that, while
from her nostrils, her head tossing easily, she
blew quick, irregular whiffs of steam.
" Gay, aint she ? " proudly suggested the
Colonel.
" She is gay," assented his wife.
They met swiftly dashing sleighs, and let
them pass on either hand, down the beautiful
avenue narrowing with an admirably even sky-
line in the perspective. They were not in a
hurry. The mare jounced easily along, and
they talked of the different houses on either
side of the way. They had a crude taste in
architecture, and they admired the worst.
There were women's faces at many of the
handsome windows, and once in a while a
young man on the pavement caught his hat
suddenly from his head, and bowed in re-
sponse to some salutation from within.
" I don't think our girls would look very
bad behind one of those big panes," said the
Colonel.
" No," said his wife, dreamily.
" Where's the young man ? Did he come
with them ? "
" No ; he was to spend the winter with a
friend of his that has a ranch in Texas. I
guess he's got to do something."
" Yes; gentlemaning as a profession has got
to play out in a generation or two."
Neither of them spoke of the lot, though
Lapham knew perfectly well what his wife
had come with him for, and she was aware that
he knew it. The time came when he brought
the mare down to a walk, and then slowed up
almost to a stop, while they both turned their
heads to the right and looked at the vacant lot,
through which showed the frozen stretch of the
Back Bay, a section of the Long Bridge, and
the roofs and smoke-stacks of Charlestown.
" Yes, it's sightly," said Mrs. Lapham,
lifting her hand from the reins, on which she
had unconsciously laid it.
Lapham said nothing, but he let the mare
out a little.
The sleighs and cutters were thickening
round them. On the Milldam it became
difficult to restrict the mare to the long, slow
trot into which he let her break. The beauti-
ful landscape widened to right and left of
them, with the sunset redder and redder, over
the low, irregular hills before them. They
crossed the Milldam into Longwood, and
here, from the crest of the first upland,
stretched two endless lines, in which thou-
sands of cutters went and came. Some of the
drivers were already speeding their horses,
and these shot to and fro on inner lines, be-
tween the slowly moving vehicles on either
side of the road. Here and there a burly
mounted policeman, bulging over the pommel
of his McClellan saddle, jolted by, silently
gesturing and directing the course, and keep-
ing it all under the eye of the law. It was
what Bartley Hubbard called "a carnival of
fashion and gayety on the Brighton road," in
his account of it. But most of the people in
those elegant sleighs and cutters had so little
the air of the great world that one knowing
it at all must have wondered where they and
their money came from ; and the gayety of
the men, at least, was expressed, like that of
Colonel Lapham, in a grim, almost fierce,
alertness ; the women wore an air of coura-
geous apprehension. At a certain point the
Colonel said, " I'm going to let her out, Pert,"
and he lifted and then dropped the reins
lightly on the mare's back.
She understood the signal, and, as an ad-
mirer said, " she laid down to her work."
Nothing in the immutable iron of Lapham's
face betrayed his sense of triumph, as the
mare left everything behind her on the road.
Mrs. Lapham, if she felt fear, was too busy
holding her flying wraps about her, and
shielding her face from the scud of ice flung
from the mare's heels, to betray it ; except
26
THE RISE OF SILAS LATHAM.
for the rush of her feet, the mare was as silent
as the people behind her; the muscles of her
back and thighs worked more and more
swiftly, like some mechanism responding to
an alien force, and she shot to the end of the
course, grazing a hundred encountered and
rival sledges in her passage, but unmolested
by the policemen, who probably saw that the
mare and the Colonel knew what they were
about, and, at any rate, were not the sort of
men to interfere with trotting like that. At
the end of the heat Lapham drew her in, and
turned Off on a side street into Brookline.
" Tell you what, Pert," he said, as if they had
been quietly jogging along, with time for un-
interrupted thought since he last spoke, " I've
about made up my mind to build on that
lot."
" All right, Silas," said Mrs. Lapham ; " I
suppose you know what you're about. Don't
build on it for me, that's all."
When she stood in the hall at home, taking
off her things, she said to the girls, who were
helping her, " Some day your father will get
killed with that mare."
" Did he speed her ?" asked Penelope, the
elder. She was named after her grandmother,
who had in her turn inherited from another
ancestress the name of the Homeric matron
whose peculiar merits won her a place even
among the Puritan Faiths, Hopes, Temper-
ances, and Prudences. Penelope was the girl
whose odd, serious face had struck Bartley
Hubbard in the photograph of the family
group Lapham showed him on the day of the
interview. Her large eyes, like her hair, were
brown ; they had the peculiar look of near-
sighted eyes which is called mooning; her
complexion was of a dark pallor.
Her mother did not reply to a question
which might be considered already answered.
" He says he's going to build on that lot of
his," she next remarked, unwinding the long
veil which she had tied round her neck to
hold her bonnet on. She put her hat and
cloak on the hall table, to be carried upstairs
later, and they all went in to tea : creamed
oysters, birds, hot biscuit, two kinds of cake,
and dishes of stewed and canned fruit and
honey. The women dined alone at one, and
the Colonel at the same hour down-town. But
he liked a good hot meal when he got home
in the evening. The house flared with gas, and
the Colonel, before he sat down, went about
shutting the registers, through which a welding
heat came voluming up from the furnace.
" I'll be the death of that nigger yet" he
said, " if he don't stop making on such a fire.
The only way to get any comfort out of your
furnace is to take care of it yourself."
" Well," answered his wife from behind the
tea-pot, as he sat down at table with this
threat, "there's nothing to prevent you, Si.
And you can shovel the snow, too, if you
want to — till you get over to Beacon street,
anyway."
" I guess I can keep my own sidewalk
on Beacon street clean, if I take the notion."
" I should like to see you at it," retorted
his wife.
" Well, you keep a sharp lookout, and
may be you will."
Their taunts were really expressions of af-
fectionate pride in each other. They liked to
have it, give and take, that way, as they
would have said, right along.
" A man can be a man on Beacon street
as well as anywhere, I guess."
" Well, I'll do the wash, as I used to in
Lumberville," said Mrs. Lapham. " I pre-
sume you'll let me have set tubs, Si. You
know I aint so young, any more." She passed
Irene a cup of Oolong tea, — none of them
had a sufficiently cultivated palate for Sou-
chong,— and the girl handed it to her father.
" Papa," she asked, "you don't really mean
that you are going to build over there ? "
" Don't I ? You wait and see," said the
Colonel, stirring his tea.
" I don't believe you do," pursued the girl.
" Is that so ? I presume you'd hate to have
me. Your mother does." He said doos, of
course.
Penelope took the word. " I go in for it.
I don't see any use in not enjoying money, if
you've got it to enjoy. That's what it's for, I
suppose ; though you mightn't always think
so." She had a slow, quaint way of talking,
that seemed a pleasant personal modification
of some ancestral Yankee drawl, and her
voice was low and cozy, and so far from
being nasal that it was a little hoarse.
" I guess the ayes has it, Pen," said her
father. " How would it do to let Irene and
your mother stick in the old place here, and
us go into the new house ? " At times the
Colonel's grammar failed him.
The matter dropped, and the Laphams
lived on as before, with joking recurrences to
the house on the water side of Beacon. The
Colonel seemed less in earnest than any of
them about it; but that was his way, his girls
said ; you never could tell when he really
meant a thing.
(To be continued.)
THE CHINESE THEATER.
The Chinese theater was founded by Ming
Wang (an emperor who reigned about the
middle of the fourteenth century), and is,
therefore, not much over five hundred years
old.*
Ming Wang, so the story goes, had a
dream ; and in this dream he dreamt he ram-
bled around the moon. There he saw strange
sights and heard strange sounds, and beauti-
ful beings danced before him in costumes un-
familiar to his eye. The memory of his dream
remained Avith him when he awoke, and he
determined to reproduce what he had seen
for the benefit of his wife, whom, strange to
say, he dearly loved. A temporary structure
was erected in Ming Wang's pear garden ;
the actors were chosen from the younger sons
of the nobility, and therefore to this day, in
China, the amateur or mandarin actor is
still called " Younger Brother of the Pear
Garden."
This is the poetical and, on the whole, the
not altogether improbable account the Chi-
nese give of the birth of their drama, and
there seems to be no good reason for reject-
ing it. There are many instances of dreams
suggesting plays, notably that of Madame
de Girardin's La Joie fait Peur ; and it does
not require a very great stretch of the imagi-
nation to conceive that the idea of dramatic
representation might also have arisen in this
way. Indeed, it can readily be believed that
the importance of Ming Wang's invention
was scarcely appreciated in his own time ; for
we are told that the taste for these perform-
ances died out soon after his reign, and that
they were only revived by the talents and
genius of the three great playwrights and
dramatists of China, Tin, Tau, and Chung.
The personality of these early sons oi
Thespis is not very distinct, for the names of
the two former, Tin and Tau, are always
written and pronounced together. Some hold
that they were man and wife ; others, that
Tin was the founder of comedy and Tau of
tragedy; but the most correct view seems to
be that they were collaborators — in fact, a
Chinese Beaumont and Fletcher. Chung was,
it appears, neither a dramatist nor a play-
wright; but none the less is he held in equal
honor with the rest, for it is to him that the
Chinese owe the acrobatic and musical part
of their performance. Whether Tin, Tau, and
Chung flourished under the protection of some
Chinese Augustus, or whether they wrote for
the mandarin stage on their own account,
is not known. It is tolerably certain, however,
that they not only arranged the majority of
the plots, but fixed the costumes, gestures,
and stage business ; and that, as a result of
their labors, the drama became, from this
time forth, a well-recognized, if not a popu-
lar, institution.f
The festival of this trinity of authors is
celebrated once every year in the principal
Chinese theaters of San Francisco, and the
Chinese express their sense of the intimate
relation that existed between them by honor-
ing them collectively, and not severally, three
days being set apart in their honor, and each
being entitled to a third of a day. The play
that is performed on these occasions is highly
acrobatic in character, and is not produced at
any other time. It is not, perhaps, a very
characteristic specimen of the Chinese play
proper ; but' it is, nevertheless, interesting as
commemorating the beginnings of one of the
most popular institutions of a people who
* It is a curious fact that the founder of the Chinese drama should have also been the enemy of the
scholar class. It is related of Ming Wang that, taking the air one evening, he overheard some school-
boys talking among themselves. One of them, looking up at the stars, said eagerly :
" See there ! Look at Ming Wang's star ! He will have trouble soon."
Now, though Ming Wang was eminently a practical monarch, and had little faith in star-gazing, he fully
appreciated its effect upon a superstitious people.
" You find that my star is in trouble, do you ? " said Ming Wang, quietly.
" Yes, great Son of Heaven ! " replied the scholar, trembling.
(l Well," said the emperor, dryly, " if any school-boy can tell when I am going to have trouble, how will
it be when my enemies begin to conspire against me ? I must put a stop to this ! "
He accordingly ordered all the books of the scholars to be burned except those in his own family.
t Still it must be remembered that the theater was not thrown open to the people until about the year
r73°> when an edict of Hong Hai, the second emperor of the present dynasty, permitted the organization of
the first professional theater at Pekin. A company of young apprentices were trained and drilled, and bound
over for periods of five years. Thus was formed the nucleus of the present professional class, who, in
contradistinction to the amateur or mandarin actors mentioned above, were called " Sons of Sham Sword,"
or, as we would perhaps say in English, " Sons of Sham Battle." These facts give us the right to conclude
that the professional stage of China, at least, is the most modern in the world !
28
THE CHINESE THEATER.
seem to reject commencement of any kind,
and refer everything back to the most remote
and mythical antiquity.
It is Saturday ; in the Jackson street thea-
ter in San Francisco ; and two o'clock in the
afternoon. The performance has not yet com-
menced, and the house is crowded with expect-
ant Chinese. The drum beats monotonously
to allay the impatience of the audience, and the
young Chinamen are calling across the theater,
exchanging jokes or the compliments of the
season. The box above the stage is thrown
open for the occasion, hung with lanterns and
brilliantly illuminated ; while far within can
be seen an altar heaped up with offerings and
smoking with incense and the blaze of a
thousand candles. Another altar, at the ex-
treme end of the theater, near the entrance,
is similarly arranged. The candy-seller is busy
plying a profitable trade, and the " post-
office," a high pillar supporting the roof of
the theater, is being frequently consulted.
By the last advices, one Ma Chung is in-
formed that his " wife is sick " and that he
" must come home immediately," a request
with which that worthy celestial seems most
unwilling to comply. The women's gallery is
full to the very top, and picturesque with
many- colored handkerchiefs of flaming gold,
blue, green, and yellow.
With the sudden sound of fire-crackers
from the left of the stage the performance
begins. One after another, the Eight An-
gels enter through the richly curtained
door and take their places on the stage.
Each gives his or her name. The chief
angel says simply : " It is the birthday
of the Goddess of Mercy ; we will all go
and congratulate her." This is at once the
proem and the plot. After the Eight Angels
have filed out, the King of the Monkeys
enters. He and the rest of the monkey tribe
are climbing the mountain in quest of a peach
that has the power of conferring immortal
life, which they intend as a present for the
Goddess of Mercy.
Upon this slight thread is constructed what
might be called an acrobatic ballet. The
acrobats, of whom there are forty or more,
are stripped to the waist, and wear rose-col-
ored handkerchiefs on their heads. The
prompter stands in full view of the audience
directing the performance. As the play is
given only once a year, disputes frequently
arise as to what shall be done next. In such
cases the performance is entirely suspended
and reference made, with much squabbling, to
the book which the prompter holds in his
hand. Pyramids of twenty and sometimes
thirty persons are formed; one little fellow
carries valiantly around the stage six others
larger than himself; another jumps from the
apex of one of the pyramids full fifteen feet
to the floor. In spite of occasional disagree-
ment, the acrobats seem to be on the best of
terms with themselves and with the audience,
whom they amuse at intervals by playing
tricks on the clown, who is as necessary an
adjunct of such a performance with the
Chinese, apparently, as he is in the circus
with us.
As the acrobats pass around the stage they
play with the children who are standing on
tables with their backs to the wall. One of
them, who is being carried aloft on the
shoulders of one of his companions, still non-
chalantly smokes the cigar, with which under
no circumstances will he part. At this junc-
ture two actors, beautifully dressed, can just
be seen among the lanterns of the actors'
box. The concluding event is now about to
take place. The acrobats are arranged in two
long opposing rows, holding one another by
the hand.
At the furthest end, just in front of the
musicians' alcove, stand two men, one on top
of the other. At a given signal they fall
headlong from the height upon the living
cushion of hands below.
This thrilling feat terminates the acrobatic
part of the performance. The monkeys now
assume the shape of a dragon and vanquish
the guardian of the peach, who, though he is
armed with a club, ineffectually opposes their
advance, and, forming themselves into a pro-
cession, with banners, fans, and gauze hats,
proceed with their prize to the Goddess of
Mercy.
Enter forthwith other divinities, also on
their way to congratulate the Goddess : the
Goddess of Flowers, the Eastern Goddess,
and the Western Goddess. After they have
shown themselves, a fish, shrimp, oyster, and
turtle take the stage. These are presents from
the four Kings of Ocean — East, West, North,
and South. The culminating point, however,
is the entrance of Kwun Yam, the Goddess
of Mercy, " who looked through the world
and saw it all." * She is attended by two
standard-bearers, and on each standard is in-
scribed her motto. When she is fairly seated
on her throne, the Goddess of Flowers and
the Eastern and Western Goddesses enter
and make obeisance.
" What do you come for ? " asks the God-
dess of Mercy in kindly tones.
* Kwun Yam, the Chinese believe, besides having been on earth in various disguises, also descended
through the Ten Hells. Is it merely a coincidence that the same story is told of the goddess Ishtar of the
Assyrians? See the "Records of the Past."
THE CHINESE THEATER.
Goddess transforms her-
self into eight different
characters, ending with
that of a scholar who has
received the highest de-
gree at the imperial exam-
ination ; an illustration of
the doctrine of transmi-
gration that indicates the
respect with which the
Chinese scholar is regard-
ed. This over, the scene
changes to the Temple
of the Goddess of Mercy,
where, by means of an
ingeniously improvised
staircase of chairs, the
Goddess and her guests
are enabled to ascend
even as far as the actors'
box, which, draped with
white curtains, now serves
to represent the gate of
heaven. Presently the
Chinese Mammon, or God of Cash, enters.
The orchestra imitates the clink of gold and
silver. The cash, in great quantities, are taken
down from the box, presented to the Goddess
of Mercy, and then thrown broadcast into the
audience. The peach, miraculously opening,
discloses a beautiful boy, holding in his teeth
a scroll, on which is inscribed the following
symbolical motto : "A thousand grandsons,
and still a thousand more, and so on to eter-
nity." Gods and goddesses ascend and de-
scend; the guard of the Goddess of Mercy
watches at Heaven's gate ; and thus ends the
festival of Tin, Tau, and Chung.
The Chinese theater, however, is perhaps
seen at its best in the evening. What pushing
and chattering and quarreling there is, to be
tors sit down to abanquet which she orders pre- sure, as you make your way through the ce-
pared for them. Next come the Kings of Ocean, lestials who throng the box-office ! The box-
bearing scepters. They are asked the same office, too, with its little pigeon-holes, seems
question, and answer in the same manner, rather small for the purpose. But, as the Chi-
Finally the King of the Monkeys arrives" with nese always bring the exact sum, no change
the wonderful peach, which he begs the God- is necessary, and everything moves with ad-
dess will accept as a slight token of regard, mirable dispatch. You have probably engaged
This the Goddess graciously consents to do, a box, or" room," as the Chinese call it, and,
but, " as there is no longer any room at the as your name has been posted up conspicu-
table, will the monkeys kindly make them- ously upon it, there is no chance of mistake,
selves at home on the floor ? " The stage is ablaze with brilliant costumes
" Certainly," they answer. " This would, of red and gold. The lights from the iron
in fact, suit them much better ; monkeys are chandeliers flare heavily in the draught. Pro-
comfortable anywhere." cessions of armies, emperors, statesmen, and
After some preliminaries the King of the generals enter in rapid succession through a
Eastern Ocean, speaking for the company, red-curtained door on one side and pass out
expresses a wish to see the Goddess go through a red-curtained door on the other.
" It is your birthday, and we come to con-
gratulate you."
At the invitation of the Goddess the visi-
through some of her marvelous transforma
tions.
Then follows an interlude, in which the
Vol. XXIX.— 4.
Now the emperor is holding an audience.
The next moment his troops are engaged in
bitter combat with the retainers of some un-
3°
THE CHINESE THEATER.
^T^'
THE GUARD OF THE GODDESS OF MERCY.
ruly vassal. Every species of crime, every
form of human passion, is crowded into the
brief moment of the fleeting scene. A mes-
senger from heaven, standing on a chair,
delivering his high summons to a fairy fish,
is next presented to your confused imagina-
tion. Then, whirling in angry passion, a
painted-face king, pulling his feathers fiercely,
and loudly threatening all manner of dread-
ful things. The orchestra keeps up its infernal
din. In shrill falsetto the characters sing
through a sort of high-pitched recitative.
Presently you pass down behind the stage,
through the paint-room, where an actor is
making himself as ugly as vermilion and um-
ber can well do it ; then by means of a narrow
stairway down to the dressing-room, rich in
its very confusion, and strewn around with
costly brocades and satins wherever the con-
venience of the last actor had left them. It is
not long before you find yourself standing on
the stage, so near the actors, too, that the em-
peror's robes touch you as he sweeps superbly
by. Then you are hurried back to your box
again, where it is explained to you that the
fighting is still going on, and that So-and-So
has killed So-and-So and is off on horseback.
You leave the theater of the oldest people in
the world with a confused idea of the plot,
burlesqued by your interpreter and still more
highly colored by your heated imagination,
with the blare of the trumpet and the strident
wail of the fiddle in your ears, with the smell
of all Chinatown in your nostrils, with a head-
ache, perhaps, but with little added to your
stock of information.
It is safe to say that no stage is, or ever has
been, so completely overlaid and incrusted
with conventions as that of the Chinese.
Even to Chinamen who have not been educa-
ted up to the theater from their youth, a dra-
matic performance must often be but a vivid
pantomime — a dazzling spectacle, if you will,
of color and of light. For all the characters in
the drama, except perhaps the comedian,
who may, to save his joke from falling flat,
occasionally drop into the vernacular, speak
a dialect unfamiliar to the mass of the audi-
ence. The costumes, again, from the humblest
personage on the stage up to the emperor, are
taken from an early period of Chinese history ;
and the gestures, instead of being the free and
natural expression of emotion, are the studied
product of a narrow school of art.
More than this, with little scenery other
than a few tables and chairs, and perhaps a
little strip of painted muslin, the representation
of everything is attempted, from the building
of a bridge to the storming of a fortress or the
apotheosis of a saint. All this, of course, can-
not be done on the Chinese stage realistically,
and therefore the only alternative is to fall
back on a stock of stage conventions that will
serve at a pinch to eke out the exigencies of
the action. To correctly read these conven-
tions, and thus get some little idea of the real
A HUNTER.
THE CHINESE THEATER.
3i
meaning of a Chinese play, calls for more than
an ordinary exercise of mental effort and in-
tellectual sympathy. " When you are in the
theater," say the Chinese, sententiously, " you
must hot ask " ; and in a Chinese theater, at
least, one stands in some need of the advice.
A man who throws his leg into the air on the
Chinese stage is supposed to be mounted on
horseback ; but this should not be taken as a
realistic act, but only as a conventional sign
to which the spectator must add his imagi-
nation. Again, an army of ten thousand who
pass under a general's conquering sword are
not supposed to be killed, any more than were
the Roman hastati of old when they passed
under the spear. The passing under is, in both
cases, symbolical merely of defeat.
Besides these purely stage conventions, a
second and still larger correction must be made
for that peculiar difference of manners, feeling,
and national history which seems to keep the
Chinese people apart from the rest of the civil-
ized world. To make this correction is perhaps
more difficult still. Everything Chinese is, in
our eyes at least, inverted. Where we would
do one thing, they would do another. We
seem at the outset precluded from any sym-
pathy with them. But this, surely, is no reason
for widening the breach. We know that the
Chinese are different from us : we need very
little to convince us of that. What we do wish
to know is, in what do they resemble us ?
If the Chinese theater is once looked at
in this way, an intelligent stand-point will
soon be gained. Take the stage itself, for in-
stance, which bears the unmistakable stamp,
as do all things Chinese, of an arrested civili-
zation. It should not be compared with the
Lyceum of the London of to-day, but with
the Globe or Blackfriars of the London of
Shakspere and Heywood. If this is done,
what analogies at once present themselves !
As in Shakspere's time, the audience are on
the stage. The female parts are taken by men.
There is no curtain, no scenery, no prosce-
nium. The entrances and exits are from the
back of the stage, not, as now, from painted
" wings " at the side. Moreover, above these
curtained entrances at the back appears, in
both instances, a balcony or box !
Knight, in his Shakspere, gives a cut of
the interior of the Globe, in which this box
is to be seen. He quotes Malone as his au-
thority for the statement that it was called
the private box, but remarks that it is still
uncertain what were the purposes to which it
was put. The stage directions of one of the
folios, he says, call for its use in the balcony
scene of " Romeo and Juliet; " and he further
adds that, when not wanted for the perform-
ance, it was occupied by spectators who paid
for this privilege a lower price of admission.
Now, all this would answer for a descrip-
tion of the actors' box on the Chinese stage.
A PAINTED-FACE KING.
Still another use there is of the actors' box
which, it is needless to say, is not to be found
on the early English stage. It is the means
by which the patron Joss, who occupies the
room just within, can at once witness and
preside over the performance. Nothing bears
such distinct testimony to the importance of
the theater in China as this idea, firmly fixed
in the Chinese mind, that their gods take
pleasure in dramatic performances as well as
themselves. *
A change of scene on the Chinese stage is
indicated in two ways. If the change takes
place from one part of the house to another,
the characters of the play indicate their en-
* The Joss of one of the six companies in San Francisco was asked the other day, on the occasion of his
birthday, which theater he preferred to attend, the Washington or the Jackson street. The sticks were
thrown up. They came down on their fiat side. The Joss had pronounced for the Jackson street establish-
ment. He accordingly was carried through the streets of San Francisco with great pomp and placed upon
the receiving altar.
32
THE CHINESE THEATER.
trance into another room by means of panto- true Chinaman entertains for the imperial
mime ; the comedian sometimes going so far authority ; for, whatever may be the sufferings
as to stumble over the imaginary threshold, and hardships the economic condition of the
If, however, the change is total, and does not empire entails, it cannot be denied that the
admit of being acted out, it is suggested con- prestige of the government is very great. A
ventionally by the whole dramatis persona third element is the educational one. Hardly
walking rapidly three times around the stage, a play is performed that some allusion or other
The Chinese have ceased, at least in San is not made to a scholar's having received, or
IN THE WOMEN S GALLERY.
Francisco, to notice a division into acts.
This, indeed, is only natural when it is re-
membered that there is no elaborate scenery
to arrange and no curtain to hide the stage
from view. Some time ago, when a new com-
pany arrived in San Francisco, the end of an
act was indicated by the solemn procession
of two supernumeraries, or, as the Chinese
call them, " Great Eastern Melons," carrying
banners. The Americanized Chinaman, how-
ever, grew very restive under this unneces-
sary conventionalism, and hooted and jeered
the unlucky servants of Thespis off the stage,
so that the practice had to be discontinued. *
The Chinese, it has been eloquently said,
" walk with their feet on earth and their
heads in heaven," and throughout their plays
we find the strongest evidence of this spirit-
ualistic tendency. Then, again, nothing can
equal the veneration and respect which the
being about to receive, the first degree at the
imperial examination. Fortunately for the
spectator, the evidence of this degree seems
to have been more conspicuous in Ming
Wang's time, being on the stage a small red
object, not unlike a lobster-claw in appear-
ance, and easily distinguished at a distance.
The first and third of these three factors of the
Chinese national life can readily be reduced
to terms of the second ; for, in the minds
of the Chinese, every play is conceived to be
an intercepted portion of the history of China.
This conception is as important as it is subtle ;
for only on such an hypothesis can be explained
the frequent appearance and reappearance of
the Emperor and his court, and the constant, if
intermittent, conflict of the imperial troops
with barbarians and with rebellious subjects.
The theory, too, is of wider application
than it would seem. The Chinese recognize
* The Chinese supernumerary receives his name of " Great Eastern Melon " from the fact that the large
melons grown in the eastern provinces of China are, in the process of unloading, pitched from the deck of the
junk to the shore. The term is expressive.
THE CHINESE THEATER.
S3
no history other than
Chinese, no life outside
the Middle Kingdom.
To say, then, that their
plays are taken from
the history of China is
as much as saying they
are taken from the
whole story of life. Is
not the Emperor the
" Son of Heaven " ?
Do not all outside bar-
barians exist merely by
his gracious permis-
sion ? Why, even the
English " red-haired
devils " are allowed to
remain in Hong Kong
because the Emperor
sees fit to permit it, and
the President of the
United States himself
occupies his chair by
virtue of the same in-
dulgence ! With the Chinese the history
of China and the history of the world are
synonymous and convertible terms.
This epic strain in the Chinese drama
makes one play quite susceptible of being
run into another, and has thus led to the
popular error that Chinese plays are of
inordinate length. This is true only in a
narrow sense. There are, to be sure, long
" amateur " pieces that take three weeks
in performance, but the majority, including
the most celebrated one in the Chinese
language, play in less than an hour.*
Originally all plays in China were his-
torical, as in Europe they were once all
miracle or mystery plays ; but the period
of differentiation soon set in, so that now
the Chinese recognize seven different kinds
of plays, or rather (from the fact that they
are so often run into one another as to be p
scarcely recognizable as plays) seven differ-
ent elements of plot. These are briefly :*
I. Fu-Cheng Historical Play or Tragedy.
II. Fai-Wood Comedy.
III. Oi-Yue Platonic-love Play.
IV. Tai-Mong Court Play.
V. Hong-Koi Chivalry Play ) 6 £
VI. Yuen- Wang Persecution Play >1> |
VII. Po-Yeng Merit-rewarded Play. )§ £
The very existence of the melodrama in
* The Loke-Kwog-Fong-Shung, which claims the proud distinction of being the best play in the Chinese
language, deals almost entirely with the consolidation of the six kingdoms of China by the prime minister
Shung, several hundred years before Christ. There is little action in the piece, and most of the talking is
done by Shung himself, who relates how he managed to get the first degree at the imperial examination and
thus do good service to his country. It is retained in the professional repertoire probably because it is a
costume piece ; the introduction of the six kings and their wives on the stage at one time taxing the resources
of the theatrical wardrobe to the utmost.
MAKING UP.
China is in itself an interesting fact, as it
tends to prove that this species of theatrical
entertainment is not merely a degraded form,
but a distinct kind, of art. Why do the poor
delight in hearing of sudden windfalls of good
luck ? What poor boy, struggling to get along
in the world by honest endeavor, has not found
solace in such stories as that of " Whitting-
ton and his Cat "? Indeed, there are few of us
34
THE CHINESE THEATER.
who have not at times wished for some talis-
man of potent charm, a wishing-cap or Fortu-
natus purse, with which to bend the stubborn
world into conformity with our desires.
It is idle to say that this constitutes a low
form of art. This is confessed at the start.
Indeed, it is precisely the inartistic, im-
probable character of the melodrama that
makes it popular with its votaries ; for, to a
down-trodden and unhappy people, who have
long given up the hope of substantial justice
in real life, an agreeable improbability will
always be preferable to a disagreeable truth
on the stage.
Again, in these three forms of melodrama
we get our first true insight into the moral
and political conditions of Chinese life. For
the evidence that the Hong-Koi, the Yuen-
Wang, and the Po-Yeng give is entirely un-
conscious. They were devised as much for
the ruler as the ruled, and it was certainly
never intended that they should be put to the
base uses of telling tales out of school. But
they do tell such tales, nevertheless ; terrible
tales of fearful outrage, despotism, and crime.
We should be careful, however, not to infer
too much from the facts that are brought be-
fore us in this way. As the novel must sooner
or later deal with the passion of love, so the
melodrama must resort eventually, for its ele-
ments of interest, to the crime, the police
court, and the jail.
Still, the government of China bears down
very hard on the poor and humble. There is
absolutely no liberty of press, and therefore
no appeal to Pekin of official outrage, except
through the guilty officials themselves. If one
of these should choose to administrate or legis-
late against an individual, he can do so with
comparative impunity. It would be next to
impossible to expose him. When the judges
are on trial, who shall try them ? Here is at
once a fruitful and potent source of plot. Let
any official, or in fact any one with power
and influence, either admire a man's wife,
covet his property, or fancy himself in any
way slighted, he immediately proceeds against
his victim by judicial process, fastening some
crime upon him, and, when the case comes
up, deciding it in accordance with his inter-
ests or his spite.
These instances of official outrage, where the
machinery of the law is invoked to the injury
of the innocent, form the substratum of the
very popular Yuen-Wang, or Persecution
Plots. With this important distinction, how-
ever, that, whereas on the stage the guilty
are always punished and the innocent escape,
the reverse is quite too often the case in real
life. But this improbability in denouement is
not a drawback to the popularity of a Yuen-
Wang; though, to be sure, in making any
inferences from the ending we should be
guided by a rule of contraries, viz., that what-
ever is loudly applauded on the stage will be
pretty apt to be conspicuous by its absence in
real life.
The interest of the Po-Yeng, or Merit-
rewarded Plots, is of a similar description.
There are few self-made men in China. A
man of inferior family is practically debarred
from all the lucrative and honorable pursuits ;
and though promotion on the score of merit
is the law of the Po-Yeng, nothing in reality
is so unusual. So unusual is it, in fact, that
for the most part these plots are rather barren
of incident or invention.
A very popular Po-Yeng is the following :
A strong man is out of work. So powerful,
indeed, is this Chinese Strong-Back that,
single-handed and without weapon, he over-
comes and kills a tiger. This feat of prowess
does not escape unnoticed. It attracts the
attention of a robber chieftain, who, on the
strength of it, immediately offers him a po-
sition in his band. As public opinion in China
permits a man reduced in circumstances and
without other means of employment to adopt
the profession of highwayman, our hero is en-
abled to accept without any sensible loss of
caste. Unfortunately the very first travelers
upon whom Strong-Back is called to exercise
his 'prentice hand turn out to be a family who
had befriended him in his past life. Very
naturally our hero intercedes for them. Very
naturally, however, the robber chieftain fails
to see what this purely sentimental consider-
ation has to do with his interests. Finding
argument ineffectual, Strong-Back appeals to
arms, and without much difficulty succeeds in
escaping with his friends to the imperial court,
where a complaint is formally lodged against
the robber chieftain for his misdeeds, and
where Strong-Back, in consideration of his
noble conduct, is knighted and becomes a
high official in the imperial service.
Now, as the Chinese government has always
stood in need of brave and trustworthy mer-
cenaries, it is not unlikely that in a case like
the above a man's pedigree would not be too
closely scanned. But it is to be carefully noted,
nevertheless, that the heroes of the Po-Yeng
are always of the military class who, through
misfortune, have rather lost their caste than
never had it ; the lift, therefore, does not seem
to be so great after all. But even for this little
the populace is grateful. With breathless in-
terest they watch their hero in all his vicissi-
tudes, and when, triumphing over all obstacles,
he receives an imperial appointment at the
hands of the emperor himself, even these stoics
of the eastern world do not contain them-
THE CHINESE THEATER.
35
selves. " Hoi ! Hoi ! " they cry, from all parts
of the theater, in low tones, as if ashamed to
show emotion.
The Hong-Koi, or Chivalry Plays, would
hardly on our stage be thought melodramatic
at all ; but from the extreme rarity of the oc-
casions on which one Chinaman helps another,
they are perhaps entitled to that term. The
inherent selfishness as well as the superstition
of the Chinese character excludes from it the
active feeling of philanthropy; and, as we
should expect, the Hong-Koi deal chiefly
with (if such a term is possible) negative chiv-
alry : not doing a man an injury when you
might, and doing him a kindness when it is no
very great inconvenience to yourself. Still, how-
ever indifferent the Chinese may be to the
claims of noble sentiment in real life, they are
quite willing to admit them on the stage. In
this respect they are not far different from
other people. How often in a Surrey melo-
drama, or in a similar production at the Old
Bowery, have not the same situations devel-
oped, to the untiring satisfaction of large and
enthusiastic audiences. Enter heroine in white,
the very personification of virtue and distress.
Of course she has an old father ; of course
this old father has mortgaged his farm. Next
enter the " heavy villain " in long mustaches.
At first, in order perhaps to preserve a proper
dramatic suspense, he urges his suit mildly ;
but afterward, on receiving but cold encour-
agement, he becomes urgent. Then follows a
long tirade from the young lady in white.
With that wonderful insight into character
which all stage heroines seem to possess, she
" knows " him, it appears, and, what is more,
tells him so. Then the proper thing for the
" heavy villain " to do is to take the young
lady by the wrist. The young lady of course
screams. At this juncture the good young
man rushes in and hurls the villain aside, who,
after muttering that he will have revenge,
slinks off the stage. The lovers are left alone
just long enough to allow the " heavy villain "
to prepare his plans, when the plot thickens.
The good young man is arrested on a charge
of forgery, and the " heavy villain " forecloses a
mortgage on the ancestral farm. Who is not
familiar with the denouement ? The good
young man, of course, turns out to be the son
of a lord ; the " heavy villain " is exposed ;
virtue triumphs, and vice meets its just re-
ward.
Now, strange enough, all these elements
of plot exist as well on the Chinese stage ; but
instead of finding expression in one play, as
with the English, they are, from a peculiar
sense of division in the Chinese mind, kept
carefully separate and distinct. In England
there is but one form of melodrama ; in China
there are three. On the Chinese stage the
misfortunes of the young girl and her lover
would be treated at length in Yuen- Wang, or
the Virtue-in-Distress Plot. The denouement
would be the escape of the innocent and the
confusion and punishment of the guilty. The
chivalrous assistance of the hero, which in the
English melodrama is incident to the action,
would on the Chinese stage be elaborated into
a Hong-Koi, or Chivalry Play. We have in
this country a very low but very distinct form
of the Chivalry Play in such border dramas
as those of Buffalo Bill and Texas Jack, where
the protagonist is ever performing marvels of
impossible heroism in defense of innocence
and virtue. In this form of melodrama, how-
ever, the Chinese denouement would not be the
reward or promotion of the hero ; this would
be treated separately, in a Po-Yeng, perhaps.
A far more artistic ending would be evolved out
of the very conditions of the plot itself. Here we
may stop to notice a piece of conventionalism
only to be matched by the Italian harlequin-
ade, where the pantaloon is always a mer-
chant from Venice, and the harlequin a poor
devil with parti-colored coat from Bergamo.
The conventional hero of the Hong-Koi is
always a painted-face military character, who,
like the knight-errant of mediaeval Europe,
goes about doing good, in spite of the conse-
quences. Though his motives are good, how-
ever, his methods are impulsive ; the dramatic
interest, therefore, is sustained by the trouble
that these methods create, both for himself
and his friends; and poetic justice is ulti-
mately satisfied by the triumph of these meth-
ods at the end. The Po-Yeng, or Persecution
Plot, usually to be found at the end of an
English melodrama, has already been de-
scribed and needs no further mention.
A word, however, must be said about the
Oi-Yue, or Platonic-love Play. Like the
Chivalry Play, the Oi-Yue is somewhat rudi-
mentary in its emotional qualities. We, in-
deed, find nothing strange in the fact that a
man should be in love. We find nothing un-
usual in the triumph of sentiment over pas-
sion. We associate no impurity with the idea
of falling in love. But the Chinese dramatist
indulged in the highest flight of his poetic
fancy when he conceived the mere idea of
a conversation on the stage between two un-
married persons of different sex. He, there-
fore, finds it necessary to guard against being
misunderstood, and calls his dramas Plays of
Respectful Love, or, as they have already
been styled for want of a better name, Pla-
tonic-love Plays.
The strength of a Chinese play lies in its
ingenuity of plot and strength of character-
j& ation ; it cannot be said to excel in conver-
36
THE CHINESE THEATER.
sation. Indeed, the civilization of a people
must be highly advanced before it can be
made to yield up much in this way. In order
to talk well there must be something to talk
about, and the Chinese life is peculiarly bar-
ren of great themes. Nobility of thought,
Shakspere's subjective search for the infinite
secrets of the heart, is nowhere to be found ;
the atmosphere of Chinese art is everywhere
pervaded by a fantastic spirit of unrest.
Besides, most of the Chinese acting plays
are, like those of the early Italian stage, the
merest " outlines," the dialogue in most cases
being left almost entirely to the spontaneous
improvisation of the actor. Yet, strange
enough, the conversations do not seem to
lose much by the process, and appear quite as
pointed and confined to the action as if they
had been committed to memory. Indeed, in
spite of the fact that there are often five or
six characters on the stage at the same time,
no one of the actors interferes with the other,
the whole performance having the deliberate
air of preparation.*
From a Fu-Cheng frequently played in
the Chinese theaters of San Francisco is
taken the following scene :
The Emperor of China is at war with a
feudatory vassal ; but thus far, owing to the
abilities of an opposing general who is the
military governor of a fortified place of great
strength, the advance of the Emperor's troops
has been effectually checked. It becomes a
matter of some importance to win this gen-
eral over. The Emperor, therefore, appoints
a commissioner of great learning and tried
diplomatic ability with a view to this end.
Arrived at the city's gates, the commissioner
is received with great courtesy by the gov-
ernor, who, it seems, is an old friend and for-
merly a good subject of the Emperor, but
one who, embittered by imaginary wrongs
and misled by false counsel, had gone over to
the enemy.
The commissioner is invited to partake of
a repast ; but, once fairly seated at the gov-
ernor's table (or, rather, at his own, for there
is a separate table for each guest at a Chinese
dinner), he delicately broaches the subject of
the treaty which is the object of his mission.
The governor, who is a soldier merely, and
distrusts his ability as a diplomat, refuses to
discuss the question, remarking, by way of
parenthesis, that he has made a law that any
one who even mentions the name of the
country the commissioner represents, much
less anything relating to its affairs, shall re-
ceive for the first offense four lashes ; for the
second, eight ; and for the third, he shall lose
his head. As the commissioner is an old
friend, he hopes that he will not push him to
extremities, — a word to the wise, as it were.
The commissioner is quite unruffled by the
governor's words, and replies gravely, " You
are perfectly right ; a law is a law, and must
be obeyed."
He immediately, however, violates the law.
The sheriff" approaches him and leads him
out to be lashed. The orchestra plays a
mournful air; the four lashes are distinctly
heard; and the commissioner returns very
sore and in great pain.
The governor is visibly affected, but con-
trols himself with an effort.
" I am very sorry," he says, " and I have
to apologize for the pain I have caused you ;
but you should have paid attention to what I
said."
" Your order must be obeyed," replies the
commissioner, with a low bow ; " and if I
have violated the laws, it is only right that I
should take the consequences."
But, after some further conversation, the
laws are again violated.
The governor is this time fairly transported
with rage. Down comes his fist upon the
table.
" Give him eight lashes," he bawls out.
The sheriff again approaches.
" Eight lashes ? " asks the aged commis-
sioner of that functionary.
" That is the order."
" But, Mr. Sheriff, I tell you, I can't stand
it; I could hardly stand four! It must be,
eh ? Well, if it must, I suppose it must.
Let's go quickly and have it over with as soon
as possible. But I say, my good fellow," con-
tinues the commissioner in a lower tone, " go
easy this time, will you ? "
Again the commissioner leaves the stage.
Again there is a moment of dread suspense.
The eight lashes are indicated by the orches-
tra as before, and the commissioner returns.
This time, as he enters, he fairly falls down
on the stage with exhaustion, and is hardly
able to take his seat. The governor is melted
with sympathy, though he is out of all patience
with the commissioner's obstinacy.
" You ought to have better sense. You are
an educated man. You ought to be able to
regulate your tongue. I tell you, once for all,
this order must be obeyed."
a What you say," replies the commissioner,
" is perfectly true. The mountain does not
yield ! The sun and wind do not stop ! Your
order must be obeyed."
But in spite of his expressed respect for
law and order, the commissioner perversely
* It is a curious fact, not generally known perhaps, that th'e actors of the Italiens of Paris insisted, as
late as 1783, on having " outlines " from the pen of Goldoni in lieu of his more finished pieces.
AN ENTRANCE.
Vol. XXIX.— 5.
38
THE CHINESE THEATER.
sins a third time. The governor's fury knows
no bounds. The sheriff is told to do his duty,
and to lead the prisoner to execution. The
sheriff accordingly approaches the commis-
sioner for the third and last time.
" Cut my head off ? " asks the latter.
The sheriff nods.
" By the Goddess of Mercy, it is high time
I was doing some thinking. See here, friend
of mine, it is true that I have violated your
order three times; but you, look you, have
violated three laws of nature. It is you there-
fore who ought to be lashed and have your
head cut off."
" I ! " replies the governor with great as-
tonishment.
" Certainly. I will convince you of this,
under three heads.
"First. You do not belong to this country.
You belong, on the contrary, to my country.
And yet you fight for this country against
yours and mine ! Are you not a traitor ?
"Second. You are not without family ties
in your country and in mine — you have a
brother and sister, yea, a father, even. Are
you not unfilial ?
" Third. We were old schoolmates together,
the same as brothers. And yet you gave me
four and eight lashes, and now you seek to
chop my head off! Is not this a violation of
the principle of fraternal love ? And have
you not therefore violated the three natural
laws of being ? "
This extraordinary exordium proves quite
too much for the man of war. He breaks
down completely, in fact, and is persuaded to
accompany the commissioner. So they both
throw their legs over their imaginary steeds,
and are off to the Emperor's court.
The question is often asked, Have the
Chinese any spectacular plays ? In one sense
of the word they have not. Music invariably
accompanies the action, and rude scenery and
" properties," such as they are, are introduced
when needed. But the Chinese have hardly ar-
rived at the point where they would play a
piece merely for the purpose of exhibiting the
scenery. The nearest approach to anything
of the kind is advertised in the play-bill, of
which the following is a close translation :
TAN-SAN-FUNG.
(Red Mountain Peacock.)
Leading Lady Ah Ma Chu will appear.
29th day. Performance day and night continuously.
New Play for the Matinee, entitled :
CHE YOUNG KWONG
BUILDS A SHIP THAT SAILS ON LAND.
The Dragon and Peacock Junk ! ! !
Beautiful Lanterns of Divers Colors ! ! !
Gorgeous Costumes ! ! !
Special Notice. — Four genuine girls will draw the junk...
To conclude with a short piece entitled :
THE FISHERWOMAN KILLS HER WICKED
HUSBAND.
In which will appear
Ah Low.
Ah Kee.
Pin Haw.
Me Bow.
King Bow.
Sin Lee.
Come Early !
Come Early !
This play is, of course, a Fu-Cheng ; but,
from the fact that the dramatic portion is
made subordinate to certain details, it per-
haps merits being called spectacular. It is
performed generally on Saturdays, and, when-
ever produced, draws large crowds. In con-
struction it is not unlike the Fu-Cheng of
Tin, Tau, and Chung. There the action
hinged on the search for the wonderful peach
and its presentation to the Goddess of Mercy.
In this play also the thread of construction is
slight, being little else but the building of a
bridge.
The especial feature of the performance is
undoubtedly the progress of the Goddess of
Mercy in a marvelous junk, which, as the
play-bill truly announces, " sails on land."
The Dragon and Peacock junk is certainly a
wonderful object; but its chief "drawing"
power, if one may be pardoned the bad pun,
are the four " genuine " girls. It is easy to
see from the pretentious advertisement that
the Chinese have no real objection to the ap-
pearance of women on the stage, and that it
is the lack of intelligence of the women
rather than the sense of propriety of the
audience that keeps them off. Indeed, there
is already one Chinese actress in San Fran-
cisco, who, whenever she appears, is received
with acclamation. She is attached to the
Jackson street theater, and, it is safe to say,
earns a much larger salary than if she were a
man. The " leading lady " mentioned in the
bill is, of course, not a woman, but in fact
the principal male actor of the theater. The
necessity of the Goddess of Mercy being
suitably represented no doubt occasions his
appearance in the cast.
A beautiful incident of the performance is
the " Cloud Ballet." The raison d'etre of this
ballet is the necessity of the ocean's being
calm enough to allow the building of the
THE CHINESE THEATER.
39
bridge. The King of the Eastern Ocean has
been consulted, and has promised to keep the
wind down. The ballet begins. Supernume-
raries enter completely clothed in white, each
carrying in his hands two lanterns skillfully
painted in imitation of clouds. After moving
gracefully about the stage for a time, meeting
and retreating as if in recoil, the movement
becomes definite, the clouds coming together
by twos and fours, until, in the process of
this movement, they spell out in five tableaux
(each tableau representing a Chinese charac-
ter) the glorious sentence of charity and love :
$TEPH£NS
vice, too, is not without its touch of humor.
The old Buddhist priest who has the thing in
hand chants away at the service, invoking all
the gods nether and upper; but, unfortunately,
he forgets in his enum- ^
eration a deity of well-
recognized standing. A
mandarin calls his at-
tention to the fact.
" It's all right," re-
marks the priest ;
" I'll begin all over
again." Finally the
EXTERIOR OF WASHINGTON STREET THEATER.
" Peace on earth, good-will toward man."
The allegory is complete, the clouds are rest-
ing, and the ocean is calm.
The final building and dedication of the
bridge is worked out with much spirit and no
little fidelity to nature. We are afforded
glimpses of the folk-life of China and char-
acter sketches of junk-peddlers, market-wo-
men, and street gamins. The dedication ser-
little bell rings three times, and the bridge is
consecrated. A dramatic event at the close is
the appearance of an evil spirit, who is driven
off by a scholar who has received the first
degree at the imperial examination. The ob-
stacle is but momentary, therefore the surging
crowd pass over and the play ends.
A curious feature of the Chinese stage is
its minutely divided cast. Every actor has
his particular "line " of characters, from which
he seldom departs. This makes it necessary to
have very large companies, which adds little
to the artistic side of the performance and
greatly to the expense account. A complete
list of these different roles is a rather compli-
cated affair; but without some little knowl-
edge of their strange and conventional
classification, a performance would be abso-
4Q
THE CHINESE THEATER.
m i
Jfi '
A PIRATE.
lutely unintelligible. The characters are di-
vided, it will be seen, into two broad classes :
Civil.
Military.
Men.
Emperor.
(Gen. Chief Singer.)
Mandarins.
Men.
1st Class.
Generals or Officials of
high rank (bearded, old,
and sometimes poor).
ist and 2d Old Men.
ist and 2d Young Men.
1st and 2d (Light) Co-
medians.
2d Class.
One Principal and three
Assistants (young, un-
bearded ; these never
paint their faces).
3d (Low) Comedian.
Women.
Leading Lady.
(Must sing well.)
Old Woman.
ist Painted-face Military
Character (ugly "heavy
villain," always the ene-
my of the First Class of
Military Characters).
2d Painted-face Military
Character (the opposite
of the above, a knight-
errant who succors the
unfortunate; the impul-
Pretty Girl.
(She is the premiere
amourense of the French
stage ; also does juvenile
characters.)
sive hero of the Hong-
Koi, or Chivalry Play).
Four Painted-face Gen-
erals.
Female Comedian.
(Must be good-natured in
appearance, but not over
good-looking. )
Note.— Pretty Girl and
Leading Lady sometimes
wear small feet.
An Acrobat (who plays
the roles of strength :
thief, burglar, etc.)
Women.
One Principal Military
Character and three
Assistants.
Female Acrobat.
Supernumeraries of all classes, called " Great
Eastern Melons."
The costumes worn by these different char-
acters are not only effective on the stage, but
they bear the test of close examination, the
gold cloth of the more costly being picked
out and heightened by innumerable silk,
threads of many different colors, all blending
harmoniously and exquisitely. They do not,
indeed, vary much in general cut, and are for
the most part chiefly distinguished from each
other by some difference in the head-dress or
minor ornament. The emperor and his suite
wear huge hoops or circlets, which gather in
their robes just below the knee ; and it is de
rigneur that the actor who personates these
roles should, when sitting, turn his shoes out
well, so as to display the costume to the best
advantage.
But the most distinctive of all these cos-
tumes is the general's. In his head-dress are
four dragons rampant, and on the flap in front
a lion's mouth. In time of action his sleeves
are rolled up, and his loins are girded with a
sash and rosette of light-blue silk. An enor-
mous butterfly laps over and partly covers the
side-pieces that protect his thighs. His boots
are high-soled and add much to his stature.
Two long feathers sweep from his helmet be-
hind. As a symbol of power he wears four
flags in his back, and as a token of strength
a cockade of black silk on his forehead.
The convention of painting the face is
applied in so many ways that it is at first
rather puzzling. All barbarians, or " out-
landers," are represented with painted faces.
This is necessary conventionally, if for no
other reason, to distinguish the commander
of the enemies' forces from that of the home
or imperial troops. This distinction serves in
place of a difference of costume, and is about
the only way the Chinaman recognizes on the
stage the existence of any nationality other
than his own. Besides this primary use of the
painted face, it is used also to indicate moral
THE CHINESE THEATER.
4i
or physical ugliness, and is therefore applied
indifferently to the good-natured King of the
Eastern Ocean, the " heavy villain " of the
Yueng-Wang, and the plain-featured but gen-
erous harlequin of the Chivalry Play.
But probably the most striking thing in the
whole Chinese theatrical cast is the presence
of the female military characters. The fact
that it is necessary to have a certain number
of actors to do this work exclusively suffi-
ciently attests their importance. These Chinese
amazons not only assist their husbands when
they are able to fight, but not infrequently
when they are not. A curious thing this, to
see a scholar, upon whom may rest the direc-
tion of an empire, obliged to have his wife
do his fighting for him.
An important part of the organization of a
theater is the orchestra. This is composed of
a leader who plays the ox-hide drum, a fid-
dler, a banjoist, a gong player, and a cymbal
player. The instruments are of beautiful
make, and the majority of little cost. In-
deed, no prettier souvenir is there of San
Francisco than the Chinese banjo, a beautiful
instrument of dark polished wood, with a
blue snake's skin stretched over the drum. The
cymbals are much larger than ours, and beaten
out artistically of brass ; the dents of the ham-
mer giving them all the effect of beaten gold.
The cymbal player is sometimes very ex-
pert, and is the only one of the orchestra who
does not remain always at his post. He moves
about anywhere where the inspiration of the
piece may lead him, often throwing up one
cymbal in the air and catching it on the flat
side of the other, which he holds in his hand.
As a Chinese cymbal weighs upward of ten
pounds, the difficulty of this feat can well be
imagined.
The Chinese theater in the morning is, so
to speak, en deshabille. Everybody is sound
asleep : the actors in their comfortable sleeping-
rooms over the stage; the supernumeraries and
petty comedians on some trunk in the dress-
ing-room, or, more frequently, on the floor.
No one hinders your approach. It is sup-
posed that you have some business or you
would not have come. Leaving the boxes on
your right, and finding your way with difficulty
along a dark and narrow passage-way, you open
a little door at the end, and find yourself
presently in the actors' hotel, an intricate
rookery of rooms and corridors where the
helpless and luxurious histrion is lodged, fed,
shaved, and dressed. For everything neces-
sary to his existence the actor finds within the
four walls of the theater. There he has with
him his barber, servant, wife, and household
gods, and he seldom leaves the theater, except
for an occasional dinner at the restaurant or
a walk through the streets in the afternoon.
Indeed, he does not leave it even to get mar-
ried ; for he does not go to his wife, his wife
comes to ht7n.
A marriage in the Chinese theater takes
place in this wise. The bridegroom sends a
carriage for the bride. When she arrives they
worship their ancestors together. Then she
presents him with a cup of tea or Chinese
whisfcy, as if to say, " I am your humble
servant." After which follows a curious cere-
A GOD OF THUNDER.
mony. The bride, attired in a red skirt of
flowing silk, and a gorgeous head-dress on her
head, proceeds to pay her respects to every
Joss in the theater; as there are thirty or
more Josses in every conceivable situation, in
niches at every turn of the underground and
winding passage-ways, this journey leads her
far. Having propitiated the infernal deities,
she takes leave of her bridesmaids, is domi-
ciled, and passes under the dominion of her
husband.
The management of a theater lies in the
hands of three men. One buys and takes care
of the costumes ; another looks after the food
and lodging question ; and the third fills the
important post of treasurer and paymaster.
42
THE CHINESE THEATER.
Virtually, however, the theater takes care of
itself. The Chinese have little taste or talent
for organization, and everything is regulated
pretty much by unwritten law.
There is no stage manager. When a new
play is to be produced, the author, who is gen-
erally also an actor, superintends the rehearsals
actor having any celebrity whatever. In spite
of its great inferiority, however, the mandarin
stage continues to exist. In the opinion of the
chief actor of the Jackson street theater in San
Francisco, the amateur actor's forte lies in his
delicacy and refinement rather than m his force.
A small company of amateur actors came to
INTERIOR OF JACKSON STREET THEATER. MORNING.
as well as the performance. The cast is writ-
ten down in a book and hung up in a conspic-
uous place in the green-room. No parts are
given out ; the author merely tells the actor
in a general way what he is to do, and that is
all. The " cues," however, are written out, as
well as the important sentences, — couplets de
sortie. A Chinese actor, therefore, must be a
man of intelligence, good education, and ready
wit. He must possess in addition to these
qualities an accurate knowledge of the history
of China, and of the etiquette and ceremonial
of the imperial court as it is popularly under-
stood. He must be suitably dressed, and his
action must conform as much as possible to
the character of the personage he represents,
who is often historical and well known to the
audience. These requirements make acting in
China no easy matter; and a really good artist
is, therefore, quite properly treated with great
respect by his fellows, who watch him carefully
when he acts, and, in case they approve, rever-
ently salute him with the title of " Master."
Owing perhaps to the prevalence of the
" stock " system, but one actor has raised him-
self above the mediocrity of his fellows. His
name was Ah Wah Chai. He died twenty
years ago at Pekin, and the period of his
greatest fame was about forty years earlier.
He was, of course, a professional ; no mandarin
San Francisco a few years ago, and gave rep-
resentations by the side of their professional
brethren. At first the people were delighted
with them, and so great was the enthusiasm
that the managers of the theater were induced
to engage them in addition to the regular com-
pany. They failed utterly to realize the expec-
tations that were formed of them, or to meet
the severe exigencies of the professional stage.
Once a year the company of a Chinese thea-
ter is reorganized. The details of the reorgan-
ization are discussed at a dinner which takes
place at the restaurant, and at which the whole
company are present. The theater is then
closed for three days, at the end of which
time it is opened again with great eclat. Very
often nothing is done but to continue the ar-
rangements of the past year ; still the cere-
monies of reopening are never dispensed with.
The salary of a Chinese actor runs from two
hundred to seven thousand dollars a year.
On the other hand, he occupies in China the
lowest place in the scale of caste. He is inca-
pacitated from holding any position of trust
or emolument under the government, and this
rule applies with all its rigor to his sons and
grandsons as well. Nothing but the most des-
perate fortunes and the extremely large profit
accruing would ever tempt a Chinese subject
to embrace a profession at once so unlucky
THE CHINESE THEATER.
43
TWO PRINCES PLAYING CHECKERS.
basis of the lowest-paying rank
in China. The same decreasing
scale is observed, however, so
that a Chinaman pays five cents
an hour for his theatrical amuse-
ment. Return checks are given
at the door to all except the
white barbarians, who pay their
fifty cents once for all ; and on
leaving the Chinese theater any
evening a large number of poor
devils who cannot afford to pay
the admission price can be seen
shadowing the door of the
theater and soliciting the return
checks of their more fortunate
brethren.
The Chinese theater is rich
in sign literature, and signs of
all descriptions exist, suited to
all needs and addressed to all
intelligences: "The utterances
of God are blessings to men";
" Glory to the spirit forever";
and so proscribed. Legally debarred from all " The people with a loud voice praise him for
other pursuits, with a political curse resting his blessing." Then, not a foot away perhaps :
on their lives and those of their children, Chi- " Ladies and gentlemen must be separated and
nese actors have little incentive to save, and treat each other with proper respect"; " Go up
as a consequence we find that they are almost and down peaceably " ; " Harmony is the
always in debt. From this has resulted the best policy." On the principle, perhaps, that
paradoxical fact that the best company is to praising a man is sometimes the best way to
be seen in San Francisco, so very many Chi- get him to act up to the character you give
nese actors having been obliged to leave their him, a large sign overlooking the pit or
own country on account of business compli- orchestra proclaims that " The seats are full
cations. An actor who in China would act of gentlemen." Those in the dressing-rooms
the role of first general, must in San Fran- are addressed exclusively to the actors, who
cisco be content with an engagement as sec- are advised that they " must not come up in
ond, and sometimes third general ; a first this dirty place [the paint-room] with their
comedian, that of second comedian ; and so costumes on," and that " people who wash
on through the whole cast. their faces should not spill water on the
Besides, the source of revenue is greater in floor." A very common green-room sign is
America. In China there are but comparatively the bill which the restaurant keeper posts for
few stationary theaters, and the majority of the sundry lunches due him on matinee days,
actors belong to strolling companies that de- The signs on the stage are rather ornamental
pend in the main on the support of some than instructive. But over the door of entrance
wealthy nobleman who commands the play, the actor is warned to " come in in good
Even in the large cities the pit is free, and the spirits"; by the door of exit he is told to "go
revenues are derived entirely from the galleries, out and change his costume." Among other
These galleries are divided into three ranks. injunctions are these : " Let the voice be
t-,. . . . . .. . . . . . . clear and the music loud"; "Let the gym-
first rank, teak chairs with high backs ....$1.1:0 , ,, , ,, ,,4 , °/.1
Second rank, bamboo chairs without backs 80 na.s*s excel themselves ; Let man have the
Third rank, for the first hour 25 spirit of the dragon and of the horse." From a
for the second hour 20 sign in the musicians' box we learn that
« for the third hour , .15 « when the performance begins there will be
lor the fourth hour .10 , , , f .... -, ° , ,
for the fifth and each succeeding g°od luck to all> an.d scattered about are
hour 05 many other " lucky " signs : " May your hap-
piness be great"; "May you receive what
Ail this is much simplified in San Francisco, your heart desires." Over the doors of en-
Here the pit is not free. With the exception trance, however, as if in contrast to the
of the boxes, only one rank exists, and all must auspicious signs just mentioned, are two
pay something; the price fixed being on the decorative pieces, not inappropriately repre-
44
IN NOVEMBER.
senting those two great, and to the Chinese
unexplained, terrors of nature, the water-spout
and the eclipse. The former is typified by
the figure of a dragon spouting out a column
of water, and the latter by a bat eating up the
sun. A nimbus of colored clouds surrounds
the bat, and a piece of gas-pipe let into the
animal permits of lurid and realistic effects.
A word in conclusion. It is related of the
late Mr. Ticknor, who labored in the cause
of Spanish literature for the greater part of his
life, and whose work has been translated into
Spanish and adopted as a text-book by the
universities, that he was asked by his daugh-
ter whether he would advise the study of
Spanish on account of its literature.
"No, I would not advise it," he said;
" there is nothing in their literature to repay
a study of the language."
A similar question might be framed in
reference to the Chinese theater. When one
has taken the trouble to understand it, does
it pay ? The writer of this necessarily imper-
fect sketch can only say that he has not
entered the lists in behalf of the Chinese litera-
ture ; and that on the function and purpose
of their drama he should much prefer that
the Chinese should speak for themselves. On
two long, red signs, which hang on either side
of the musicians' alcove in the Jackson street
theater, are written these words :
" Neighbors all, observe with your eyes
AND LISTEN WELL WITH YOUR EARS. Be AS ONE
FAMILY, EXCEEDINGLY HAPPY AND CONTENTED. IN
HEAVEN ABOVE AND ON EARTH BELOW, THINGS
GREAT AND SMALL ARE JUDGED AND IMMEDIATELY
RECEIVE THEIR REWARD. YOU SEE BEFORE YOU
THE WHOLE STORY OF LIFE. CONSIDER WELL
WHAT YE SHALL CHOOSE, THE REWARD OF THE
GOOD OR THE REWARD OF THE EVIL."
Henry Burden McDowell.
THE ECLIPSE.
IN NOVEMBER.
From my hill-circled home, this eve, I heard
The tempest singing on the windy height —
The first wild storm of winter in its flight
Seaward — as though some mighty Arctic bird
Had left its snowy nest, and on the firred,
Steep, mountain summit paused one boisterous night
To fill the valleys with its fierce delight.
Ah me, I thought, how every pine is stirred,
Till all its deep storm-music is unbound;
How every waving bough gives forth its roar,
And the firs shout, as though some harper hoar
Laid his great hand upon the hills around,
And drew a loud hymn forth, a voice to sound
Far, far away, beyond the world's dull shore.
IV. P. Foster.
THE PRINCIPLES AND PRACTICE OF HOUSE-DRAINAGE.
It is proposed to make this paper a simple
and direct statement of some positive knowl-
edge, and of more confident belief, about the
drainage of houses. It is not addressed to
that indifferent public which sees a good deal
of nonsense in the theories of all reformers.
It is not addressed to plumbers, who, as a
rule, are little attracted and less influenced
by what anybody says whose working years
have not been given to plumbing work. It
is not even addressed to architects and engi-
neers, who, whatever their own convictions,
so often find it necessary to compromise with
their mechanics and with their clients, and to
be content with such improvements as it seems
under the circumstances judicious to insist
on. It is addressed to that limited class that
is willing to learn, and with whom a promis-
ing suggestion becomes a fruitful germ; to
the few who will agree with its teachings, and
to the more who will take its propositions into
earnest consideration without the intention,
and often without the result, of agreeing with
them. Where they can be avoided, alterna-
tive suggestions will not be made. If there
are two ways of doing a thing, one right and
the other only not wrong, the right way alone
will be recommended. There is usually but
one best way, and all that is to be considered
here is purely and simply the best way of
improving the drainage of a human habita-
tion, and of maintaining its good sanitary
condition.
GENERAL PRINCIPLES.
The house and the ground under and
about it, and the air with which it is filled
and surrounded, should be as dry and as clean
as the best constant effort can make them. "To
this end, the most intelligent care and the most
earnest attention must be given to all details
of construction, and, no less, to the details of
maintenance. No house, however perfect its
original condition, can remain in perfect condi-
tion if subjected to the deteriorating influences
of even ordinary carelessness. Many a palace
is a pig-pen in its hidden recesses ; and where
the light of day and the eye of a scrupulous
housekeeper are withheld, there will those
enemies of the human race, dirt and damp
and decay, surely make their stand. The
whole range of cubby-holes, dark cellars,
uninspected closets, and those spaces about
pipes and fixtures which are screened from
Vol. XXIX.— 6.
observation and withdrawn from the reach of
care by the pernicious carpentry to which the
plumbing art is so closely wedded, are, all of
them, places to be suspected and to be as far
as possible abolished. Where dark places
must be maintained, they should be the chief
objects of the householder's care. It is a wise
old sanitary saying that " where daylight can-
not enter the doctor must."
Houses that are perfect, even in the general
arrangement and construction of their sanitary
works, are extremely rare. Those which, hav-
ing begun perfect, continue so under daily
occupation, are still more rare. So true is this
that it is sometimes asked if it is, after all,
worth while to encounter the additional ex-
pense and the constant attention that perfec-
tion demands ; whether, indeed, the world has
not got on so well in spite of grave sanitary
defects that it is futile to hope for an improve-
ment corresponding with the cost in money
and time. The most simple and the efficient
answer to this is that the world has not got
on well at all, and is not getting on well ; that
among large classes of the population one-
half of all the children born die before they
attain the age of five years ; that those who
come to maturity rarely escape the suffering,
loss of time, and incidental expense of un-
necessary sickness; that the average age of
all mankind at death is not one-half of what
it would be were we living under perfect
sanitary conditions ; that one of the chief items
of cost in carrying on the world, to say nothing
of the cost of burying those who die, is that
of supporting and attending the sick and help-
less; that another great item is the cost of
raising children to or toward the useful age,
and then having them die before they begin
to make a return on the investment ; that the
great object of a well-regulated life is to secure
happiness for one's self and one's dependents,
an aim which is crushed to the earth with
every death of wife or child or friend. There
is a sentimental view, no less important, which
need not be recited, but which is sufficiently
suggested to the minds of all who have had to
do with the sanitary regulation of houses by
the frequency with which their services are
called into requisition only when the offices
of the undertaker have been performed. No
cost and no care would be too great to pre-
vent the constantly recurring domestic calam-
ities which have had their origin, and which
have found their development, in material
46
THE PRINCIPLES AND PRACTICE OF HOUSE-DRAINAGE.
conditions that a little original outlay and a
constant and watchful care would have pre-
vented.
The objects to be attained in the drainage
of a house and of its site are, first, to remove
all causes of excessive dampness; and, second,
to provide a means for the water transporta-
tion of organic wastes to a safe point 'of dis-
posal, in such a way as to prevent decomposi-
tion on the premises, and so as to exclude from
the house all air which has been in contact
with these matters after their discharge into
the drainage system.
The means for accomplishing these ends
are of two distinct sorts : one allied to the
drainage of agricultural lands, the other to
the flushing of gutters.
FOUNDATION AND CELLAR.
The first in order of execution, and although
not first in importance, still of absolute im-
portance, comprises the means for preventing
undue dampness of the interior atmosphere,
or of the walls, of the house by an actual in-
flow of water, by an exhalation of watery
vapor from the water contained in the soil,
or by a soaking of the foundation. In the
case of city houses occupying the whole
width of the lots on which they stand, this
drainage is necessarily confined to the cellar
and foundations, and, as a rule, the water to
be drained away can be delivered only into a
public sewer, — though there are frequent ex-
ceptional cases where, by piercing an imper-
vious stratum of clay or other material, an
outlet may be gained into a porous stratum
of gravel or sand below. Wherever the site
is on a deep and naturally well-drained bed
of sand or gravel, the question of drainage
as a means for removing soil- water does not
present itself. But here another very serious
difficulty is to be encountered, having a dif-
ferent sanitary bearing, but of no less sanitary
consequence. This relates to the protection
of the house against exhalations from the
ground, — not of moisture, but of the atmos-
pheric impurities of the subsoil.
In the case of a country house, or of a
town house standing in the center of a con-
siderable area, it is often the most efficient
means for securing satisfactory drainage to
apply a very thorough system of underdraw-
ing to the whole area about it and for some
distance away, by laying different lines of
tile drains, not necessarily under the house
at all, but so as to surround it on all sides
from which water flows toward it, and in all
cases at a depth several feet below the level
of the cellar-bottom. It is seldom, even
where a spring is struck in digging the cellar,
that such drains, surrounding the site of the
house, will not entirely divert the water. In
this drainage of large lots, the character of
the outlet is of secondary importance. All
that is needed is that it shall be low enough
for the free discharge of the flow of the drains,
and, if it be a sewer, that these descend to-
ward it with a sufficient fall to prevent foul
water from setting back into the porous drains
in the case of a gorging of the sewer at a point
near the house.
In the drainage of a city house occupying
the whole width of the lot, the same system
is to be adopted, save that the drains, instead
of being so placed as to surround the house
and cut off water approaching it, must per-
force be placed under or near the founda-
tions to receive such water as may have
reached its actual site. Here the question of
outlet becomes a very serious one. If the
discharge must be into a sewer, then some
special means must be adopted for preventing
the return of the air of the sewer to the sub-
soil under the house.
In the construction of these drains two
courses may be pursued with perhaps an
equally good result. One is, after having ex-
cavated the ditch and cleared its bottom of
all loose dirt, to fill in to the depth of a foot
7TTT7TT7T7T7
T7T7T77
L
\
GRAVEL DRAIN, UNDER CELLAR FLOOR, NEAR FOUNDATION.
with sand or gravel, — and even fine sand will
answer the purpose. The other is, to use agri-
cultural drain-tiles, preferably of the smallest
size, say an inch and a quarter in diameter,
laid at the bottom of a well-graded trench
and continued to the point of outlet. Where
tiles are used, the joints should be wrapped
twice around with strips of muslin drawn
tight. This makes a perfect collar, holding
the tiles in line, and affording much the best
protection that has yet been devised against
the ingress of sand or silt, which usually
finds its entrance at the lower part of the
joint, flowing in with the water which rises
THE PRINCIPLES AND PRACTICE OF HOUSE-DRAINAGE. 47
with the general water-level and flows off
over the floor of the tile.*
Where tile drains are used, it is a mistake
to marry them to other materials. Tile alone
or gravel alone will make a very good drain,
TILE DRAIN, WITH MUSLIN JOINT.
— tile and gravel together not nearly so good
when permanence is considered. Tiles should
be laid on the bottom of a perfectly graded
ditch, and should be compactly imbedded in
the heaviest loam that is found in excavating.
When covered to the depth of a foot, this
clay should be well trodden down, so that if
the tile could be taken out, leaving the earth
undisturbed, we should find a complete ma-
trix, or nidus, which had clasped it firmly at
every point. The old marvel, How gets the
water in ? is too long for discussion here. I
beg the reader to take the word of an old
drainer that it does get in — and get out —
perfectly.
The large pipe drains with wide joints, often
with fractures giving access to vermin,— no
less than the " box drains," " French drains,"
I blind drains," and various other antique de-
vices for getting rid of soil- water, — are costly,
cumbersome, and in the long run, inefficient,
owing to their liability to obstruction. The
amount of water that can ever be collected
as a constant stream, except in the case of a
very copious spring, even in very wet founda-
tions, is extremely slight. A sand seam in the
natural soil one-fourth of an inch thick is
generally sufficient to carry it ; and it is such
seams, carrying water in this manner, which
usually produce our subterranean and surface
springs. A tile an inch and a quarter in
diameter will carry more water than can
usually be collected for a constant flow from
the subsoil of half an acre of ground. A
body of sand or gravel ten or twelve inches
wide and of equal depth cannot be so com-
pacted, provided clay and loam be kept out
of it, that it will not afford a free outlet for all
the water that can reach it under these cir-
cumstances from the soil of an ordinary lot.
As a rule, the tile will be found to be much
cheaper than the other material. It is better
always that the depth of the drain should not
* This use of muslin is patented, but it is hereby dedicated to the public to the extent of its use under
or within the foundation-wall of buildings.
be less than three feet below the level of the
foot of the foundation. The more rapid the
descent the better, but even two inches in a
hundred feet, with perfect grading, will re-
move a very large flow. Indeed, if the drain
has no fall, or even if it be depressed in
places, provided it have a good and unob-
structed outlet and well-protected joints, its
surplus water will be discharged as soon as
the general level of the water reaches the
level of the overflow point. Where the water
is to be delivered to a sewer, I should in any
case recommend the making of the outlet
drain, or a part of it, with sand or very fine
gravel. I should at least make a break ten
feet long in the course of the drain, and fill
this with such material, — fine enough not to
allow the free transmission of sewer air to the
drains under the house, which a continuous
tile drain would afford. I am aware that this
recommendation is radically different from
what has generally been set forth ; but it long
ago commended itself to my judgment, and
has proven in practice to be entirely suc-
cessful.
It is a usual custom to connect the under-
drains of a house with the drain carrying the
foul water, and to connect with them, also, the
rain-water conductors from the roof. In view
of what we now know of the ease with which
the contained air of the subsoil may be con-
taminated, it is of the utmost importance,
where the best results are sought, to deliver
the underground water itself by an independ-
ent line guarded with absolute completeness
against the possible invasion of foul air. No-
where within the house, nor, indeed for some
distance outside of it, should even the rain-
water conductors deliver into this system.
By the means just described, the actual
superabundant water of the soil may be re-
moved. In connection with the foundation
and cellar, two things else demand attention.
The first is the carrying up of dampness
through the foundations into the walls of the
house, and the exhalation of watery vapor,
which, in the case of a heavy soil, however
well drained, is of considerable amount.
These difficulties attach chiefly to clayey
ground. The next is the entrance into the
house of the aerial exhalations of the soil.
Even a clay soil contains a large amount of
air, and under different circumstances, such
as changing barometric pressure, the rise
and fall of water in the soil, and the action
of winds, producing a strong draught in
chimneys, this air enters the cellar and the
house. The difficulty increases greatly as
the soil grows more porous and becomes
48
THE PRINCIPLES AND PRACTICE OF HOUSE-DRAINAGE.
more dry. For example : A pile of stones
broken to the size of road-metal contains a
very large amount of air, — how large we
could determine by filling its voids with water
and measuring its quantity. Every wind that
blows, every change of temperature, every
rise of water into the mass, drives out or
changes a portion of this air. If at the bot-
tom of the heap there lay a mass of carrion,
its stench would be almost as perceptible as
though the stones were not there. A bed of
such stones sufficiently large and sufficiently
compacted would make a dry, firm, safe foun-
dation for a house, — in many respects an ex-
cellent foundation. But if the atmosphere of
the house were not separated from that of the
interior of the mass of stones by something
much more effective than even the usual cel-
lar-bottom concrete, and if the carrion were
putrefying beneath, the state of things would
not be the worst possible only because the
obvious offensiveness resulting from the putre-
faction with the free interchange of atmos-
phere between the house and the foundation
would insure the immediate removal of the
difficulty.
This mass of broken stone, with its putre-
fying carrion below and its human habitation
above, is only an exaggerated illustration of
what exists universally over wide ranges of
country. Houses are sometimes built on coarse
gravel. Here the atmospheric interchange is al-
most as free as in the illustration given. Some-
times the gravel is finer and mixed with sand
which, imposing by friction more resistance to
the movement of the air, limits the interchange,
but interchange to the extent of free in-
halation and exhalation always goes on.
Nothing can prevent this from being active
when chimneys are drawing strongly, while
the house is sealed against the outer air; when,
indeed, as is so often and so widely the case
on light soils, the whole practical ventilation
of the house — that is, its intake of air — is
from the ground under it, often flowing through
and enriched by the various familiar fumes of
ill-kept cellars.
The putrid carrion, it is true, we do not
find in such concentrated condition as to
produce an insufferable stench ; but let us
examine the case of a certain village. It is not
necessary to name it. There is not a State in
New England in which many of its parallels
may not be found, and, indeed, there is hardly
a village in the whole country built on a porous
soil where corresponding conditions do not ex-
ist. The village that I have in mind was built
on a flat deposit of gravel intermixed with very
coarse sand, lying nearly level and extending
in depth about fifteen feet to the permanent
level of the adjacent tidal waters. It was a
considerable village throughout the first half
of the century ; then it began to expand into
an important railroad town. It has now a large
population and much wealth. It has a water
supply, and "all the modern improvements,"
— all except sewers. Its disposal of house-
hold waste of all kinds is not upon the soil,
which would be indecent, out into the soil,
which has the supposed advantage of hid-
den indecency. The result must inevitably
be such a diffusion throughout the whole un-
derlying ground- work of the village of putre-
fying kitchen grease, and fecal matter and
laundry slops, as cannot fail to produce in
the whole atmosphere of the gravelly earth
a condition of marked contamination. Even
in the milder season, however free the inter-
change between the air in the ground and
the air over it, the air of so much of the
ground as lies under houses cannot be by any
means ideally perfect. When the interchange
between the outer air and the ground is cut
off by frost, and when cellars and wells form
almost the only means of communication,
then the condition is only infinitely worse.
This description may seem at first reading
too sensational, and dwellers on light soils
will point with satisfaction to the relatively
low death-rate that their communities furnish
as contrasted with that of dwellers on damp
clay soils, where this atmospheric interchange
is much less active. This is no fair response.
The death-rate is comparatively low under
these circumstances, not because of, but in
spite of, the almost universal breathing of
products of putrefaction as exhaled by the
soil into the house. Could this element be
withdrawn, it cannot be questioned that the
death-rate, and in larger degree the sick-rate,
on the lighter soil would show a much greater
contrast.
The practical question now arises, how to
meet this difficulty ? If proper sewers were
once provided, an absolute suppression of all
vaults and cesspools would suffice to secure
the early purification of the ground, for the
bacteria of putrefaction — those universal
scavengers — would soon make away with the
existing accumulation. How far their action
may modify the ill effects of the constantly
renewed underground filth we have as yet no
means of knowing. If we are wise we shall
take the benefit of the doubt and cut off the
supply of foul material.
Sooner or later we shall secure, by sewer-
age and a compulsory use of the sewers, the
complete purification of the subsoil. In the
meantime the individual householder who
has an anxious thought as to the condition of
his individual house, and who is now living
subject to the influences of an evil due to his
THE PRINCIPLES AND PRACTICE OF HOUSE-DRAINAGE.
49
neighbors' many cesspools more than to his
own single one, seeks some means to protect
himself against enemies which his neighbors
are willing to disregard. He will find his best
protection in isolating his house in the most
effective way from the ground in which it is
founded. There is a common belief that stone
walls laid in mortar, and cellar floors covered
with a few inches of concrete, effect such
isolation. This is not the fact. Concrete
floors and granite walls are as sponge to the
penetration under slight pressure of atmos-
pheric currents. To what degree walls and
concrete floors filter out the impurities of the
air passing through them, we do not know.
Not knowing, we will not trust. One of the
safest materials for a cellar-bottom, and for
the exterior packing of foundation- walls, is
a clean, smooth, compact clay, one which
may be beaten into a close mass, and
which has a sufficient affinity for moisture
always to maintain its retentive condition ;
for, when used in the damp atmosphere
of a cellar or about a foundation, it seems
to constitute a good barrier to the passage
of impure air. In the cellar it may, of
course, be covered with concrete for cleanli-
ness and good appearance ; but six inches of
clay well rammed while wet will impede the
movement of air to a degree with which ordi-
nary cellar concrete can furnish no parallel.
Where clay is not available, a good smearing
of asphalt over the outside of the foundation-
wall, and a layer of asphalt between two thick-
nesses of concrete for the cellar-bottom, will
afford a complete though more costly protec-
tion. Asphalt used in substantially the same
way, especially if in connection with a solid
course of slate or North River bluestone,inthe
foundation above the ground level, will pre-
vent the soaking up into the structure of the
moisture of a heavy soil.
The matters above touched upon are seldom
discussed in works on house-drainage, except
so far as the mere removal of surplus soil moist-
ure is concerned, but their importance^ not
likely to be overestimated. There may be good
grounds for the opinion of those who think that
many of the minor ailments to which the race
is subject, and some of its more serious ail-
ments as well, are due, not to the influence of
an excess of filth in any form, but to the influ-
ence of an excess of moisture acting often on
a little filth, or on a little organic waste which
would not be classed as filth at all. Such ail-
ments prevail more especially in houses in
which mold is prevalent, which on being closed
soon acquire a musty smell, and in which
stuffiness is a natural condition, — houses where
a general and all-pervading slight dampness
is to be detected. This dampness may belong
to the structure rather than to the climate ;
for there are dry houses at the sea-side and
damp houses on the mountains. The soil has
an influence over the interior climate of the
house, which is even stronger than external
atmospheric conditions. Positive knowledge
does not carry us very far in this direction,
but the experience and observation of the
world, especially where intermittent fevers
and neuralgia prevail and where an ailing
condition and low tone are the rule, have in-
dicated very clearly that the wisest course for
every man who would make his home per-
fectly healthy would be to separate it as com-
pletely as possible from all interchange of air
or moisture with the ground on which it is
built.
FOUL DRAINAGE.
Another and even more important branch
of house-drainage has come into general use
within a comparatively short time. This is
now attracting quite all the attention that is
its due. Knowledge concerning it is advanc-
ing steadily, and on the whole satisfactorily.
Mistakes have been made during the past
dozen years even by the best of those who
have had to do with it. Such mistakes have
from time to time become recognized, and they
have been remedied, until we are now ap-
proaching something like a fair understand-
ing of the fundamental requirements of house-
drainage. Perhaps it would be too much to
say that the practice of the art keeps anything
like even pace with its principles. Neither the
common usage of the best plumbers nor the
average requirements of the boards of health
of cities show any very considerable improve-
ment over what was done in the better work
of some years ago, save in better workman-
ship. Leaky joints in iron pipe, though still by
no means uncommon, are less frequently found
since attention has been given to testing joints
under pressure. In the best work the thorough
ventilation of soil-pipes, furnishing an inlet as
well as an outlet for the movement of air, is
now generally adopted. Another step in ad-
vance is marked by the abandonment or the
much better construction of drains laid under
cellar-bottoms.
The greatest step of all — the step which
insured wide public benefit — was taken when
municipal boards of health became so gener-
ally, so almost universally, interested in
the subject of plumbing regulations. These
bodies have nearly everywhere established an
effective control over all new work done, and
often over the amendment of old work. The
main point being gained, that all such work
is to be executed according to rules and under
5°
THE PRINCIPLES AND PRACTICE OF HOUSE-DRAINAGE,
such inspection as will secure the observance
of the rules, it is only a question of time when
the rules themselves shall be perfected.
As they stand, these plumbing regulations
permit some things which they will hereafter
prohibit, and they require some things which
they will hereafter, perhaps, not permit. In
the latter category is the back ventilation of
traps, and in the former the use of " pan "
water-closets, of fresh-air inlets at the level
of the sidewalk, and of bends, cowls, and caps
at the top of the soil-pipe.
However, in spite of all their imperfections,
the establishment of such regulations, and the
rigorous enforcement of their requirements
under actual inspection, have marked the great-
est progress that has been made for a long
time past. It is to be remembered, in criti-
cising these regulations, that they are nec-
essarily made suitable for universal applica-
tion. They are a very inadequate guide for
the arrangement of the plumbing work of a
large and elaborate house ; but they do con-
stitute an invaluable guide and safeguard for
work of a cheaper sort. The poor tenant, who
was formerly at the mercy of his landlord, is
now protected by a system which must in-
evitably prevent the continuance of the in-
famous jobs of the cheap plumber of a few
years ago.
THE WRITER'S OWN OPINION.
It is no part of the purpose with which
this paper is written to discuss, even in a
general way, the different methods and pro-
cesses of house-drainage, nor the various the-
ories and opinions by which these are influ-
enced. It will be assumed that the reader
will be satisfied to find here only the writer's
own opinion, and the grounds on which that
opinion is based. I shall therefore confine
myself to saying what I advise doing, with the
reasons therefor.
I advise, above and before all, that in every
house, large or small, the amount of plumb-
ing work be reduced to the lowest convenient
limit ; that there be not two sinks or water-
closets or bath-tubs where one will suffice for
reasonable convenience ; that under no cir-
cumstances shall there be a wash-basin or
any other opening into any channel which
is connected with the drainage system, in a
sleeping-room, or in a closet opening into a
sleeping-room. I should confine all plumbing
fixtures on bedroom floors to bath-rooms;
and, if possible, I should give each bath-room
exterior ventilation, but I should never locate
it against an outer wall unless I could give
adequate protection against frost, for the lia-
bility to danger from the freezing of waste-
pipes, traps, etc., is greater than the liability
to danger from an interior location, if the
fixtures are all of the best sort, and if the room
itself is sufficiently ventilated.
I should always, so far as possible, place
the bath-rooms so nearly over each other on
different floors, that they could all be con-
nected by short waste-pipes with one vertical
soil-pipe ; and if bath-rooms or water-closets
were required on all floors or on any floor
in different parts of the house, I should serve
each set with its own vertical soil-pipe, avoid-
ing any considerable horizontal run, such as
is at times resorted to in connecting fixtures
at different points on different floors.
I should try to have every part of the
plumbing work fully exposed to sight. It is
occasionally necessary to run a soil-pipe or
other waste-pipe in a position where it ought
to be concealed ; but I should, when I could,
avoid such situations, and when possible I
should resort to some frank decoration of the
pipe rather than to its concealment behind a
casing.
Wherever pipes pass through floors in going
from one story to another, I should make an
absolutely tight blocking of the channel. As
generally arranged, the soil-pipe and other
pipes run through bungling openings in the
floor concealed behind carpentry of one sort
or another, and the pipes themselves are boxed
in so that the whole system constitutes a free
run-way for vermin, and a free channel for
the diffusion from cellar to garret, and be-
tween floors and behind partitions, of what-
ever foul air an ill-kept cellar and closet-
fixtures may produce. The diffusion through-
out a steam-heated and ill- ventilated house
of the floating results of hidden decomposition
is apparent to a fresh nostril in many a " first-
class house." There is no minor item con-
nected with house-drainage that is productive
of such an obvious improvement in the atmos-
phere of the rooms as the shutting off of this
means of intercommunication.
I should use only extra-heavy soil-pipe, or
pipe at least with extra-strong hubs, so that
the lead calking can be driven so tightly
home as to make leakage under any pressure
absolutely impossible.
I should try to avoid the placing of plumb-
ing fixtures of any sort in the cellar of a
house, unless they could be so arranged as to
deliver into a soil-pipe or drain not concealed
under the floor. In exceptional cases, where
an underground drain is necessary, I should
not follow the regulations and lay a mason-
work trench with a movable cover, so that ac-
cess to the pipe could be gained at pleasure.
I should have the pipe laid in an open trench,
and so thoroughly calked that under a pres-
THE PRINCIPLES AND PRACTICE OF HOUSE-DRAINAGE.
51
sure equal to the height of one story not a
drop should escape at any joint; and then, a
safe conduit being secured, I should inclose
it in a concreting of the best cement, inclos-
ing it so completely and so securely that
if the iron should rust out and be washed
away, the cement itself would constitute a
safe channel.
I should make it a chief aim to secure for
all needed fixtures the greatest simplicity, and
for all their waste-pipes the greatest absence
of complication. I should use sinks without
grease-traps, bath-tubs without inaccessible
overflows, wash-basins free as far as possible
from fouling places, and water-closets without
valves, connecting rods, or machinery. Such
restriction would limit very materially the
range of selection, and would lead to discard-
ing many things that are now in common use.
This suggestion is a radical one, and it will
fail of acceptance in many most respectable
quarters. There can be, however, no question
as to the propriety of expressing one's firm
convictions in the most distinct way. What
I am endeavoring to convey is not the well-
known average opinion of engineers and sani-
tarians,— only my own opinions. These may
be entirely wrong ; but they are the outgrowth
of the best thought that I have been able to
give to the subject, and it must be conceded
that no harm will result to the health of the
people if they are carried out in practice.
The main purpose of house-drainage, as
we now understand it, is to remove all such
wastes of domestic life as are suited for trans-
portation in running water with the greatest
completeness and with the greatest attain-
able safety. To secure this object, the drain-
age system must be so constructed as to
carry away, completely and immediately,
everything that may be delivered into it ; to
be constantly and generally well ventilated ;
to be frequently and thoroughly flushed ; and
to have each of its openings into the house
guarded by a secure and reliable obstacle to
the movement of air from the interior of the
drain or pipe into the room. It is no longer
a question of " sewer-gas." Wherever the
offensive exhalations designated by this term
exist, wherever the effluvium of putrid waste
may be detected, there is inevitably defective
arrangement, or defective workmanship, or
both. It is no longer to be considered the best
policy to shut off sewer-gas from the house
by confining it to the sewer. The true course
should be to seek the seat of the evil and to
remove its cause. The foul air in a defective
sewer or in a defective house-drain — and it
is more often in the latter — is invariably the
result of the accumulation and retention of
filth, — its retention for a long enough time to
allow it to enter into putrid decomposition.
There is but one proper way to cure it : that
is, to prevent the accumulation. Such removal
is to be secured only by thorough flushing,
either by a copious stream accompanying the
discharge, or by frequent periodic washings
sufficient to sweep all deposits away. No flush-
ing will prevent some sliming of the pipes,
but good ventilation will take care of this.
All drains, soil-pipes, and waste-pipes should
be absolutely tight, not only against the leak-
age of liquid, but against the leakage of air;
they should be so reached, in every part, by
a flushing stream of one sort or another, that
deposit and accumulation will be impossible ;
they should be as thoroughly ventilated in
every part as the safety of the water-seal will
permit. The exterior drain, and ultimately
the sewer into which it delivers, should have
the same general characteristics, it being un-
derstood that the freest possible ventilation is
to be given to both sewer and house-drain,
by the admission of air from without and the
delivery of air to the open sky, without the
possibility of its entering the house at any
point, in any manner, or at any time. All
fixtures should be so trapped that this exclu-
sion of the air of the drain shall be assured,
but at the same time in such a manner that
at each use of every fixture all the filth that
it delivers shall be carried completely away,
the trap being immediately refilled with fresh
water.
Such are the leading sanitary requirements
of house-drainage. These being secured, it
is a matter of little sanitary consequence
whether the fixtures themselves are cheap or
costly, simple or elaborate, ornamented or
plain. As, however, these appliances are de-
voted to the meaner uses of the household,
good taste would indicate that their most
appropriate " elegance " is to be secured by
making them and their belongings as simple
as possible, and as inexpensive as the secur-
ing of the best results will allow. They should
be conspicuous, if at all, by their purity and
cleanliness.
Having thus set forth the general principles
that should govern the construction of the
drainage work of houses of all classes, we
may next consider its details.
(To be continued.)
George E. Waring, Jr.
THE SONG BY THE BARADA.
Over the brow of Lebanon,
In a blaze of splendor sank the sun,
Its gold on the valley glowing ;
After a day now dark, now fair,
With a wild sirocco sweeping bare
The mountain paths, as we journeyed there,
To stately Baalbec going.
All in the dusk our tents gleamed white
Where lone Barada lulled the night,
Cool from the snows of Hermon;
Around us, rose and hawthorn blooms
Hung, sad, above Abila's tombs;
And her ruined temples, through the glooms,
Looked with a voiceless sermon.
Listen ! what steals on the air ? has the breeze
Wafted down from the shining seas
A song of the seraphs seven ? —
Low and soft as the soothing fall
Of the fountains of Eden ; sweet as the call
Of angels over the jasper wall,
That welcomes a soul to heaven.
The wild wind fell; and, past compare,
Up in the wonderful depths of air
Floated the starry islands ; —
Floated so calm, so bright, so near,
From the curtained door I leaned to hear,
Perchance, some song of the blessed, clear
In the great o'erarching silence.
It swells ! it mounts ! it fills the vale !
The hawthorns tremble; the roses pale
At its passionate, glorious mazes ! —
'Tis a Peri hymning of Paradise !
'Tis the plaint of a spirit that yearns and sighs,
Though lapped in the nameless bliss of the
skies,
For a lost-love's embraces !
By the tethered horses, from man to man
Speech and laughter alternate ran,
Where the muleteers were lying;
But story and merriment fainter grew,
Till the only sound the tent-court knew
Was the dragoman's footfall echoing through,
Or the wind in the walnut sighing.
A moment's hush with the falling strain; —
And the wild wind, rising, roared amain
O'er the stream and the covert shady; —
Breathless I stood in the curtained door,
But the ravishing melody came no more;
And the dragoman, crossing the tent before
Cried, " The Nightingale, my lady."
Yet still, when April suns are low,
I hear the wild sirocco blow,
And see, in memory's vision,
Abila's ruins strew the hill;
The stars the Syrian azure fill;
While, listening, all my pulses thrill
As soars that song Elysian.
Edna Dean Proctor.
THE LOST MINE.
In the upper valley of the Rio Grande for
a hundred years the Christian Spaniards had
wrought evil in Christ's name. From their
stronghold in the town of the Holy Faith
their cruel power had spread out over all the
valley-lands, constraining the Pueblo Indians,
in the fear of death, to grievous toil in the
mines, and to a yet more grievous service in
the worship of the Spanish gods. And the
Pueblos, in whose breasts hope scarce longer
had a home, almost had ceased to beg from
their own god deliverance. That was a most
cruel and wicked time.
And it was in that time that marvelous
treasure flowed from a certain mine up in
the Sangre de Cristo mountains that was
called, because it belonged to the Fathers
whose monastery was at Santa Clara, la ?nina
de los Padres. Of all the many rich mines in
this silver-strewn range, the Mine of the
Fathers was incomparably the richest. From
it came wealth so great that even the avarice
of those who fattened upon its kingly revenue
was almost sated. And yet, as its shafts sank
deeper, and as its galleries penetrated, yet
further into the bowels of the mountain,
richer and richer grew its yield. So over
all the realm of New Spain, and thence across
seas even to the old Spanish country, the
fame of la mina de los Padres went abroad.
But, with the story of its wondrous prod-
uct of glittering silver, never a word was told
of the bitter misery of those who toiled in its
dark depths, — driven more harshly than ever
beasts were driven, crushed down by toil
to cruel and painful death, that the treasure
might be wrung from the rock and brought
within the reach of man. Nor was there
any sign in the triumphant tidings sent
homeward of the thousands of converts to the
Christian faith at what cost of death to hun-
dreds these thousands, through terror of
death, had been won to the service of the
Christian God ; at what cost of rigid, ruthless
mastership this service was maintained.
So at last, in that direful summer of the
year 1680, the wind that the Spaniards had
sown for a century came up a whirlwind
of flame and blood, sweeping over and devas-
tating all the land. Out from a clear sky
came the storm. In a moment was upon
them, in its terrible might and majesty, the
pursuing wrath of God. Almost to a man
the dwellers in the outpost towns — Taos,
Santa Clara, San Ildefonso, Santa Cruz —
were slain. At last even Santa Fe itself was
abandoned, and the conquered masters fled
pitifully southward for refuge from their con-
quering slaves. So was a great wrong pun-
ished ; so at last was justice done to the
Pueblos : when the God who is God of both
pagan and Christian in his pity gave them
his strength.
Long years passed by before the Spaniards
again made good their hold upon the land ;
and when at last their strength in possession
was restored, and the new dwellers in the
monastery at Santa Clara sought to reopen
the Mine of the Fathers, out of which those
before them had drawn so great a revenue,
no trace of the mine could they anywhere
find ! That the maps and plans of it which
had been in the monastery should be gone
was no surprising matter • but strange it was
that the very mine itself should have vanished
from the earth ! Seeking it diligently, but
finding it not, they came to know that the
Pueblos, remembering the horror of their toil
in former times, had destroyed the trail lead-
ing up to it among the mountains; with
infinite labor had filled in the great main
shaft, and had taken away all traces of the work-
ings from around about the shaft's mouth.
And knowing this, they sought to wrest the
secret from them. Some were put to the tor-
ture, some were slain outright, that the living
might be driven by dread of a like fate to tell
where the mine was hid. But neither biting
pain nor fear of death sufficed to shake their
stern resolve. Bravely, grimly, in painful life
and in dying agony, they held the secret
locked within their breasts.
So the years drifted by and were marshaled
into centuries; the power of the Spaniards
waned to a shadow and vanished ; a new race
came in and possessed what, in times of old,
had been their possessions; and while, through
these fleeting years and slow-moving centu-
ries, through all this wreck and change, the
fame of la mina de los Padres lived on as a
legend, the mine itself never was known of
men.
In the legend of it that survived, 'twas said
that upon him who should find it again would
fall the curse of the Pueblos' god.
There is no more beautiful sight in all the
fair land that once was the realm of New Spain
than the view at sunset from Santa Clara
looking westward, down the valley of the Rio
54
THE LOST MINE.
Grande. The town — a score or so of brown
adobe houses, clustered around the old church
and the now partly ruined monastery —
stands upon a little promontory, the last low
wave of the foot-hills of the Sangre de Cristo
range. The mountain ramparts which tower
on each side of the valley go down in grand
perspective toward the west, their peaks stand-
ing out blue-gray against the brighter blue-
gray of the evening sky. And off toward the
dying sun the sky takes a violet tint, and then
a rose, and then a soft, rich red, and then a
glowing crimson that is necked and spangled
with a great glory of flaming gold. Yet is the
setting sun not seen, for, cutting off sight of
it completely, the great castellated mountain
of San Ildefonso raises the level lines of its
broad battlements darkly, sharply against the
dazzle of light and color beyond. Leading
downward, as though it were a glittering high-
way to this lordly castle's gates, the Rio Grande
flows smoothly between its low banks: the red
and golden gleamings of the evening sky
reflected on its rapid current. Each night
there is fresh joy in beholding anew this mag-
nificent resplendency, this perfect picture
fresh from the hand of God.
Techita, sitting in a nook in the bluff be-
low the walls of the old monastery, loved
greatly to look upon this God-given picture ;
to watch its glory grow as the sun dropped
down beyond the mountain of San Ildefonso
and thence sent up rich colorings over all the
western sky; to watch its glory wane as the
sun sank yet lower behind the far mountains
beyond, and the color-music slowly died
away. And then, when the edge of night was
come, and gray darkness was shutting in the
west, and in the east only faint, soft colorings
remained, it was her wont to go gently into
the dusky church, and there, before the
old picture of the sweet Santa Clara, make
her pure offering of thankfulness in prayer.
Nor would Techita's thankfulness be less-
ened, as she walked slowly away from the
church in the twilight, by catching sight of
Juan standing by the doorway of his little
home in a corner of the old monastery, and
by seeing, even in the half darkness, the love-
light shining in his eyes. Yet with her glad-
ness that Juan loved her would come troublous
doubts into Techita's heart. For, down in this
old Mexican town, these two were living over
the story that is as old as human life itself,
and that ever is sorrowfully new — the story
of a hopeless love.
A stranger coming to Santa Clara — at
least a stranger from the barbarous northern
country — would have perceived no outward
difference in the estates of old Pablo, Techita's
father, and of Techita's lover, Juan. Such a
stranger, supposing that he had taken the
trouble -to think anything about them at all,
would have " sized them up," after the abrupt,
uncivil manner of Americanos generally, simply
as a pair of poverty-stricken Mexicans; and
he might have gone a step further, and won-
dered how on earth they managed to keep
body and soul together, anyway. But so far
as old Pablo was concerned, this estimate
would have been very far astray. In point of
fact, old Pablo was a rich man. Half a mile
of the best land along the river was his ; his
also was the great 'flock of goats that every
night at milking-time came trooping home-
ward to the corral ; his also was the great
herd of cattle that pastured on the mesa negra,
half a dozen leagues away to the north ; and
in his granaries was a vast store of barley and
beans and corn.
But Juan had neither flocks nor herds nor
lands ! All his earthly possessions were the
few household things in the little home that
the Padre, pitying him, had suffered him to
make for himself in a corner of the old mon-
astery. All his wealth was his strong young
body and stout heart and ready hands.
Of a truth, this handsome Juan had been
born into the world under an unlucky star.
While he was yet a boy, the dreadful viruelas
had swept down upon Santa Clara, and in
a month's time his father and his mother, to-
gether with half the little town, were huddled
into hastily dug graves. And he was still a
boy when the old aunt who had cared for him
died also, and left him to make his fight for
life alone. Then it was that the good Padre
had found for him a home in an odd corner
of the old monastery, long since deserted
of its old-time tenants and falling slowly
into complete decay. Here, for a dozen
years and more, he had made shift to live,
helping the Padre in the offices of the church,
herding goats in the fallow season of the
year, and in the growing season working in
the fields. The Padre, whose heart was ten-
der, greatly loved the lonely boy ; and by the
Padre's care he had become a prodigy of
learning. Actually, he could read ! And, still
more wonderful, he could sign his name ! and
make about it, too, as brave a maze of flour-
ishes as any Mexican in all the land. But for
all his headful of knowledge, Juan was the
poorest of the poor.
No wonder, then, that his love for Techita
was hopeless. Pablo was a shrewd old
fellow, with a keen eye — for all his look of
sleepiness — for money-holding; and that his
daughter (who also was his only child, for
Pablito and Pablito's mother had died to-
gether in a single day in that dismal small-
pox time) should marry a rich man was the
THE LOST MINE,
55
dearest purpose of his heart. During the past
year or two, since Techita had begun to
blossom into womanhood, the gossips of the
little town had affirmed that the solemn old
Don Jose, who owned the great hacienda at
Abiqui, was the husband for Techita whom
old Pablo had in mind. But there were those
who said — saying it beneath the breath, for
Senor Don Pablo was one whom it was not
well to offend — that to put such a fate upon
Techita would be a crime. And others, still
bolder, declared that Juan and Techita, the
handsomest couple in all the valley's length,
were sent thus together into the world by the
good God that they might be man and wife.
But these whisperings never came to old
Pablo's ears ; and had they come, he would
have laughed at them as old women's fool-
ishness, so right it seemed to him that his
daughter should wed her wealth with greater
wealth ; so absurd would have seemed to him
the suggestion that she should wed with such
a one as this goat-herding, field- working Juan.
Therefore it was that Techita, knowing
well and dreading much her father's will con-
cerning her, felt her heart troubled within her
by knowing of the love that Juan had for
her ; by knowing that her own love was given
to Juan in return. And often, as she knelt in
the church as the daylight passed away, she
prayed that the gentle Santa Clara would
soften her father's heart, so that happiness
might come to her and to her lover. But the
time went on, and no change came to open
the way whereon she longed to go ; and each
passing month now, as she grew rapidly into
womanhood, made the time more near for
her to be the wife of Don Jose.
Thus matters stood when all the valley was
filled with wonder by the sudden incoming
of the Americanos from the North — not as an
army waging war, as they had come three
and thirty years before, but as an army build-
ing a railroad. What a railroad was these
people — whose only notions of locomotion
were their own legs, and the legs of Burros,
and heavy wooden carts — did not at all know;
but as it was an invention of the Americanos
there could be no doubt that it was some-
thing devilish. Presently, as their fields were
laid waste, and their cherished water-courses
broken, all possible doubts of the absolute
devilishness of the railroad were removed. It
was a thing to be abhorred. And when, the
railroad being builded, all manner of evil
Americanos — cut-throats, desperadoes, the ad-
vance-guard of rascality that pours into each
newly opened region of the West — came
down upon them, destroying the pleasant
peacefulness of their quiet land, their hatred
of their old-time enemies grew yet more bitter
and intense ; the more intense because, in-
stinctively, they knew their own powerless-
ness to stay the incoming stream.
The wave that surged down upon them was
a mighty one ; for, now that the railroad had
opened the way to it, the ancient fame of the
treasure-laden Sangre de Cristo was remem-
bered, and everywhere the mountains were
dotted with prospectors' camps. Once more
the legend of the Mine of the Fathers was
revived, and in many a camp hearts beat
quicker and breath came shorter as the story
of its marvelous riches was told anew. Again
it was sought for, with not less eagerness and
with more skill than it had been sought for
two hundred years before ; and again was the
search fruitless and in vain. One after another
they who sought for it gave up their search
as hopeless, or were satisfied with making
lesser strikes, until only one man remained to
carry the search on. But this man stuck
grimly to the purpose that had brought him
southward from the States.
Dick Irving was a person who did what he
made up his mind to do. Up in Pueblo —
the Colorado town in the Arkansas Valley — -
he had come across a trooper of Price's old
command, who had fought his way down
from Taos to Santa Fe in 1847 ; and who, the
fighting ended, had married a Mexican wife
and had settled himself for life in the land
that he had helped to win. There are not a
few of these bits of army drift scattered over
the country north of Santa Fe. And this old
soldier told so glowing a story of la mina de
los Padres that Irving forthwith sold out his
interest in the " Rattling Meg," up at Lead-
ville, and in a week's time was down in the
Sangre de Cristo with his prospecting outfit,
and at work.
" I'll find that mine or I'll die for it ! " he
told his Leadville partner before he left for
the south; and he added, his hand resting
easily on the handle of his forty-four :
" If any man is ahead of me, by , I'll
shoot him and jump his claim ! "
In matters of this nature Dick Irving was
a man who kept his word.
Techita sat in her nook under the edge of
the bluff and watched the sun go down, and
very, very heavy was her heart. At last the
stroke that she had dreaded for so long had
fallen : her father had told her that the time
had come when she must be the wife of Don
Jose. Nor would he so much as listen to her
entreaties that this might not be. Breaking
in upon her words, he had said, " It is
my will" — and so had left her, desolate of
hope.
That night there was no beauty for her
56
in the sunset ; and when the glory was
gone out of the sky, and she went slowly
through the dimness of twilight into the dark-
ness of the church, bitter sorrow was upon her
and her eyes were weary with their weight of
tears. She knelt before the picture of the saint,
as was her habit, but from her lips there
came no prayer. What was the good of pray-
ing ? she thought. Had she not prayed again
and again with all the faith and strength that
was in her that she might be spared that
which now had come ? The saint was far
away in heaven — too far to heed the plead-
ings of a poor, lonely child on earth. Ah !
would that she were safe in heaven, too !
And then, still kneeling upon the clay floor
before the picture of the saint, she fell into a
dreary reverie, thinking of the life-time of
happiness for which she had hoped, of the life-
time of sorrow that now she must endure. Yet,
while she knelt thus, looking the while sadly,
steadfastly upon the saint's sweet face, shining
out from the surrounding darkness as a gleam
from the sunset's afterglow struck full upon it
through the little window beneath the roof,
she seemed to see a look of loving pity come
into the gentle eyes, to see upon the tender
lips a pitying smile ; and the hope came to
her that the saint, forgiving her for doubting
her saintly power to comfort and to aid, even
yet through the saving strength of heavenly
grace would turn her mourning into joy. So
there came into her troubled soul a little thrill
of happiness.
" Techa ! "
A quiver went over her, and for a moment
her heart stopped beating, as the thought fell
upon her that, in very truth, the saint had
spoken — and then she knew that the voice
sounding low in the darkness was the voice
of Juan.
" Techa, art thou here ? I must speak with
thee. I have to tell thee of a great joy."
She made a little sound in answer, while
rushing in upon her came the glad hope that
the promise given her by the saint's pitying
glance and smile was coming true.
" My Techa, listen ! The good God has
had pity for our sorrow, and the bar between
us is broken down. A great wonder has hap-
pened, that has made me richer than thy
father by a thousand fold. By God's grace I
have found again the wonderful mine in the
mountains that belonged to the Fathers back
in the long-past time. I am rich, rich even
beyond thought ; and richer than all, because
now thou also wilt be mine."
Then Juan told the story of the good
fortune that had come to him. One corner
of his dwelling-place in the old monastery —
the corner in which was the little triangular fire -
THE LOST MINE.
place — long had been in a ruinous state that
promised at any time a fall. That day the
fall had come, and from the broken wall had
dropped out a roll of tough hide, in which were
wrapped securely the lost plans of the ancient
mine. Thus had they been hidden, by hands
soon still in death, on that August day, two
hundred years before, when the Pueblos rose
in revolt against their Spanish task-masters :
the visible agents of the avenging wrath of
God.
Yellow with age were the plans, pale the
once black drafting, but still the plotting was
distinct and clear : showing the site of the
monastery ; showing the long-lost trail lead-
ing up beyond the arroyo of San Pedro into
the mountains ; showing the mine itself, a
league or more away, at the trail's end. To
one knowing the country well, as Juan
did, everything was clear. Over the moun-
tain-side, high up above the canon wherein the
mine was sunk, he had driven his goats a
hundred times. There was no uncertainty
about his discovery : la mitia de los Padres
was found, and was his !
With a quickly beating heart Techita lis-
tened to this wonderful story of good fortune ;
and as she listened a great gladness filled her
soul. It was only the wealth of Don Jose,
she knew, that had made him seem pleasant
in her father's eyes; Juan, with his incompar-
ably greater wealth, need have no fears now
that his suit would be rejected. Happiness
enveloped her, for now at last her happiness
was sure. In perfect thankfulness she knelt
again before the sweet Santa Clara's picture,
drawing Juan also on his knees beside her ;
and there, with grateful thoughts, for their
hearts were all too full for words, they gave
praise silently for the great goodness which,
through Santa Clara's intercession, had come
to them from the merciful and loving God.
Yet, even as she thus knelt, fear and mis-
giving came into Techita's soul. Mingled
with her Spanish blood was the blood of the
Pueblo race, of the pagans whom her Chris-
tian ancestors had treated so cruelly in
the time of old ; and together with her
Christian faith was, if not faith, at least a
fearful reverence for the Pueblos' god. In
dread she remembered now, in the under-
current of thought below her thoughts of
thankfulness and praise, the direful prophecy
that upon whomsoever should find again the
Mine of the Fathers the curse of the Pueblos'
god would fall.
Standing outside the door of the church,
the young moon, just risen over the moun-
tains in the east, shining faintly down upon
them, Techita falteringly told her fears; and
Juan, full of gladness now that his long sor-
THE LOST MINE.
57
row was at an end, laughed lightly and bade
her fear no more.
" We are good Christians, my Techa," he
said, " and our valiant God and his brave
saints watch over us. What need we fear from
this false god, who for ages has been dead
and gone ? "
But as thus irreverently he spoke, there fell
upon him also a strange sense of dread ; for
he also had Pueblo faith deep down in his
heart, because of the Pueblo blood which
flowed in his veins. By an effort he stirred
himself and drove the dread away. In the
faint light Techita did not mark the change
that for a moment came over his face as he
ceased to speak, and so had comfort from his
cheerful words. It was indeed true, she
thought, that the blessed saints were brave
defenders against all evil powers ; and she
was well assured now that one of the saints
at least — this gracious Santa Clara — had
promised to them her potent aid. Therefore
had she a firm foundation whereon to rest her
faith and hope. Yet, as she walked slowly
homeward, vague forebodings of coming sor-
row forced themselves upon her ; nor could
she, with all her faith in Santa Clara's help-
fulness, with all her bright hopes of the hap-
piness that was to come, wholly drive these
dark thoughts away.
Dick Irving was puzzled. He believed,
and with good reason, that what he did not
know about prospecting was not worth the
finding out. And yet it was a point in pros-
pecting that was puzzling him now, and, to
use his own words, puzzling him " the worst
kind."
The knotty question that was too much for
him was where a piece of " float " came from
that he had found in the arroyo of San Pedro.
When he had found that particular piece of
loose rock, it had made his heart jump and
his mouth water. In the course of his ex-
tended experience in prospecting, he never
had come across anything that for richness
came anywhere near it; it was richer than
the best of the Leadville carbonates, richer
than the best of the ruby silver down in the
Gunnison. On a rough calculation, he con-
cluded that the vein where it came from
would mill-run not less than a thousand
ounces. If the vein had any body to it, that
meant more millions than he could think of
at once without shivering.
But the trouble was that the beginning of
his prodigious find was also the end of it.
The bit of float was like the foot-print on
Robinson Crusoe's island ; there it was, soli-
tary— not a sign to tell whence it came and
what it belonged to. He was certain that
there was not any more of it, for he had spent
nearly a month in the arroyo turning over care-
fully every stone, and running his knowing
eyes jealously along every crevice in its rocky
walls. And now his mad was getting up.
His reputation as a prospector was at stake.
And more than this, he knew that close at
hand, on the flanks of one of the two moun-
tains which towered above him, was a mine
which to find was to make his everlasting for-
tune ; which to miss was to miss the great
chance of his life — and the pleasing convic-
tion was growing upon him more strongly
every day that he was going to miss it.
He knew, of course, that almost his only
chance was to follow up the float; and that
was the reason why he had put in such
thorough work upon the arroyo. When this
failed him he took to the mountains them-
selves. It was a desperate chance, but it was
the only chance left to him. He put in another
barren month in this fashion, and then he was
about ready to own himself beaten ; to own
that for once he had walked all around and all
over the mine that he was looking for without
being able to make even a good guess as to
where it was. Once, indeed, for a moment,
he had felt hopeful. In a little canon, hard
to enter because of a great wall formed across
its mouth by jagged masses of rock which
had fallen from the cliffs above, he came upon
some surface rock that was identical with the
bit of float that he had found. The ledge was
oddly broken about its middle by a heap of
gray, weather-worn fragments of stone. He
never had come upon a formation like this,
and had he been a geologist he would have
found a good deal in it to interest him. Being
simply a prospector, he examined the ledge
purely with an eye to business ; and from this
point of view it was eminently unsatisfactory.
There were, to be sure, traces of mineral, but not
the least suggestion of the inexhaustible wealth
that he knew must be in the rock to which
his specimen belonged. Therefore he kicked
the ledge contemptuously, swore at his own
ill luck and stupidity with the mellow fluency
that can be acquired only by long residence
in mining camps, and so turned sullenly away.
It would have strengthened Dick Irving's
fast-lessening faith in his own instinct as a
prospector, however, had he known that it was
the art of man and not a freak of nature that
was leading him astray ; had he known that
at the very moment when he was cursing his
own stupidity la mina de los Padres was
beneath his feet ! Had he but tossed aside
the piece of rock whereon he stood, he would
have found — wasted by rust, but still recog-
nizable— an old hammer-head from which
the handle long since had moldered away;
58
THE LOST MINE.
and so, to his quick intelligence, would have
had proof enough that he had found the rich
prize that he had sworn to find when he came
down into the South.
On the evening of the day after that on
which Juan had told Techita of his great dis-
covery, he came to her again in the church
to tell her that all had gone well with him in
his search in the mountains, and that in very
truth he had found the long-lost mine. In
glad proof of his words he showed her a rusty
hammer-head that he had pulled out from
beneath a rock in the mouth of the filled-in
shaft — the very hammer-head that Dick Irv-
ing, for all his cleverness, had failed to find.
" God has been very good to us, my
Techa," he said, as they stood again beneath
the picture of the gentle Santa Clara in the
soft darkness that was stealing down upon
the dying day. " His mercy has come to us
in our sorrow, and through the entreaty of the
dear saint, He has given us comfort in hope.
All is well with us now. Thy father would
indeed have refused thee to the goat-herd
Juan, but to Sefior Don Juan, the owner of the
Mine of the Fathers, he will not say no. I shall
have thee for my very own, my Techita ; and
for all our lives long, in our love and happi-
ness, we will praise thankfully and worship
reverently this sweet saint who has taken from
us our sorrow, and given us in its stead great
joy.
"And see, my little one," he added, lightly,
after they had stood for a little space with
hands clasped closely and eyes turned grate-
fully upon the saint's face — "see! I have
found the mine, and yet the curse has not fallen !
There was only folly in thy fears, my little
heart. The blessed saints are strong to stay
and to save them who have faith in their holy
goodness ; strong to drive back the evil power
of this false god, whom long ago they con-
quered and threw down."
And again, as he spoke these daring words,
Juan felt a shudder of dread go through him.
For all the bravery of his manliness the
thought would come : What if, in defiance of
the power for good of the blessed saints, the
power for evil of the Pueblos' god even yet
lived on ?
Upon Techita's heart lay heavily this same
dread ; nor was it greatly lightened by Juan's
cheerfulness. Almost was she persuaded by
her great love for him to bid him give up the
treasure that he had found ; to suffer herself,
a sacrifice for her love's sake, to be wed in
accordance with her father's will. Better even
this great misery, she thought, than that harm
should come to her lover.
Thinking these doubting thoughts, she stood
irresolute, her eyes turned questioningly upon
Santa Clara's face; and again, in the soft, faint
light that shone upon it, the sweet face seemed
to smile upon her a promise of protection that
bade her trust and hope. Therefore she
hushed the doubts which were in her heart,
and listened welcomingly to Juan's glad
promises of the joy which was to be. And in
making these promises Juan also forgot the
fears which had beset him, and felt only a
brave elation in the certainty of the happiness
that had come to them from the good God.
So, in the pale moonlight, they parted again,
having in the brightness of their future a full
and joyous faith.
Yet, in despite of this faith, through the
long darkness of the night Techita, waking,
was oppressed by dread ; and in her sleep
there came to her fearful dreams. And in
waking and in sleeping the thought that pos-
sessed her was that out of the very fullness of
her happiness a desolating, irremediable sor-
row was to come.
Nor did the brightness of the sunshine,
when at last day came again, chase away her
dark forebodings. A great heaviness lay upon
her soul ; a dreary belief weighed upon her
that the sorrow which was surely coming was
very near at hand. Nor could she doubt that
whatever this sorrow was to be, it must come
to her through Juan. As she knew, Juan had
gone once more into the mountains, along
the way that he had told her of, to the old
mine. Had he been in the village, or working
in the near-by fields, she would have braved
her father's displeasure and gone to him — so
keen was her deep consciousness that a ma-
lignant power was loosed to do him harm.
Slowly the day wore on, each hour in pass-
ing adding to her restlessness and nervous
dread. And at last, when the still time of
noon was come, and all the town was hushed
in sleep, she no longer could restrain the im-
pulse that was upon her to go to him; to
brave with him whatever was the danger ; to
defend him living ; to lie down and die beside
him should he be dead. Out from the silent
house, out from the sleeping village, up the
rock-strewn arroyo of San Pedro, Techita
walked firmly; in her heart a great daring
born of her greater love.
That day also Dick Irving went up into
the mountains. He acknowledged to himself
savagely that he had about got to the end of
his rope, and this would be the last day of his
foolery. For once he would have to own up
that he had tackled a job that was too big for
him ; and he was the more ugly over it because
the piece of float that he had in his pocket
made him believe absolutely that all that was
THE LOST MINE.
59
told of la mina de los Padres was true. He
knew that the mine was somewhere up beyond
the arroyo of San Pedro ; and knowing this,
and knowing how all his skillful search for it
had ended in failure, he gritted his teeth to-
gether in sullen rage.
He thought himself more than half a fool
for making this last expedition, for his faith
that it would end in anything but another
failure was very weak indeed. But he was a
conscientious man, — as a prospector, that
is, — and he was not quite satisfied to go
north again without having one more look at
the ledge of rocks in the little canon. This
was the one place in the mountains where he
had struck rock identical with his specimen ;
and while he had convinced himself by his
first exploration that there was no mineral in
the ledge at all comparable with that in the
float, his absolute failure in all other direc-
tions made him desirous of having yet an-
other look here. Moreover, his careful study
of the locality had shown him that, all things
considered, the canon was the most likely
place from which the bit of float could have
come. But for the mass of rocks in the
canon's mouth, he would have been quite
certain that it was from there that his speci-
men had started. And this wall of rocks
across the mouth of the canon bothered him.
In all the years that he had been prospecting
he never had seen anything like it. If such a
thing had not been impossible upon its face,
he would have believed that the rocks had
been broken loose deliberately and thrown
down from the cliffs above, not by nature, but
by man. The more that his mind had dwelt
upon the oddity of this barrier, and upon the
equal oddity of the mass of broken rocks in
the line of the ledge, the more was his interest
aroused. There was something queer about
the place that attracted him, and he was de-
termined to see it again. Of course, as he
said to himself, with a good deal of hard
swearing at his general brainlessness, there
was nothing to be found there, and he only
was going on a fool's errand again. But, all
the same, with the dogged perseverance that
was characteristic of him, he pulled himself
together for the tough tramp up the arroyo
and the mountain-side beyond.
It was a tough tramp, and no mistake ; and
as he had not any heart worth speaking of in
what he was doing, he went slowly and made
many halts. This was not his usual way of
working, but he was low in his mind and was
thinking gloomy thoughts, which quite took
the customary spring out of his toes and
heels. There is but little satisfaction to a man
in knowing that he has had his hand very
nearly on great good fortune for two months
and more, and yet is losing it after all. Dick
Irving, whose nature was not a gentle one,
was in a state of glowing rage as he reflected
that this was just about where he was — rage
at his luck, at himself, at all the world. About
the one thing that could have given him any
comfort just then would have been a fight.
He was fairly aching to balance his own mis-
fortunes by taking them out on somebody
else's hide.
Suddenly he was aroused, by the deepening
shadows in the arroyo, to the fact that the end
of the day was not far off. As he had in-
tended camping for the night in the canon,
this fact did not disconcert him, but it made
him very considerably quicken his steps. Yet,
for all his haste, the sun was near setting
when he climbed the mass of stones lying in
a great ridge across the canon's mouth. For-
tunately for his purposes, the canon faced
westward, and all within it was a blaze of
mellow light from the level rays of the set-
ting sun.
As he climbed the barrier he heard a click-
ing noise, that made him start as though he
had received a blow ; and as he cautiously
peered over the barrier's crest he saw a sight
that sent the blood with a rush to his heart,
and then fiercely tingling through all his veins.
For the sound that he heard was the click of
a pick against rock, and the sight that he saw
was a man, not a hundred yards away from
him, at work on the very ledge itself ! If here
truly was the lost mine, then was he too
late; another set of stakes was in ahead of
his!
Luckily, the other man had not heard him
scrambling over the rocks, and so, for the
present, at least, he was master of the situation.
Getting into a good position for observation,
and crouching so that he could see, yet could
not be seen, he carefully studied the ground.
Evidently the man had been at work for
many hours, and had worked hard. The loose
rocks which had lain in the break in the ledge
were rolled away in all directions, — Dick
could not but feel instinctive respect for the
set of muscles that had dealt successfully with
the tough lifting and hauling that this piece
of work involved, — and the earth that had
washed in between the stones had been care-
fully shoveled away. This was about all that
had been accomplished. But it was enough.
For there, clearly defined in the line of the
ledge, was the square-cut mouth of the old
shaft. La mina de los Padres, lost for two
hundred years, again was found !
As Dick Irving realized the situation, the
rage that had been upon him all day culmi-
nated. He was in a white heat of passion —
and as tranquil as a morning in June. There
6o
THE LOST MINE.
was just one thing to be done, and he meant
to do it.
" Only a Greaser, anyway," he muttered.
" The idea," he added, disdainfully, " of a
d d Greaser owning the Mine of the
Fathers ! " In the excess of contemptuous
disgust that this thought caused him he spat
upon the ground.
Over the sights of his revolver he measured
the distance carefully with his eye, and with
commendable coolness decided that it was
too great for certainty. As the business had
to be done, he did not want to make a mess
of it; moreover, as he prudently reflected,
around the shoulder of the canon there might
be another man. With these judicious
thoughts in mind, he worked his way softly
across the wall of rocks, — keeping well in the
shelter of the great fragments, — and down on
its inner side. Once within the canon, there
was no difficulty in slipping from rock to rock,
until he stopped at last behind two great
bowlders, and through the rift between them
covered his man at a distance of less than a
dozen yards.
Juan had stopped in his work, and stood
leaning on the handle of his pick. Over him
and around him shone a blaze of rich red
light, the last rays of the setting sun. His
face had a weary look, and his strained mus-
cles were relaxed ; but stronger than his look
of weariness was his look of joy, and even the
pose of his tired body was elate. For the
great triumph of his life was won : at last he
knew himself a victor over Fate. In his hap-
piness he spoke his thought aloud : " My
Techa ! the joy-time of our life has come ! "
And even as he spoke these words the sharp
crack of Dick Irving's revolver rattled and
pealed and roared between the rocky walls of
the canon — and Juan sank down across the
newly opened shaft of the Mine of the Fathers
with a bullet through his heart. At that instant
the sun dropped below the level of the wall of
rocks, and all the lower portion of the canon
was left in dusk; duskier because in the upper
portion the light still shone full and clear.
Through the canon, mingling with the
echoes of the pistol-shot, yet rising above
them, shrilly, wailingly sounded aery of mortal
agony; a cry despairing, desolate, charged
with the burden of a life-time of bitter woe ; a
cry that made Dick Irving's weather-hardened
face turn pale, and that sent a chill into the
very depths of his tough heart ; and while he
wondered, doubtingly, tremblingly, whence
came this woful sound, Techita had sprung
down from the crest of the ridge of rocks and
was standing by her dead lover's side.
Her figure, seen in the gloom of the canon
and through the powder smoke that lingered
in the rift between the bowlders, loomed tall
and indistinct against the darkness of the
rocks beyond. He could not see her form ;
he could not see her face — -wrenched with
the agony that comes when love dies sud-
denly before despair. Raising her hand
heavenward, like a prophetess of old, her voice
hushed to the deep, solemn tone of one who
stands upon the very border of Time, and
sees out clearly into the awful mysteries of
Eternity, she spoke: "The curse has fallen —
the curse of the Pueblos' god ! "
Dick Irving was satisfied with the good
stroke of business that he had done, and his
finer feelings rebelled against doing any more
business of that sort just then. On the other
hand, his sturdy common sense told him that
there was only one course that he could ra-
tionally pursue ; that he had gone too far for
drawing back to be possible.
" As nasty a job as ever I got into," he
said to himself, standing beside the shaft, as
he drew two fresh cartridges from his belt,
and dropped them into the emptied chambers
of his revolver. Then, presently, in a burst
of righteous indignation : "Confound her! It
aint my fault, anyway. Why couldn't she
have had the sense to say she was a woman ? "
And then, as his nerves grew steadier, he
added more cheerfully : " Well, after all, it*s
nothing but a pair of Greasers — lucky whack
it was for me that I got here to-day, and in
time to save the mine ! "
Slowly the glory of the sunset spread across
the west. Rising against the red and golden
splendor, the battlements of San Ildefonso
stood sharply lined ; high into the gray-blue
sky shot red and golden rays ; over the broad
waters of the Rio Grande played red and
golden lights : all heaven and all the earth
beneath seemed blended in a red and golden
symphony. Then, slowly, all this splendor
passed away, until nothing was left of it save,
in the far east, over the distant mountains,
a little rosy cloud.
In the still church, where hung the picture
of the sweet Santa Clara, was loneliness ; in
the still canon, high up on the mountain, was
death. Over all the earth, darkening the silent
church, darkening the silent canon, had come
gray night.
The Lucky Whack Mining Company, as
Dick Irving himself declares, — and he ought
to know, for he is president of it, and lives
East in a style that proves that he has lots of
pay dirt somewhere, — is a rattling success.
Daily output, two thousand ounces — and
millions in sight.
Thomas A. Janvier.
AT THE LOST MINE.
Vol. XXIX.
Donatello, Verrocchio, Mino da Fiesole,
Benedetto da Majano — their very names are
a sweet music in our ears, calling up visions
of ineffable grace and beauty. Their charm-
ing art has influenced the best art of our own
day more, perhaps, than any other. From the
time when Paul Dubois turned to them for
inspiration, and produced his little "Saint
John Baptist" and his "Florentine Singer," a
new and glorious epoch of French sculpture
began, and Falguiere, Mercie, and the rest of
that brilliant school, with such men as our
own St. Gaudens, owe much of what is purest
and best in their works to the study and the
example of these old Italians. Many even of
the best painters of to-day would own their
deep indebtedness to the " sweet influence "
of this placid constellation shining serenely
through the ages.
Since, then, the work of these men is so
great a factor in molding the art-thought of
I ./■
COUNT DELLA LUNA — MINO DA FIESOLE.
to-day, — since they have had, and bid fair to
have in the future, so eminently healthful and
invigorating an influence upon contemporary
sculpture, — it may be well to consider them
somewhat closely, to endeavor to comprehend
their aims and their methods, and to find, if pos-
sible, the secret of that subtle, evanescent, yet
enduring charm which steals upon the senses
" Like the sweet south
That breathes upon a bank of violets,
Stealing and giving odor."
To do this, we will begin at what may seem
at first a long distance from the subject.
It has often been remarked that the schools
of painting in which color has been predomi-
nant have been the great naturalistic schools
as well, and there have been various specula-
tions as to the cause of this fact. Ruskin's
theory, that the production of beautiful color
requii'es an absolute fidelity to nature, any
deviation from natural fact introducing a dis-
cordant note and so ruining the color-har-
mony, certainly seems untenable. Would it
not be truer to say that beautiful color permits
fidelity to nature ? There seems to be in the
human mind a natural shrinking from bare,
hard fact. The absolute truth of things as
they are, with no softening of angles or hiding
of uglinesses, — Mother Isis without her veil,
— would be intolerable to us. The schools of
color restore her veil to Nature and wrap her
in the mystery of atmosphere ; they charm us
with deep, vague harmonies, and entice the
imagination into impenetrable shadows. With
them everything is mysterious, and therefore
nothing is shocking. They can afford to give
us the facts of nature because they give them
to us mitigated as they are in nature. But the
schools of the line strip nature of her atmos-
phere and her color. With them everything
is hard, dry, and defined, and they feel instinc-
tively that the least ugliness — the least falling
short of ideal beauty — would become unbear-
able under the glare of their white light. They
cannot bear the least defect, the least com-
monness, the least naturalness — of nature, but
refine upon and polish their forms, finding
nothing pure or noble enough for them, and
SCULPTORS OF THE EARLY ITALIAN RENAISSANCE.
63
m :;'
sKa-Aj
UNKNOWN WOMAN, LOUVRE.
forever missing the rough grandeur and homely
beauty of this every-day world which is con-
stantly to their hand.
If it is, then, so difficult to avoid the matter-
of-fact in painting, which deals only with ap-
pearances, think how much more difficult it is
in sculpture, which deals with actual substance.
A statue is much more definite than any pic-
ture. It is not a representation of form, it is
form. It is itself a fact. This is the great prob-
lem : How is the sculptor, with his stubborn
material of solid stone or massive bronze, to
avoid, the stumbling-block of too great reality ?
There have been three great schools of
sculpture which have differed widely in their
solution of this problem. The Greeks may be
compared to the schools of form in painting
— what are known as the classic schools. They
sought relief from the hard facts of nature in
nobly ideal forms, abstracted from all accident
and ail individuality. They could not give the
mystery and infinitude of nature, and they
would not give the material imperfections of
things divested of nature's mystery. They
therefore formulated an ideal of what nature
ought to be, of what seemed to them the pri-
mal type, freed from the thousand variations of
its actual carrying- out ; and this ideal once
&l
SCULPTORS OF THE EARLY ITALIAN RENAISSANCE.
/•Ha-.. ,rf^J ':
-w-iav,-.^.
HE
YOUNG CLERK, 15TH CENTURY.
established, they adhered to it rigidly. Their
answer to the problem is, abstracts. The
sculptors of the Renaissance, before Michael
Angelo, gave another answer, which we will dis-
cuss at length later on. Michael Angelo gave a
third answer. Though his towering and colossal
genius can never be sufficiently reverenced,
yet he was technically less accomplished than
either the Greeks or the earlier Renaissance
sculptors, and did not understand either the
glorious purity of the Greek ideal nor the
system of delicate half-modeling of his imme-
diate predecessors. He had an ideal of his
own, but it is rugged, Titanic, imperfect, lack-
ing both the serene Greek beauty and the
delicate Renaissance suggestiveness ; such of
his marbles as are finished have a certain un-
satisfactoriness which he seems to have felt
himself. He felt the need of an escape from
reality, as the others had done, and he found
it in rough-hewn, unfinished blocks, which
powerfully excite the imagination. He has
had no followers in this, and constitutes a
school by himself. His answer to our prob-
lem (not an altogether satisfactory one) is,
wifinish.
The answer of the Renaissance sculptors
was, lowness of relief . They are the colorists
of sculpture. Their aim was to give some-
thing which should answer to the atmosphere
and mystery of painting, and so to be enabled
to give its variety, individuality, and natural-
ness also. To do this (working more or less
unconsciously, as artists do, and probably
without analyzing their aims or processes)
they invented and carried out a system of
low relief which is one of the loveliest and
most perfect means of artistic expression that
have ever existed. Of course the Greeks had
used bas-reliefs, and used them exquisitely ;
but their reliance, even in their medals, is
upon the same quality of large abstraction
and generalization as in their statues, not, as
in the Renaissance work, upon suggestiveness
and vagueness and its accompanying natural-
ism and individuality. There are Italian re-
liefs which are almost inconceivable in the
delicacy of their modeling. They seem hardly
more than sketched with slight touches of
shadow upon the marble. The relief is so in-
finitesimal, the modeling so subtle, that they
seem hardly to exist ; and one fears to oblit-
erate them with a careless brush of the hand,
as one might a slight charcoal-drawing. They
are not form, but the merest suggestion of
form, faint and vague and fleeting as a beauti-
ful dream.
But these wonderful men did not stop here.
Having perfected their system of low relief,
they applied it to sculpture in the round. In
their busts, in their statues, they still model,
as it were, in low relief. Nothing is made out,
nothing is realized ; the intention is indicated,
and that is all. The hollows are not as deep
as in nature, nor the projections as high. The
hand of the sculptor has paused, with delicate
self-control, just before the suggested form
was quite completed, and has left the rest to
the imagination. This is not lack of finish, as
with Michael Angelo. No ; the surfaces are
caressed into beauty with an infinity of loving
WARRIOR — 1UINO DA FIESOLE.
SCULPTORS OF THE EARLY LTALIAN RENALSSANCE.
65
.&
/'/J''
ft
7r
\f
<<%&
,.„-.>***
LAUGHING CHILD — DONATELLO.
care. It is an intentional stopping short of
complete realization ; it is lowness of relief.
This application of low relief to sculpture in
the round is the great discovery of the Re-
naissance. They had learned how to give
nature with its mystery and its atmosphere ;
how to give, not form, but the appearance of
form. They cast a thin veil over the hard
facts of nature, which the imagination delights
to penetrate.
Their reward was a nearness to natural truth
which the Greeks could not dream of. No
art gives us such an invigorating sense of
freshness of inspiration as this. " The world
is all before them where to choose " ; as they
realize no facts, they can suggest all; through
the veil of their illusive modeling they can
show us the infinite variety and individuality
of nature, and, Antaeus-like, they rise with
renewed strength from their constant contact
with mother earth. They are no longer bound
to a definite type of ideal beauty, but can
wander at will among the thousand acciden-
tal graces and half-awkward beauties of real
66
SCULPTORS OF THE EARLY ITALIAN RENAISSANCE.
human beings. They give us, not a magnifi-
cent abstract conception of Olympus, but an
endlessly delightful portrait of the world we
live in.
Lowness of relief: Have we not found at
last the true answer to our problem ? It is
hard to say that this art is greater than Greek
art, but is it not more human ? Does it not
appeal more closely to our human nature ?
Does it not instruct and charm us more ? It
has the charm of the "intimate." How quaint,
how sincere, how naif those old Florentines
were ! With what wide-open, truth-seeing eyes
they looked at the universe, and with what
manly simplicity and frankness they recorded
what they saw! What a vital, living art!
Every one of their statues is a portrait : one
has but to look at it to be convinced of
that. So, and not otherwise, must the real
original have looked. Many of their best
works are professed portraits, and their living
quality is extraordinary. Look at the Count
della Luna, for example, or Mino da Fiesole's
" Warrior," or the " Young Clerk," or the
" Lady with the Rose." Look at any of the
portrait-busts by these men. Can fidelity,
truth, vitality, be carried further ? Are not
these very people alive before you ? Do you
not feel an intimate acquaintance with them
— a profound conviction that you must have
met them yesterday ? Do you not love the
women, and like or hate or admire the men ?
But the concentration and quintessence of
Renaissance art is in that masterpiece of an
UNKNOWN WOMAN, LOUVRE. (ANOTHER VIEW.)
LADY WITH THE ROSE — VERROCCHIO,
unknown hand, known and loved by all ar-
tists as the Femme Inconnue of the Louvre.
Here are the lowness and vagueness of relief,
the floating, undefined modeling, the delicate
finish of surfaces, the exquisite modulation
and subtle curvature of line, the frank sim-
plicity of aim, and the individuality and vital-
ity of the whole, all in their utmost perfection.
What a work of art ! and, O ye gods ! what a
woman ! There she is as she lived in Flor-
ence four centuries ago, with her daintily
poised head in its demure cap, her slender,
graceful neck and half-developed breast, her
bewitching eyes, and her indefinable, evanes-
cent smile, a very pearl of women !
She lived in Florence centuries ago,
That lady smiling there.
What was . her name or rank I do not know —
I know that she was fair.
For some great man — his name, like hers, forgot
And faded from men's sight —
Loved her — he must have loved her — and has
wrought
This bust for our delight.
Whether he gained her love or had her scorn,
Full happy was his fate.
He saw her, heard her speak ; he was not born
Four hundred years too late !
Keuyon Cox,
AN ACQUAINTANCE WITH CHARLES READE,
WITH LETTERS HITHERTO UNPUBLISHED.
In writing of Charles Reade, the summer
of 1859 comes to mind as a period crowded
with uncommon opportunities. To a young
American who is to see England for the first
time, the land of our old home is in itself ex-
citement and inspiration ; but to have ac-
quaintance with living England then was a
privilege such as persons born in another age
might justly envy.
The roll of illustrious men and women who
were then at the height of their power is easily
recalled by lovers of English literature ; and
Hawthorne also was in England. The great-
ness of the past was in harmony with the
marvel of the present. It was the land of Shak-
spere indeed ; but if it proved to be Tennyson,
and not Shakspere, who read his poems to us,
if we sat under the cedar of Lebanon while
he questioned —
" Oh, art thou sighing for Lebanon
In the long breeze that streams to thy delicious
East, . . .
Dark cedar ! "
rather than walked under the mulberry at
Cambridge, listening to the voice of Milton,
one seemed hardly less a miracle than the
other ; surely the marvel was equal to young
and reverent eyes. It was only a part of this
enchantment when Charles Reade took rooms
for us at Oxford, during a few days of the
long vacation, close by Magdalen College,
where he was then Bursar. Summer days at
Oxford, in rain and sun (it was chiefly rain !)
and almost perfect solitude, walking through
cloisters and parks, gardens and libraries and
museums, seeing everything through the par-
tial eyes and scholarly initiation of our friend,
that might indeed be called " seeing Oxford."
Lest his visitors should be lost in the mazes
of the Old World, the following had been
sent in a note to them :
" Programme.
" 1st. Ask for the Angel and Star 'Bus.
" 2d. Tell it to take you to Mr. Whiting's, 79 High
street.
" 3d. Deposit your heavy luggage there.
"4th. Come on to Magdalen College.
" On entering the college you will find yourselves
in a cloister. Turn to the left. After about eighty yards
you will come to a small opening. Pass through it,
and you will see a long line of buildings before you, at
some distance. Cross the grass slantindicular, bearing
to the right a little, and you will hit on
Staircase, No. 2.
Up this staircase two flights you will find a door with
Dr. Reade
written over it.
That's Me! "
This was not, however, our first acquaint-
ance with Charles Reade. He was not a man
to receive strangers, or friends of correspond-
ence merely, into his retirement, and bear with
equanimity a purposeless infringement on his
time ; but he was full of ardor and a kind of
chivalrous devotion to his real friends, which
made no sacrifice seem too great in their
behalf. This loyalty of nature, which was a
strong characteristic, was early discerned in
his business correspondence. Among the
many letters to his American publishers, be-
tween the publication of his first tale, " Peg
Wofhngton," in 1855, and our visit to Oxford
in 1859, I find this trait continually appearing.
The American editions of " Peg Woffing-
ton," " Christie Johnstone," and " Clouds and
Sunshine," all bear the date of 1855, and the
earliest letters in my possession from Charles
Reade appear to have been written after that
time, and during the preparation of " It is
Never too Late to Mend," which was re-
printed in America in 1856. It will be remem-
bered that the title of this romance, as
originally announced, was " Susan Merton,"
but was changed by the author while the work
was in press to the name it now bears.
The following note is sufficiently character-
istic to be printed in full :
" 193 Piccadilly, Sept. 26.
"Dear Sir: I saw Bentley,Jun., to-day, and
had a friendly talk with him about our busi-
ness. He maintained publisher's right to dis-
pose of the early sheets ; but acknowledged
his firm had but a small pecuniary interest.
I told him I had concluded with Messrs.
Ticknor, and could not draw back.
" He said he must talk with his father, and
meantime begged me to go no farther with
Messrs. Ticknor. I replied that it was not
possible to go farther, for that I was com-
pletely committed to them.
" There the matter rests at present, but my
impression is that Bentley will not give us much
trouble. I am not so sure about Messrs. Apple-
ton. If you write to Ticknor & Field [sic], beg
them not to worry themselves any more about
68
AN ACQUAINTANCE WITH CHARLES READE.
this. They have done all they can do. They have
proposed terms which I distinctly accept, and
the matter now rests with me. Their interest
is mine, and my sense of justice is on the side
of the firm who have made me in the States.
To conclude, tell them there will be no diffi-
culty after ' Susan Merton,' and in her case
the difficulties m?/slbe overcome, if any.
" I am yours sincerely,
" Reade."
One month later, to the same person,
probably the celebrated London publisher,
Triibner, he wrote as follows:
"... I propose to Messrs. Ticknor &
Field, then, to allow me so much upon each
copy sold of ' S. M. ' ; in short, to treat me in
some measure as an American writer.
" I propose this at once, because it is the
only basis of business that can be permanent
with me, and as we must look beyond ' Susan
Merton ' some day, we had better do it now.
" An arrangement of this sort is the fairest,
and stimulates the writer to do his very best
in every case ; and we all need every stimulus
of this sort, so easy is it to write, and so cruelly
hard is it t© write well.
" I wait, then, the firm's answer to my pro-
posal, and protect their interest in the mean-
time.
" Tell those gentlemen I am charmed with
the copies; both works are well printed, and
bound and lettered to perfection. The type
of ' Christie Johnstone,' in particular, is su-
preme, sharp, clean, and open.
" Need I add that I am much gratified and
cheered by the good opinion my brothers and
sisters over the wTater appear to have of me? "
These letters seem to be among the first of
an interesting series respecting the details of
the publication of his books in America ; but
as there is no year given in any one of the
letters, and often no date, the precise time of
writing must in some cases be only a matter of
conjecture.
Charles Reade's anxiety concerning the
minutest questions of printing and illustration
was not easily allayed, but when the result
was at all satisfactory he was quick and hearty
in his words of commendation.
It would seem that the following passage
must have been written at the same period of
nervous excitement with the foregoing, just
after his first short stories were printed, and
before the appearance of his three-volume
venture of " Susan Merton," or " Never too
Late to Mend." He writes to his Boston pub-
lishers from the Garrick Club :
" Will you be so kind as to collect for me
all the honest critiques that shall be printed
about the work in your country, favorable or
adverse, and send them over to me ?
" I am afraid I have tried your patience
hard with the three-volume novel, but you
must consider that while you have been kept
waiting the work has been growing in impor-
tance; and believe me, that great successes
are not to be achieved without time and labor.
" It would never have done for me to pro-
duce three mediocre volumes. As it is, I
think I can promise you a success in the U. S.
" In this country it is very doubtful. I
shock their prejudices so, poor dear old souls."
And in still another letter on the same sub-
ject he says :
" The MS. has been returned to me, and
even now I have not yet begun to prints
being very anxious to secure you an ample
start. At the same time I must tell you
I am a little uneasy at not hearing from you
upon any matter of detail connected with the
work.
" There was time, I think, if you acted on
my last advice, for me to correct the first
half-dozen sheets of your copy.
" No copy of ' Clouds and Sunshine ' has
reached me. It is a matter deeply to be re-
gretted that I cannot see your copy all in
print before it goes to the public. I defy any
man to polish and correct MS. as well as he
can print. I have done the best for you I
can, but I hope you will send me an inter-
leaved copy as soon after issue as possible,
and no pains shall be spared to bring the
American edition to perfection."
However interesting such letters may be as
portraying the character of the writer, they
possess at this time a wider value. To the
authors and publishers of books they give a
picture of the difficulties which were just then
beginning to assume grave proportions re-
specting the reprinting of English books and
the remuneration of English authors. Long
before this time Charles Dickens had brought
all the brilliant powers of his genius to bear
in behalf of righteous dealing between the
nations ; but, foiled in the attempt, he had
returned to England silenced and forever dis-
couraged. Nevertheless, there was still cour-
tesy among publishers, and a prior right to
reprint was sufficient to prevent thieving and
to allow the English author to receive a good
sum for his work from the honest publisher.
Still acting upon this ground, Messrs. Tick-
nor & Fields paid Charles Reade a fair price
for his work, but not such a price as the work
deserved, could they have been themselves
assured against loss.
The great popularity of his books excited
anew the rapacity of publishers, and, in spite
AN ACQUAINTANCE WITH CHARLES READE.
69
of all possible care and foresight, there was
trouble and loss of money. All restrictions
against reprinting were finally broken down,
so that from that time and until the possible
future of a righteous law no English or
American author can ever again receive the
money due to him from the public. When
Walter Scott was dying from overwork, it was
calculated that if he could receive one cent
from each of his American readers he could
at least pay his debts and close his eyes in
peace. From that sad hour until this moment
the peoples of England and America have
continued to steal the labor of men, the value
of which to the world is greater than all the
gold that has ever been coined.
The following letters, therefore, sufficiently
explain themselves :
" Garrick Club.
"Dear Sirs: . . . Triibner tells me these
shipments of MS. have cost you nearly
^20. I confess this terrifies me. Surely such
expense is not necessary. The whole MS.,
1 Susan Merton,' remains in my hands. No
part of it will go to an English publisher
until you are in a condition to print.
" Why throw your dollars into the Atlantic ?
It really is not worth while sending these
books by post.
" However, one comfort : this will never
occur again. Should the work succeed, the
publishing of the next will be entirely in my
hands, and you may come out a month be-
fore I am advertised in London, if you like ;
and should it fail, I shall write no more
stories, since everything else is so much easier
to write.
" I assure you the labor I have bestowed
on this story seems to me disproportioned to
the result I have obtained.
" You inquire after ' Live and Let Live.' I
can only tell you that purchased this
story of me two years ago, that he has had it
by him ever since, and that with it lying in
his drawer he brings out, from time to time,
some of the feeblest trash that ever dribbled
from a human pen in the way of narrative.
I wish I could tell you why he does those
two things, either of them, but it is impos-
sible. We can fathom a wise man, but fools
are inscrutable. But be assured that if ' Live
and Let Live ' were a very important story, I
would, to meet your wishes, send to the old
ninny and buy it back again; but it is not
worth this — at least I think not.
" I have read a very amusing critique in
the ' North American Review.' It seems you
have annoyed Messrs. Crosby and something
Vol. XXIX.— 8.
or other, by publishing Mr. Reade. May I
venture to hope from the pique so clumsily
concealed that the volumes are selling ? . . .
" I met, the other day, a charming country-
man of yours, Mr. N. Hawthorne. I had too
little opportunity of conversing with him, but
the impression is delightful. Item : He has
an eye like a violet with a soul in it.
" He mentioned your name to me. Said
you had told him to make my acquaintance.
I am much obliged to you if you did.
" I beg you will correspond with me fully
upon any matter that interests you.
" And am
" Yours sincerely,
" Charles Reade."
" You asked me to recommend you books.
I recommend you to read the biography (I
don't know the exact title) of Hedley Vicars,
a very religious young captain, who fell be-
fore Sebastopol. It will not interest Boston
so much as it does London, but still a Public
is a public, and there is in this book a fea-
ture— the Public goes for a strong feature.
Here you have a fighting saint — a religious
red-coat — a man who cuts down a Russian
with the gospel of mercy in his mouth. This
card has never failed from Cromwell down-
ward. Cut out one-third judiciously. Publish
the rest, and I will pay all you lose by it. It
is not well written — not one book in a hun-
dred is — but there is a touch of sincerity and
warmth."
When the reader calls to mind that these
are but a selection from the letters of Reade
at this period, it is wonderful the amount of
writing and anxious thought he bestowed,
not only, upon his stories, but also upon their
safe and lawful reproduction.
" 6 Bolton Row, Mayfair.
" Gentlemen : I have to inform you that
upon calculating my MS., ' Susan Merton,' as
it stands (unfinished), I find there are more
than 3 vols, octavo written. I have therefore
nothing to do but to reduce it by excision.
" I will forward you next week instructions
for cutting your copy. The severest cuts will
be made in the prison business, vol. 2, which
is very wordy in parts.
" I have more MS. copied for you, and
will send some next week; but first should
like to cut wherever I can.
" Heart-breaking work this, I assure you.
" I am
Yours very sincerely,
" Charles Reade."
7o
AN ACQUAINTANCE WITH CHARLES READE.
" Garrick Club, King Street,
" Covent Garden, London,
"July 20.
" Dear Sir : Herewith you will receive
more of our printed sheets corrected by me.
" You must not mistake my motive in send-
ing them out.
" I am quite content to stand upon the MS.
I have sent you, and I secretly hope that you
have already printed and published that MS.
But I have taken for granted that you would
at all events like to be kept informed what
we are doing here. Moreover, I need not tell
ypu that print always reveals some blots to
an author, however carefully his MS. may
have been polished.
" I make it my particular request that as
soon as ever you are out you will send me an
interleaved copy. By means of this I will pre-
pare you a second edition that shall be as
faultless as I can make any work. With these
printed sheets I send you a sketch of ' The
Southern Cross,' the South Polar Constella-
tion, which is to figure on my pages in vol.
3, English, and in what I presume will be
your 2d volume.
" I cannot help feeling some anxiety about
your wood-cuts, and this anxiety is increased
by your silence, which leads me to fear I have
not succeeded in showing you the importance
of those effects I aim at by them.
"These are no vulgar illustrations; they
are not done upon the common plan of
illustrations. They take the place of the text,
and the reader reads them as well as views
them.
" The more important is it that they should
be finely executed, and, above all, true. How-
ever, at present I can only repeat what I
have said to you before, that it will be worth
your while to look closely into the matter and
reject all inaccicrate or feeble representations of
tombstones and knives with gold-dust on
them. I have an appendix to ' It is Never
too Late to Mend.' This appendix contains
some curious matter : ' The Autobiography
of a Thief,' and critical remarks thereon by
the Parson. Now, this appendix I do not
mean to print unless the novel should meet
with greater success than I dare hope for.
Still, as the matter is as good as anything in
the story, I shall send it you out with this
understanding, that you run the novel first
without it. After your first sale, should any
U. S. publisher try to interfere with your mo-
nopoly, it might be worth while to issue a
second edition, with this ' Autobiography of
a Thief added by the author's hand. You
would then have something to offer your pub-
lic which would be inaccessible to any rival
publisher. Since I shall not print the said
appendix in England, you see that I am not
indifferent to our joint interest in the U. S."
He winds up one letter full of business de-
tail with these words, which appear to be the
foreshadowing of another of his famous books:
" I hate a lie in yellow, white, blue, just as
much as I do in black and white, and would
not for the world one should go to the Amer-
ican or any public in my name." These words
were written with reference to what he con-
sidered an imperfect illustration which had
been forwarded to him of " Susan Merton."
Again he writes, with his anxieties unabated :
" I have promised to pay the sum Bentley
was to receive for early sheets from Appleton.
" I needed not to do this. I have never
acknowledged his right to sell my sheets out
of England, but in a case of such deep im-
portance I would not leave you without any
additional safeguard a few pounds could
buy. . . .
" ' Susan Merton ' is a very bad title, because,
under that title, the book is a failure, Susan
Merton being a third-rate character in point
of invention and color.
" This title, too, would prepare the public
for a disappointment. I have written two
novels with female titles and female heroes, —
women the principal characters.
" It would be a signal want of judgment in
me to let a three-volume novel, competing
with one-vol. novels, be disgracefully de-
feated.
" How would you like to hear your public
saying of Susan Merton : Oh ! she is not to
be compared with Christie Johnstone or
Peg Woffington ? This sort of remark, though
leveled at the character, would hit the work,
if I were so unwise as to make the work and
the character one.
" My new novel is an original and important
work, but both its originality and its impor-
tance — moral and pictorial — are uncon-
nected, or slightly connected, with Susan
Merton. The scenes in which she figures are
the stale and conventional part of the work.
The soul of it are the scenes in which a bad
man is despaired of and tortured by fools, and
afterward not despaired of by a wise and
good man, but encouraged, softened, con-
verted. These psychological scenes and the
melodramatic scenes that follow, in which
the thief's understanding is convinced as well
as his heart, are the immortal part of the
work. The rest dozens of men and women
on both sides the water could have written,
and better than I have done them. I stand,
therefore, on my ace of spades and not on
AN ACQUAINTANCE WITH CHARLES READE.
7*
my nine of hearts, and the title of the work
is ' It's Never too Late to Mend.'
" On this I am peremptory and sensitive, too.
As it is cruel to make you lose the effect of
past advertisements, I suppose you must add
1 or " Susan Merton," ' if you are bent on it ;
but, if so, mind, * It is Never too Late to
Mend ' must be the first title. But even this
is against my judgment.
" If you can't do the diggers' knife and
gold so that a digger, seeing them, should
acknowledge the likeness, cut out the whole
passage ' Would you know,' etc. — cut and all.
Your public will never miss it, and besides, it
ends a volume with us, so that a coup is re-
quired, but it will come in the heart of your
second volume, where no coup is required.
To conclude, in this and other details remem-
ber that at present our most important object
is to occupy the ground — to produce at once
in Boston a reasonably correct edition of
* Never too Late to Mend.'
" Publish at once ; but print for once on
movable type. This is my advice. The work
published, send me over a copy to Trubner's
(not by a private hand, for God's sake). I
will collate your edition and Bentley's, correct-
ing his by yours, which is far superior in
places, and yours by his where print has re-
vealed, as print always does, a few blots and
superfluities, and produce a uniform second
edition for both countries, identical ad litem.
Meantime, if you are ready, publish without
fear. I repeat that I will stand or fall by the
Boston MS., as corrected by those elisions which
I sent you out by letter two months or more
ago. Should these elisions not have been com-
prehended, the London sheets may be useful.
" Many thanks for your wish that I was at
Boston. I should be there if I was not a fool.
For I have received magnificent offers from
countrymen of yours if I would come over
and lecture to them about ' the Drama,' a
subject I am not ignorant of, and I have a
nobler temptation in a grand and untouched
theme ; for nothing can be more obvious to
any man who thinks than that no human
creature, Yankee or Briton, has ever really
sung or painted the United States or the men
and women who make them what they are.
But alas ! I shall never see that glorious land,
I shall never see the great Anglo-Saxon race
going ahead, with the fetters of fog and mist
and prejudice taken off their souls and brains
and bodies, and shall never have the honor
of giving the world poetical pictures of things
and men known here only by sordid carica-
tures— and all because I cannot live eight
days at sea. Well, mind, you have not the
same excuse for not coming to see me, for
you have crossed the Atlantic and can again.
" Write to me oftener; you have had about
four letters from me for one you have sent
me, and this was a mistake. However, I will
take care that we have never all this bother
about a work again. But there have been
peculiar difficulties in this case, as you are
well aware.
" However, I venture to hope that, two
months hence, you will not grudge them nor
repent the trouble you have taken with me.
" I am, dear sir, yours faithfully,
" Chas. Reade."
Careful as his publishers were, his anxious
spirit was always up and a-field before them.
Here is a truly business-like epistle :
" 193 Piccadilly, Oct. 4.
" Gentlemen : I am quite satisfied with
your offer, ten per cent, on each copy sold
and paid, and am ready, on these conditions,
to hold myself engaged to you with respect
to ' Susan Merton ' and future works.
" But I must ask you to withdraw one
clause in your proposal, ' provided we are not
printed upon by any other publisher.' Nov/,
it is not in my power to prevent a New York
or Boston publisher from issuing an edition
after yours. To this your exertions, not mine,
must and will be addressed. All I can do is
to give you a long start, and so the cream of
the business. If Messrs. A or B, publishing
from your sheets, as you from mine, should
rob us of the milk, or some of it, this would
be our joint misfortune. I should share it with
you in the proportion of ten per cent, (since
my profit depends on your sales), and I think
you ought to share it with me.
" Mr. Triibner agrees with me, and would,
I believe, as your agent, commit you to this
view of our relation ; but as there is time to
refer the question to you, it is fairer to you
to do so. This, therefore, is under considera-
tion.
" As, however, I have no doubt your an-
swer will be satisfactory, I shall act in your
favor, and by advice of Mr. Triibner, pending
your answer.
" I am having a MS. written out in a cop-
per-plate hand, and from this MS., carefully
corrected by me, you will perhaps have to
print a considerable portion of the novel.
" Perhaps you will think me very precise in
settling the exact terms of our relation ; but
you must consider that this is no slight or
temporary business. I think I am now build-
ing a connection which, if the foundation be
perfect, will last my whole career."
Hope and fear respecting the success of his
labors swiftly alternated and troubled his mind
72
AN ACQUAINTANCE WITH CHARLES READE.
at this period. Unhappily his book was not
to be as successful as he hoped.
He wrote again :
" Who is so sick of ' Susan Merton ' as I am ?
c* But I am a writer. I ca?inot scribble. A
three-volume novel is a great prose epic. I
hope never to write another, and this one
must not lower me. My delay is caused by
labor, and labor is seldom wasted."
Later on he says, speaking of the plans and
prospects for his new book : " Do not talk to
me of four thousand copies of such a work as
1 Never too Late to Mend' — please" And
then I find this intermediate letter before the
result was known in America, which is given
in full as follows :
"Hotel Rivoli, Rue Rivoli,
" Paris, Oct. 4.
" Dear Sir : Your letter 8 Sept. has just
been forwarded to me, and relieves me of
considerable anxiety, although 1 had provided
for the correction of your sheets by my friend
Tom Taylor.
" I am happy to inform you that the title is
as successful as I expected — letters have been
written in the journals under the signature ' It
Is Never Too L,' etc., and many public al-
lusions show that the title has hit.
" I cannot tell you what measure of success
the book has, for I don't know. But it is a
success, and they have really made a cut into
a second edition ; I hope you will not sell it
too cheap. I shall never write another fiction
of that bulk and solidity — 5 vols., the size of
* Christie Johnstone ' ! — (are you aware that
is its precise magnitude ?), and I naturally
look for remuneration to the country where I
know my success is really great.
" As far as England is concerned the book
is a dead loss to me. Two years out of my
life, the brains out of my skull, and the heart
out of my body — for what ?
" Bernard Tauchnitz publishes me in Leip-
sic upon an agreement, and the French are
translating l Christie Johnstone.'
" In about a fortnight I hope to be at my
home in 6 Bolton Row, where any friends of
yours, or any countrymen, who shall have
provided themselves with a line from you, will
be cordially received. Be so good as to make
this known as widely as possible.
" It is a small acknowledgment of respect
and affection toward a great public that has
had the pluck to form a decided opinion
(right or wrong) upon a living author, and
at once.
" I am, dear sir,
" Yours very truly,
" Charles Reade."
Too soon, alas! came the word of discour-
agement, proving that his American publisher
understood "the pulse of the machine" only
too well. Reade replied :
" Four thousand copies is a small return,
and bears a very slight proportion to the Eng-
lish sale, whereas until now the American sale
of my work has far exceeded the English sale.
. . . The cheap English edition has been
dishonestly brought out. . . . Were he the
only publisher in the British isles, he should
never publish another work for me, except
by fraud or violence. . . . You will per-
haps be glad to hear there is a chance of
my next work being a single volume, such
as would make one good dollar's worth for
you." .
Reade's interest in every-day life, in the
social condition of the people, in the world
outside of books, was like that of a child
born and bred in city streets, when first al-
lowed to enjoy " green growing things " and
the freedom of the country. He was as native
to the world of books as a bee to a clover-
field, and might well distrust his own personal,
because comparatively narrow, experience of
men ; therefore he was always crying out to
have extracts sent him from American news-
papers, and asks that his correspondent shall
" take note of any very gallant actions that
are done in your part of the world. I am
going to write something where this would be
useful. No matter whether the brave fellows
are soldiers, sailors, tinkers, or tailors. Will
you make a note of this ? "
" Never too Late to Mend " was far from
being his last story. It was his first great
ship launched out into the sea of novel-writ-
ing. His brain was teeming with plans, and
it was only necessary for him to watch the
retreating figures of one drama, to behold
another company entering by the opposite
wing upon the theater of his mind.
It seemed a very pleasant spring morning
in London, whatever the weather may have
been, when Charles Reade came to breakfast,
and we heard him talk for the first time. Two
or three hours slipped away while he excited
himself by eagerly describing a case at law
in which he was interested for charity's sake.
I remember he said the case had been de-
ferred, and for every three months' delay
permitted by Lord Campbell he was obliged
to expend seventy pounds. He also described
the ingratitude of the person for whom he had
undertaken the suit. But the details of con-
versation have necessarily vanished. I can
only recall with singular distinctness the ardor
of the converser, and the scintillations of his
wit. He spoke with the fire of the same man
who had written the scene in " Peg Woffing-
AN ACQUAINTANCE WITH CH ARIES READE.
73
ton," where the heroine dances with the
Triplets and their children, and he soon
proved himself to be the author of Peggy's
reconciliation with Mrs. Vane.
In a later visit, although the subject was dif-
ferent, the same power of self-excitement was
apparent, as well as a kind of pre-Raphaelism in
his studies from life. Each new fact startled
him, and seemed to present itself as the
corner-stone of a fresh romance.
"The Cloister and the Hearth" was seri-
ously progressing at this period, and for this
he was making studies during his summer
vacation at Oxford. Nevertheless his " medi-
aeval story," as he was wont to call it in
his letters, was delayed, cast and recast,
printed in part, with another title, in
" Once a Week," and, in short, left to float
in mid-air, while " White Lies," " The Eighth
Commandment," and " Love me Little, Love
me Long " appeared in swift succession.
There was more or less correspondence re-
specting each of the books, but " The Cloister
and the Hearth " seems to have been a
favorite with the author.
I can recall his taking down the " Autobi-
ography of Erasmus " from the shelf in the
great library at Oxford, and showing us a
brief description (only a line or two) of the
father and mother of Erasmus, with a few
dates concerning them, saying, " There is all
the foundation for my story, ' A Good Fight.' "
This was the title he gave to the first draught
of the " mediaeval story." In one of his let-
ters he writes :
" You may well be surprised that I am so
long over ' Good Fight,' but the fact is, it is
not the writing but the reading which makes
me slow. It may perhaps give you an idea
of the system in which I write fiction, if I
get down the list of books I have read,
skimmed, or studied to write this little misery.
"The great work, i. ' Lacroix and Sire on
the Middle Ages;' 5 thick quartos. 2. 'Du
Sommerard,' do. ; the plates only. 5. 'Strutt's
Works,' and 9. ' Hone's Day-books, Table-
books,' etc. 10. 'Leland's Itinerary.' n.Fynes'
Moryson's do. 12. ' Bouyer's History of the
Popes.' 13. Ranke's ditto. 14. ' Erasm. Collo-
quia.' 15. ' Erasm. Parabola.' 16. Munster's
' Cosmographia.' 17. Luther's * Table Talk.'
1 8. Wanley's ' Little World.' 1 9. Victor Hugo's
'Hunchback.' Scott's 'Quentin D.' 'Monas-
tery.' 22. 'Abbot' 23. Fosbrooke's 'British
Monachism.' 24. Newcome's 'Abbey of St.
Albans.' 25. 'Fox on Monasteries.' 26. M.
H. Bloxam on ditto. 27. ' Monumenta
Franciscana.' 28. ' Epistolae Obscurorum Vi-
rorum.' 29. Mosheim. 30. Jamieson's ' Le-
gends of the Monastic Orders,' ditto. 31.
'Sacred and Legendary Art.' 32. Vasari. ^.
Bryant. 34. Mrs. Merrifield's ' History of
Painting.' 35. ' Mores Catholici.' 36. 3 vols.
Southey's ' Common- Place Book.' 37. ' His-
tory of the Dominicans,' Marchese. ^8. Hal-
lam's ' Middle Ages.' 39. Lit. Europe. 41.
Humphrie's two works on do. 42. Shaw's
1 Dresses and Decorations.' 43. Maitland's
' Dark Ages.' 44. Pugin and Smith, ' Ecclesi-
astical Vest.' 45. Warton's ' Early English
Poetry.' 46. ' The Harleian Miscellany.' 47,
' The Paston Letters.' 48. ' Correspondence,
Henry and Wolsey,' Government Publication.
49. Grove's 'Antiquarian Repository.' 50.
Index ' Gentleman's Magazine.' 51. Do.
'Archaeological Journal.' 52. Labarti's ' Hand-
book of the Middle Ages.' 53. ' Les Voyages
de Montaigne.' 54. Coryat's ' Crudities.' 55.
Monteil's ' Vie Privee des Francais.' 56. *Le
Grand d'Aupy,' ditto. 57. 'Dutch Geogra-
phy,' Reynolds G. Van Reschied. 58. Knight's
' Life of Erasmus.' 59. Jortin's. 60. Bayle's
in Diet. 61. i Chronique de Flandres.' 62.
Henry's * History Great Britain.' 63. Sharon
Turner's ditto. 64. Froissart. 65. Monstrelet
66. Philippe de Confines. 67. Barante's ' Dukes
of Burgundy.' 68. Brandt's ' History of the
Reformation.' 69. Liber Vagatorum. 70.
Hecker's 'Epidemics of the Middle Ages.'
71. Welars de Honecort's ' Sketch-book.' 72.
Norica. 73. John Guttenberg. 75. Ben Jon-
son's 'Alchemist,' and ' Volpone,' the old
plays in Dodsley, and especially 76. 'The
Four P's.' 77. 'LeLivred'Or des Meteors,' by
Michel & Fournier. 78. Pugin's ' Contrasts/
79. Monuments Francais inedits, etc., etc.
" This system, wasted on an Old World
story, has kept you and me apart some
months, which I regret ; but then I hope your
time will come to benefit by it; for surely
this must be the right method. Any way, I
shall apply the same diligence and research
to the subject of our own day I am prepar-
ing for you, that I have expended, perhaps
wasted, on a mediaeval tale. Luckily a great
part of the research is already done. I shall
not venture next year on the theme I men-
tioned to you ; that must be reserved for 1862
or '3, if I am alive.
" But I have a theme for which I have
already collected many invaluable facts, and
a living character or two. Then I have got
what Ben Jonson called ' brave notions ' in
my head. So keep a good slice of the 'Atlan-
tic ' for me in May, and we will do something
considerable together."
Later he writes again : " My mediaeval
story has been interrupted by cruel lawsuits
in defense of my copyrights which have laid me
on a sick-bed, as well as hindered my work."
74
AN ACQUAINTANCE WITH CHARIES READE.
And in another letter : " Let us hope that
' White Lies ' will not be quite so dead a fail-
ure as ' Never too Late to Mend.'" And yet
again : " Let me express a hope that your
Government will some day deign to remember
that we have the honor to be more nearly
related to you in blood than we are to France,
Prussia, Saxony, etc., etc.; and will hold us
out a hand as these nations have done."
All the loss, uncertainty, and trouble he ex-
perienced through the absence of copyright
culminated at last in that extraordinary produc-
tion, "The Eighth Commandment," regarding
which he writes in one of his letters : "I
think that ' Eighth Commandment ' is a bit
of good seed, which will bear fruit in time,
and that sooner or later it will be an honor
both to publisher and author to have stood
firm in so just and honorable a cause."
This is a modest reference to a book which
stands among the first of Charles Reade's
works in dramatic power. His sketch of the
life of M. Maquet is unrivaled, and if novel-
readers fail to read the book for lack of a
love-story, no author should fail to read it as
an example of vigorous wit infused into a dry
subject.
In the following letter he describes an un-
expected outgrowth from its publication :
" There is no news in England. Parliament
dissolved ; literature taking her usual rest.
Nothing going but Garibaldi.
" There is one Garibaldian in our house,
which came about thus : Mr., or, as we used
to call them at his age, Master saved
my life, by which I mean my copyright. Vide
Appendix to ' Eighth Commandment ' —
" ' You take my house, when you do take the prop
That doth sustain my house ; you take my life,
When you do take the means whereby I live.'
Shakespeare.
— or something to that effect. I was very
much obliged to him, and showed it, after the
manner of authors, in sentences tolerably well
turned. Imposed on by the sound of these,
he writes to me one day that he is tired of
being a vegetable and wants to be an active
member of society, and will I help ? Yes.
Then what he wants is ' to fight for Italian
liberties, and to go upon the ground at some-
body else's expense, having no money, but only
pluck.' I reply that I understand the only
conditions on which the Signor Garibaldi will
allow a Briton to be knocked on the head in
his sacred cause are, that the said Briton shall
be so disposed of at his own cost and charges.
But I placed my house at his service and in-
vited him to come and try if he could not
make a better bargain with the agents of
Garibaldi aforesaid. Well, he comes and
haunts the town for a fortnight, and finds
several men cf words, but not one man of
dollars, shillings, and so on.
"At last, the very day before he had ar-
ranged to go back to Dublin, turns up from
Italy one of Garibaldi's staff, Captain Styles,
an Englishman, very scarlet, very bedizened,
and wearing a scimitar -h_ that shape in-
stead of the good old-fashioned toasting-fork
of Anglo-Saxon armies. This hero came to
recruit for Garibaldi, and he did it on this
wise :
"First he called for pen and ink, 'which
did come at his command,' and wrote to 'The
Times ' a letter that would have done no dis-
credit to an attorney. It invited Englishmen
to visit Italy, and undertook to make the
voyage easy to them and to furnish them with
the means of protecting themselves against
all the dangers of the country. At this equiv-
ocating proclamation the law winked, and the
ardent spirits called on Styles and enlisted.
Then went Styles down to the House of
Commons, so scarlet and so green, so scimi-
tared and bedizened, that, instead of passing
their bills, the members were all Styles-struck;
and while they sat gazing at his plumage,
legislation died out like the snuff of a candle,
the clock struck unawares, the session had
ended, and there was an end of them.
That afternoon two M. P.'s enlisted, and
ordered their regimentals of Isaacs, 71 Jer-
myn st. And now I shall relate a lament-
able incident at the corner of ' Bridge st.,'
Westminster. Outside a shop hung a cage in
which was an Australian parrot gorgeous to
behold. This bird looked down on jays and
goldfinches, and even western parrots, with
just disdain, and life- guardsmen passing did
but provoke a smile.
" Styles sauntered by after electrifying the
House, and at sight of him the wretched bird
gave one squawk and the next minute was
found on the floor of his cage dead of envy.
" Styles passed on as if nothing had
happened, and on reaching his humble lodg-
ing, whose dinginess set off his preternatural
brightness, he found my Irishman waiting for
him. (Mark how the simplest narrative of
true events falls sometimes into the forms of
art.) They soon struck the bargain. Italy to
find the voyage out, the plumage, the rifle,
and one shilling per day. Dublin to find the
man, the valor, and the voyage back. This
last, however, is an inconsiderable item, the
costume being such that no rifleman can miss
it, and the Neapolitan army possessing rifles
amongst its implements of war.
" In Styles's lodgings was stuck up a placard
to this effect : ' Whereas Englishmen are noto-
AN ACQUAINTANCE WITH CIIARIES READE.
75
riously fond of excursions at the slack time
of year, and as Italy, with its rare beauties
of art and nature, is becoming every year a
more popular field of those excursions, Signor
Garibaldi, anxious to show his appreciation
of the sympathy his country and her sorrows
excite in noble England, has placed a steam-
boat at the English excursionists' disposal.
On arriving they will find the country in a
troubled state; they will therefore be provided
with arms against all who might otherwise
molest them with impunity. However, Signor
Garibaldi's precautions will not end there.
Being strangers in a foreign land, they will
be provided with a uniform costume, by
means of which the excursionists will at once
recognize each other, and sustain, defend,
and support each other in case of any serious
danger, which, however, is not expected.'
"And so they keep on the windy side of
the law. It is, however, to be hoped they will
not manoeuvre so profoundly as this on the
field of battle ; for, if they do, the Bourbons
are safe at Naples for my day.
"At this juncture comes to me a letter from
Dublin, in a lady's hand. The Garibaldian
brings it in to me, and says in a peculiar tone:
1 That's from my people.' I look up and see
his face the color of his future uniform. My
mind misgives me. The letter is from the
mamma du petit Garibaldian, and at the first
word I suspect I am not held at Dublin the
benevolent character I have been all along
considering myself, nor at all the friend of the
Three Stars Family. Letter begins not ' Dear
Sir,' nor' Horned Sir' (misspelling for Honored
Sir), nor even ' Sir,' but
" ' Mr. Reade.'
" Voila qui est sec.
" In short, I learn from my correspondent
that under all this chivalry my young hero is
a bit of a liar. That he had read to his
family, not my letters about Garibaldi, but
carefully selected extracts, in which no Italian
name was mentioned ; and thus he had easily
obtained the maternal consent to visit me and
London, and had him furnished with money
for sights and amusements (bloodless ones).
His secret intentions, however, had been be-
trayed by his sweetheart, doubtlessly on the
principle that to betray a traitor is as fair as
to spoil an Egyptian.
" Nice lot, the Irish.
" I wrote a short explanation, and in answer
to mamma's question, whether I approved his
going to Garibaldi, I said certainly not, unless
the alternative was to be a life of absolute
nullity and dependence. Whereupon I ad-
vised her either to propose to the boy some
way of life, or to give him her blessing and
let him start for Italy, but under the distinct
understanding that her door and arms are to
be open to him, should fillibustering disappoint
him. Comes a reply, beginning, ' My dear
sir,' and withdrawing her objection to Gari-
baldi; but in the body of the letter she quietly,
and without saying I must undeceive you on
one point, or any such phrase, just lets me
know the various businesses and professions
that had been offered to her poor foolish boy,
as she mildly calls him (this is so like a
woman), and by him rejected either without
trial or upon a short trial.
" On this I catch my crusader, and explain
to him that however foolish an act may be
there is a creditable and discreditable way
of doing it. Item : I let him know that out
of my house romantic young blockheads must
go to the devil on the square, or not at all.
" Finally, his better angel gets the upper
hand, probably for a while only, and off he
goes to Dublin, where I hope he will stay, or
at least not go without his friends' cordial
advice.
" Now what do you think of this young
scamp getting money to go to London, mean-
ing all the time to go to Italy, nay farther,
to seek that ' bourne no traveler returns,' by
running among rifles in the dress of a popin-
jay ? Here endeth part the first of
" THE TALE OF A CRUSADER.
" And if you want to hear the rest, first, it
will have to happen, and secondly, you will
have to write to me and pretend you are
interested in it. Adieu ! "
About this period he writes further :
" I have read the critiques on ' Eighth
C.' with interest, and amusement at the
variety of opinion on a matter so little open
to doubt.
" But the feeling seems much to prepon-
derate in favor of Moses, and leans, though
very properly in a less degree, in favor of me.
I am content with the success of my chief."
In a foot-note at the end of the " Eighth
Commandment," he says :
" Besides my losses at Croydon " (where
the case was tried of which he wrote), " it
costs me, at least, ^1000 to write such a
book as this, the sale of which will not pay
its expenses. Yet, with the same labor, I
could have produced three volumes of lucra-
tive fibs."
It was not extraordinary, therefore, that, in
our first interview, he should have appeared
strangely excited in discussing the subject of
the courts. He had already begun to struggle
against the wrongs of the time.
But he loved something else, and he was
76
AN ACQUAINTANCE WITH CHARIES RE ABE.
fond of " his lucrative fibs," as he disdain-
fully called his stories. 1 may say, more
justly, it was his " enthusiasm for humanity,"
driven into channels native to his genius,
which made him a story-teller first of all.
When he turned into the world of romance,
he was like a lamb turned into a green field,
and the story began to tell itself to him and
to the world.
Meanwhile, the letters of the busy author
continue to give an idea of his life and con-
dition.
" 2 Albert Terrace, Knightsbridge,
"January 10.
" Dear Fields : I was very glad to hear
from you of your safe arrival, and thank you
much for your hospitable invitation to the
U. S. It is, indeed, a land attractive to bodily
and also to mental gluttons. But how about
the Atlantic ? Your bill of fare does not men-
tion the salt water.
" Now I have something nice in store for
you, viz., a Thunderclap. Know, my worthy
friend, that in a weak moment the devil
tempted me, and I fell — to a certain extent.
I was guilty of the meanness of setting a spy
on you and your fair companions.
" There is a wise American, a man called
Howard, who lives by locomotions,— he it
was who went four times round the wander-
ing Jew, between San Francisco and Damas-
cus. I requested him to cross in the ship
with you and report to me. ' Keep your eye
on that little lot,' said I, ' and tell me how
they sail.' He accepted the commission at
once ; he doesn't care where he goes, so that
he goes. I told him there were two of the
party he might even find it agreeable to keep
his eye on ; but that was superfluous ; all he
wanted was to be in motion.
" Well, this sorry blade crossed the water
with you, landed, ate one plate of fried
oysters, and came back to me directly, open-
mouthed. ' They were ill all the time. I
never saw them on deck but once.' Thus
speaking he went off to Egypt like an arrow
from a bow.
" The tidings thus obtained have daunted
my nautical ardor, if I ever had any — off
paper; and I propose to send across that
honored water sprightly letters, kind messages,
ideas, — if by some immense fortuity I should
ever have any, — proof-sheets, and, in short,
any thing, or things, that can't be sick.
" At the present moment, however, I fear I
can send you nothing worth the voyage, for
I am ill, and stupid, and half-mad with head-
ache, and generally good for nothing.
" However, I send you my best and kindest
regards to yourself and , and also to
-, and tell her I often think of her;
and to P. W., with his high views of the
sanctity of property. To fill up this paper —
could you procure me, in the way of business,
catalogues of your first-class public libraries —
the Astor, etc., and of a good law library or
two ? Item : Should you encounter a medium
who will work gratis, please entrance her,
and learn who was the enlightened citizen
that lately sent me over four canvas-back
ducks, anonymously. I am aware that charity,
in its highest form, courts obscurity; but the
receivers are not bound to cooperate. I think
it concerns mankind that superlative virtue
should not be allowed to hide its head and its
very name, while vice marches openly with
blazoned heart. Excuse my eloquence, and
all the other nonsense in the letter, and be-
lieve me,
" Yours truly,
" Chas. Reade."
The next letter shows his real sympathy
with the North during the war, as well as
something of the timidity and unfaith of a
time when fear almost conquered hope in the
heart of many an English cousin. He writes :
" • • -I can fully enter into your
feelings in the present crisis, though I have
a sad foreboding that you will all bitterly
repent the labor, the courage, the wealth, that
has been and will be expended to keep those
Southern States a part of the great American
Union. If you succeed, all the better for them.
For separated, they would have sunk in the
scale of nations, and you would have risen,
until they would have come sneaking back,
and begged for reannexation. Meanwhile,
you have this consolation, among the rest,
that you did not provoke this civil war.
" The Southern States elect President after
President who favors their views, and the
Northern States submit, like good citizens, to
a constitutional act. At last the Northern
interest elects 07ie. It is only for four years;
yet these fire-eaters cannot even wait two
months to see whether his acts will be as
extreme as his opinions (and when a man
takes the helm of a great country, his opin-
ions always do moderate), but dash into
rebellion or civil war. Therefore, those mem-
bers of the English press are either very unjust
or ignorant, who refuse to see a distinction
between the revolt of the Southern States
from the Federal Government and the revolt
of the original colony from Great Britain.
" The 'Annual Register' is British; yet it is
impossible to read it without admiring the
calmness, the patient dignity, and high but
stern resolve of the original separatists; and
more, the affectionate reluctance to part from
AN ACQUAINTANCE WITH CHARIES READE.
77
the mother country, with which they began
the struggle. Moreover, in England the great
spirits of the day — the Camdens, Chathams,
Burkes — said from the first they were in the
right, and now everybody can see it, and,
malgre ' The Times,' I must take leave to dis-
tinguish between a just revolt and an unjust
one.
" Still I wish you had let those States go ;
that is to say, I wish it for your sake. In
reality, you are champions at a terrible cost
of oppressed humanity. For, freed from the
control of their civilized brethren, those States
would have spread slavery over the continent
of America, or so much of it as they could
annex or conquer. There, these are my vague
opinions. You know I am no politician, and
that my good- will toward my Northern friends
is far greater than my ability to scope all the
points of a disaster so complicated as this
civil war.
" Doubtless there is more at bottom than
any Englishman knows or understands. When
you are tired of it, you two, come to me at
Oxford, and I will seat you on smooth turf in
cool umbrageous recesses, and with nothing
in sight more modern than buildings that saw
the wars of the Red and White Roses. And that
reminds me, however is it that your people
can read a mediaeval story in the middle of a
civil war? I thought we should sell two
copies of the ' Cloister,' etc. But my friend
Cornwallis reports a success. If true (I can't
believe it), I am the more sorry I could not
persuade a certain firm in Boston to venture
on it. . . . "
It is a hard task to select from among the
numerous letters which lie before me; difficult
to consign any of them to the dust, and still
more difficult to make sure when private let-
ters should be printed. But the thirst for biog-
raphy, grown so conspicuous in our time, is
one, I believe, that should be respected. There
are many parallelisms between the lives of the
humblest of men and those whom the world
calls great ; how natural it is, therefore, that
we should crave a knowledge of the means
and opportunities for development, the inheri-
tances and circumstances, surrounding and
molding men who have helped to feed or
form our own lives.
Again he writes from Magdalen College :
" I have been trying to qualify myself by
hard reading to write a story of the day. I
don't know whether you remember a dome-
shaped building called the Radcliffe Library.
This building has lately been made a reading-
room for students, in connection with the Bod-
leian ; and, unlike all other public libraries in
this country, it is well lighted and kept open
till ten at night. This affords me facilities I
cannot meet with in London. Unfortunately
a set-off has come in the shape of gout or
something very like it, which* impairs my
powers, so behold me in anxiety and despond-
ency about my forthcoming production. . . .
" I will read Trollope's ' America,' since you
tell me it is endurable. I had no intention
of reading it otherwise, or anything else the
man writes. He is mediocrity incarnate.
" Tell Mr. Meadows I have got a tidy little
house in Bolton Row, with a drawing-room
and bedroom for you two. Literature cannot
flourish amongst bayonets, and he really ought
to come and do a little here where he has
made so many friends "
Oxford was Charles Reade's true home.
He visited elsewhere, he had a house in Lon-
don, but he wrote and thought and found
room for his true life in Magdalen College.
Here it was we found him first, as I have
said, in the summer of 1859, when he was
delighted to show the beauties of Oxford to
his American friends. The president's rooms
had just then been refitted in the style suited
to their real antiquity. It was a new idea at
th?t time, and we followed him with delight
as he showed us the oriel windows refilled
with old Flemish glass, and observed that the
very handles and hinges of the doors were
modeled after the old forms. His own rooms
were antique enough (they were built in 1485),
and there were no fine restorations; but I re-
member an old cider-cup in the center of the
dinner-table, of silver overladen with gold,
which was quite as ancient as the college and
very ornamental. Many a delightful hour
went like a breath in that room. I recall es-
pecially his enthusiasm for Victor Hugo, one
volume of whose plays had been thrown into
a corner, and was the only book to be seen ;
and how the tea-kettle was always on the hob;
and how one night he read aloud the last
chapters of " A Good Fight." He showed
us one old cloister with walnut roof, " in which
the spiders never build," and the only au-
thentic picture of Cardinal Wolsey, and all
the works of Erasmus in their mighty folios.
I remember there was much speculation as
to how the huge folios of old were paid for
— " not those of Erasmus; there is no doubt
about those," said Mr. Fields, "because twTenty
thousand copies of his works were sold"; and
so they talked together, making the ancient
things seem affairs of yesterday, but a yester-
day of great lessons and of good men.
And the late summer afternoon returns half
like a dream, when we wandered into the
rooms of one of Reade's friends high up under
AN ACQUAINTANCE WITH CHARLES READE.
the roof of Magdalen. There were hanging
gardens outside the windows, and a forest-like
tangle of pleasant things inside; but it was a
rainy day outside, and the light was beginning
to fade when Reade opened a small piano
in one corner, and sang two or three quaint
English songs with a pathos all his own. The
singing was as strange and dream-like as the
place. We sat there in the gloaming until the
sound of the pattering rain seemed like the
tears of the last song, and then we rose silently
and closed the doors behind us forever.
Reade himself was a strangely compacted
character, as his letters, together with his books,
have testified. He was himself a mediaeval
knight suddenly awakened in the heart of the
nineteenth century. He could never quite
tell, I am sure, what had become of his breast-
plate and helmet, nor when he last slept upon
his shield. The prose garments for mind and
body, lying in wait for him every morning,
were very unsatisfying ; and the Bursar's cap
and gown, which he contrived to wear for a
few months every year, were a kind of cloistral
compensation which suited the sad new era.
He was always ready to ride forth on some
new tilt or tourney in behalf of the Right.
" The Eighth Commandment " is a series of
pictures portraying such readiness. He was
often mistaken, doubtless, in the means he
employed, and often, too, in the value of the
end he desired to obtain. Let us remember,
however, that although he was mediaeval he
was always ready to serve. The story of " James
Lambert " is an excellent illustration of his
eagerness to recognize and uphold the good.
In 1874 he sent out to the " New York Trib-
une " this story of a poor blind swimmer, who
had lost his eyesight while struggling to save
drowning men. Reade's attention was first
drawn to the existence of such a person by
hearing the tale of a child who was drowned
in the Clyde, while the people stood scream-
ing upon the bank and watching the sinking
boy. As the child's figure rose for the last
time a man, who was stone-blind, was seen
making his way to the brink, holding the hand
of a girl, and crying: " Let me to him! I'll
save him yet ! " But he was withheld by his
granddaughter, who clung to him and would
not lead him to the shore. Then he threw up
his arms in distress, and cried : "It was a
laddie flung away ; clean flung away ! " And
so Reade, as he says, " began to weigh the
vulgar griefs of men against James Lambert's
high distress. . . . Summer and winter he
plunged into the Clyde, and saved men and
women with his bare body. . . . And what
was his reward on earth ? For his benevolent
courage he was stricken blind, through so
many immersions of his heated body in icy
water. . . . He was potent as ever in the
water, but impotent on land ; and they would
not help him into the water ; and so a young
life was flung away that he could have saved,
and he went home flinging his arms about in
agony, and weeping tears that angels might
be proud to dry with loving wing. ... It
made me desire to see James Lambert, and
give him my poor sympathy."
And so the great writer hunted up the ob-
scure old man some years after he first heard
the tale, and wrote out the heroic story to
gather together a small sum and make his de-
clining years more comfortable. He wrote,
in answer to a word of recognition of this
labor of love : " I am pleased to hear that this
true tale strikes fire in American hearts. One
thing : those hearts have a great deal of fire
in them, so it is not so hard to strike it with a
bit of true steel like James Lambert.
" My more pachydermatous friend has re-
ceived the blow with his usual composure.
But, as I have resolved to bleed him a bit,
for the benefit of my poor old Jamie, I am
going at him again with a pamphlet and the
advertising sheet."
The son of an Oxfordshire squire, Charles
Reade could not allow his two American
friends to leave England without seeing
Ipston House, where he was born. It was
the month of May, and the hawthorn was in
bloom, and the "little speedwell" covered
the ground writh its " darling blue." He sur-
rendered the livelong day to driving and
walking with us over the familiar neighbor-
hood, and visiting the church where lie the
bodies of crusaders. He was a generous and
enthusiastic host, and nothing could make old
England live again more vividly than such a
visit with such a man to Ipston and the home
of his youth.
Ten years passed before we saw Charles
Reade again. Year after year he continued
to write, perpetually finding new incidents to
excite his imagination, and ever beginning
with fresh ardor.
The next time we met was in the charming
house in London, at Albert Gate, of which
Mr. Robert Buchanan speaks in his " Recol-
lections," lately printed in the " Pall Mall
Gazette." He says : " There, surrounded by
his books of wonderful memoranda, he was
ever happy to hold simple wassail with the
few friends he loved." The house looked
directly upon Hyde Park at its liveliest part,
what is called " The Ladies' Mile," and was
a quaint place enough. There was a dra-
matic glamour over everything ; the pictures
were chosen for that quality of interest ; there
were pretty lamp-glasses, like flowers, to
illuminate the dining-room, and tall oriental
AN ACQUAINTANCE WITH CHARLES READE.
79
plants standing here and there ; the fire was
burning brightly on the hearth, while the
doors which gave on the little garden stood
wide open ; there were steps leading to rooms
on different levels, and draperies half conceal-
ing mirrors, so placed as to make the rooms
appear much larger than they really were.
Again he sang to us ; this time Mercy
Vint's song, and some old English ditty un-
familiar to me. There was a plaintive strain
in his voice and a tenderness peculiar to the
singer's self.
One of his favorite topics of conversation,
and one which never lost its interest, was
the life of Shakspere and the" numberless
speculations regarding his personal career.
On this occasion he talked of him chiefly as
a playwright, saying it was not wonderful his
plays were not printed during his life, nor did
this show any disregard for them on the part
of the writer. In looking up some law cases
of that period, he found that printing a play
in those days prevented an author from receiv-
ing the same amount when it was represented
on the boards ; therefore, as there were com-
paratively few readers at that period, a play
was seldom printed until it had ceased to
draw at the theater. "Hamlet" and one or
two others were printed in Shakspere's life-
time ; the rest only after his death.
He was severe in his denunciation of Haw-
thorne for giving countenance to anything so
puerile as Miss Bacon's argument; but I am
sure if he could have heard Hawthorne's own
disapproval of himself on this head he would
have been disarmed of his keen weapon.
"Any one," Reade said, "who had ever
made a study of either mind or style must
see how clearly impossible it is that the works
of Bacon and Shakspere could be evolved
from the same brain. As well hold an eagle
under water twenty minutes and expect him
to come up the better for it."
" It is wonderful to see how genius can
borrow ! " he continued. " Look at the Seven
Ages, as Horace has treated the subject &fter
his own philosophical manner; how fine and
yet how unlike Shakspere, who chose to
borrow the subject and make a new thing of
it. Take the scene also in ' Macbeth,' which
he gets from Holinshed (between Malcolm
and Macduff), a piece of wretched nonsense,
but turned from prose into poetry by the
simplest transposition of words. The Witches'
scene, which also comes from Holinshed, is
equally wonderful, leaving the prose almost
untouched, but touched so finely as to trans-
form, not change, it into poetry. It would
be well worth your while," he added, "to go
to any library and compare the two. It is
most curious and beautiful work, such as
only genius can do.
" Most people think there is nothing to be
learned at Stratford in these days, that they
must come to London for all things. But I find,
in looking up my cases in law, that Shakspere
probably had a better chance for studying
the courts of law in Stratford than he could
obtain in London. People have speculated
much as to where Shakspere could have
studied the horrors of the charnel-house de-
scribed by Juliet, but at that time there was a
large charnel-house on the street in Stratford,
and I can believe that young Will looked
through those iron bars often enough to be
perfectly familiar with its dreadful contents.
" Clearly, Shakspere's object in life, after
he had done his work, was to make money
enough to buy a house and lands in Stratford.
"It is indeed strange there should be no
manuscript left, but at the time of the Ireland
forgeries, or just before, it was said that' an
enormous mass of manuscript had been de-
stroyed in that same house. This, and the
great London fires, may account for much."
Mr. Buchanan says very justly that " any
personal recollections of Charles Reade would
be incomplete without some reference to his
connection with the stage. From first to last
he followed, with eager pertinacity, the will-
o'-the-wisp of theatrical fame. . . . His love
for the stage amounted to a passion." All
this was native to the mediaeval knight we
called our friend. The world to him was
always a wondrous show, and he brought a
child's naivete into his dealings with it.
Once more, and again nearly ten years later,
I saw him for the last time. He was at Oxford
with a group of young people about him,
whom he was entertaining. Sorrow and dis-
appointment had lain heavily upon him, and
the old joys had vanished ; but the pleasure
of giving pleasure, which always remains with
us, was still sustaining him. He drew me
aside once and told me of his hopes and
fears for that future whither his mind was
now often voyaging; but he stretched out his
hands like a child groping in the dark, sor-
rowing for what had been, and a stranger
among things unseen.
In his last note, written in 1883, to intro-
duce a young friend, he added : "Alas ! evi-
dence of what we both pine to believe comes
not to me ; I am one of little faith." A few
months later, without long waiting, he was
mercifully granted that evidence.
A?inie Fields.
THE BATTLE OF BULL RUN.*
JULY 21, l86l.
A LOUISIANA TIGER.
SOON after the first conflict
between the authorities of
the Federal Union and those
of the Confederate States had
occurred in Charleston Har-
bor, by the bombardment
of Fort Sumter, — which,
beginning at 4:30 a. m. on
the 12th of April, 186 1,
forced the surrender of that
fortress within thirty hours
thereafter into my hands,
— I was called toRich-
mond, which by that
time had become the
Confederate seat of
government, and di-
rected to " assume
§T command of the Con-
federate troops on the
Alexandria line." Arriv-
ing at Manassas Junction,
I took command on the 2d of June, forty-nine
days after the evacuation of Fort Sumter by
Major Anderson.
Although the position at the time was strat-
egically of commanding importance to the
Confederates, the mere terrain was not only
without natural defensive advantages, but, on
the contrary, was absolutely unfavorable. Its
strategic value was that, with close proximity
to the Federal capital, it held in observation
the chief Federal army then being assembled
in the quarter of Arlington by General Mc-
Dowell, under the immediate eye of the com-
mander-in-chief, General Scott, for an offensive
movement against Richmond; and while it
had a railway approach in its rear for the
easy accumulation of reinforcements and all
the necessary munitions of war from the south-
ward, at the same time another (the Manas-
sas Gap) railway, diverging laterally to the
left from that point, gave rapid communi-
cations with the fertile valley of the Shen-
andoah, then teeming with live-stock and
cereal subsistence, as well as with other re-
sources essential to the Confederates. There
was this further value in the position to the
Confederate army : that during the period of
accumulation, seasoning, and training, it
might be fed from the fat fields, pastures,
and garners of Loudon, Fauquier, and the
lower Shenandoah valley counties, which
otherwise must have fallen into the hands
of the enemy. But, on the other hand, Bull
Run, a petty stream, was of little or no defen-
sive strength; for it abounded in fords, and
although for the most part its banks were
rocky and abrupt, the side from which it
would be approached offensively was in most
places the higher, and therefore commanded
the opposite ground.
At the time of my arrival at Manassas, a
Confederate army under General Joseph E.
Johnston was in occupation of the lower
Shenandoah valley, along the line of the upper
Potomac, chiefly at Harper's Ferry, which was
regarded as the gateway of that valley and of
one of the possible approaches to Richmond ;
a position from which he was speedily forced
to retire, however, by a flank movement by a
Federal army, under the veteran General Pat-
terson, thrown across the Potomac at or
about Martinsburg.t On my other or right
flank, so to speak, a Confederate force
of some twenty-five hundred men under
General Holmes occupied the position of
Acquia Creek on the lower Potomac, upon
the line of approach to Richmond from that
direction through Fredericksburg. The other
approach, that by way of the James River,
was held by Confederate troops under Gen-
erals Huger and Magruder. Establishing
small outposts at Leesburg to observe the
crossings of the Potomac in that quarter, and
at Fairfax Court House in observation of
Arlington, with other detachments in advance
of Manassas toward Alexandria on the south
side of the railroad, from the very outset I
was anxiously aware that the sole military
advantage at the moment to the Confederates
was that of holding the interior lines. On the
Federal or hostile side were all material ad-
vantages, including superior numbers, largely
drawn from the old militia organizations of the
great cities of the North, decidedly better
armed and equipped than the troops under me,
and strengthened by a small but incomparable
body of regular infantry as well as a number of
batteries of regular field artillery of the high-
t It was Patterson upon whom the Government at Washington depended to neutralize Johnston as an
element in McDowell's contest with Beauregard. But, whether from the faultiness of Scott's instructions or of
Patterson's understanding of them, or from his failure or inability to execute them, — all of which is matter
of controversy, — Patterson neither held Johnston nor reenforced McDowell. — Ed.
* Copyright, 1884, by The Century Co. All rights reserved.
THE BATTLE OF BULL RUN.
Si
est class, and a very large and thoroughly or-
ganized staff corps, besides a numerous body
of professionally educated officers in com-
mand of volunteer regiments,* — all precious
military elements at such a juncture; add
to this the immensely superior industrial and
mechanical resources and an unrestrictable
commercial access to the markets and work-
shops of Europe, with all the accumulated
wealth of the Northern people to draw upon.
Happily, through the foresight of Colonel
Thomas Jordan, — whom General Lee had
placed as the Adjutant- General of the forces
there assembled before my arrival, — arrange-
ments were made which enabled me to receive
regularly, from private persons at the Federal
capital, most accurate information, of which
politicians high in council, as well as War
Department clerks, were the unconscious
ducts. Moreover, my enterprising, intelligent
pickets were watchfully kept in the closest
possible proximity to General McDowell's
headquarters, and, by a stroke of good for-
tune on the fourth of July, happened upon
and captured a sergeant and soldier of
the regulars, who were leisurely riding for
recreation not far outside their lines. The
soldier, an intelligent, educated Scotchman,
proved to be a clerk in the Adjutant-General's
office of General McDowell, intrusted with
the special duty of compiling returns of
his army — a work which he confessed, with-
out reluctance, he had just executed, show-
ing the forces under McDowell about the first
of July. His statement of the strength and
composition of that force tallied so closely
with that which had been acquired through
my Washington agencies, already mentioned,
as well as through the leading newspapers of
New York and Washington, Philadelphia and
Baltimore, regular files of which were also
transmitted to my headquarters from the
Federal capital, that I could not doubt them.
In these several ways, therefore, I was al-
most as well advised of the strength of the
hostile army in my front as its commander,
who, I may mention, had been a classmate
of mine at West Point. Under those cir-
cumstances I had become satisfied that
a well-equipped, well-constituted Federal
army at least fifty thousand strong, of all
arms, confronted me at or about Arling-
ton, ready and on the very eve of an of-
fensive operation against me, and to meet
which I could muster barely eighteen thou-
sand men with twenty-nine field-guns.
Previously, indeed, or as early as the
middle of June, it had become apparent
to my mind that through only one course of
action could there be a well-grounded hope
of ability on the part of the Confederates
to encounter successfully the offensive opera-
tions for which the Federal authorities were
then vigorously preparing in my imme-
diate front, with so consummate a strategist
and military administrator as Lieutenant-
General Scott in general command at Wash-
ington, aided by his accomplished heads of
the large General Staff Corps of the United
States Army ; this course was to make the
most enterprising, warlike use of the interior
lines which we possessed, for the swift con-
centration at the critical instant of every
available Confederate force upon the menaced
position, at the risk, if need were, of sacrific-
ing all minor places to the one clearly of major
military value, — then to meet our adversary
so offensively as to overwhelm him, under cir-
cumstances that must assure immediate abil-
ity to assume the general offensive even upon
the territory of the adversary, and thus conquer
an early peace by a few well-delivered blows.
My views of such import had been already
earnestly communicated to the proper author-
ities; but about the middle of July;, satisfied
that McDowell was on the eve of taking the
offensive against me, I dispatched Colonel
James Chesnut, of South Carolina, a volun-
teer aid-de-camp on my staff who had served
on an intimate footing with Mr. Davis in the
Senate of the United States, to urge in sub-
stance the necessity for the immediate con-
centration of the larger part of the forces of
Johnston and Holmes at Manassas, so that
the moment McDowell should be sufficiently
far detached from Washington, I would be
enabled to move rapidly around his more
convenient flank upon his rear and his com-
munications, and attack him in reverse, thus
cutting off his retreat upon Arlington in the
event of his defeat, and insuring as an imme-
diate consequence the crushing of Patterson,
the liberation of Maryland, and the capture
of Washington.
This plan was rejected by Mr. Davis and
his military advisers (Adjutant-General Cooper
and General Lee), who characterized it as
" brilliant and comprehensive," but essentially
impracticable. Furthermore, Colonel Ches-
nut came back impressed with the views
entertained at Richmond, — as he communi-
cated at once to my Adjutant-General, — that
* It should be borne in mind, on the other hand, that there were many professionally educated officers on
the Confederate side. In the battle of Bull Run there were General Beauregard himself, Generals
Johnston, Stonewall Jackson, Longstreet, Kirby Smith, Ewell, Early, Bee, D. R. Jones, Holmes,
Evans, Elzey, and Jordan, all in prominent positions, besides others not so prominent. The General
Staff Corps contributed many efficient men to the Confederacy, including General R. E. Lee. — Ed.
TOPOGRAPHICAL MAP OF THE BULL RUN BATTLE-FIELD.
[The original of this map was made for General Beauregard, soon after the battle, from actual surveys by Captain D. B. Harris, assisted by
Mr. John Grant. It is here reproduced by the courtesy of General H. L. Abbot, U S. A., from a photograph in his possession. ]
THE BATTLE OF BULL RUN.
83
STRUTHERSj SERVOSS & CO., ENUR'S, N. Y.
OUTLINE MAP OF THE BULL RUN REGION.
A, A, A, A, A. General line of Confederate dispositions during the skirmish at Mitchell's and Blackburn's Fords (July 18), and until the morning
of the main engagement (July 21).
B, B, B. General line of Confederate dispositions, made to repel Mc Dowell's flank attack by the Sudley and Newmarket Road.
The Federal dispositions are represented as they were at the climax of the fighting on the Henry placeau.
should the Federal army soon move offen-
sively upon my position, my best course would
be to retire behind the Rappahannock river
and accept battle there instead of Manassas.
In effect, it was regarded as best to sever com-
munications between the two chief Confeder-
ate armies, that of the Potomac and that of
the Shenandoah, with the inevitable immedi-
ate result that Johnston would be forced to leave
Patterson in possession of the lower Shenan-
doah valley, abandoning to the enemy so large
a part of the most resourceful sections of Vir-
ginia, and, retreating southward by way of the
Luray valley, pass across the Blue Ridge at
Thornton's Gap and unite with me after all,
but at Fredericksburg, much nearer Rich-
mond than Manassas. These views, how-
ever, were not made knowm to me at the
time, and happily my mind was left en-
grossed with the grave problem imposed upon
me by the rejection of my plan for the imme-
diate concentration of a materially larger force,
— i. e., the problem of placing and using my
resources for a successful encounter behind
Bull Run with the Federal army, which I was
not permitted to doubt was about to take the
field against me.
It is almost needless to say that I had
caused to be made a thorough reconnaissance
of all the ground in my front and flanks,
84
THE BATTLE OF BULL RUN.
and had made myself personally acquainted
with the most material points, including the
region of Sudley's church on my left, where
a small detachment was posted in observa-
tion. Left now to my own resources, of
course the contingency of defeat had to be con-
sidered and provided for. Among the measures
or precautions for such a result, I ordered
the destruction of the Orange and Alexandria
Railroad bridge across Bull Run at Union
Mills, in order that the enemy, in the event
of my defeat, should not have the immediate
use of the railroad in following up their move-
ment against Richmond — a railroad which
could have had no corresponding value to us
eastward beyond Manassas in any operations
on our side with Washington as the objective,
inasmuch as any such operations must have
been made by the way of the upper Potomac
and upon the rear of that city.
Just before Colonel Chesnut was dispatched
on the mission ol which I have spoken, a for-
mer clerk in one of the departments at Wash-
ington, well known to him, had volunteered to
return thither and bring back the latest infor-
mation, from our most trusted friends, of the
military and political situations. His loyalty,
intelligence, and desire to be of service being
vouched for, and as I was extremely solicitous
to hear the personal observations of so intel-
ligent a gentleman as he was represented to
be, he was at once sent across the Potomac
below Alexandria by our agencies in that quar-
ter, merely accredited by a small scrap of pa-
per bearing in Colonel Jordan's cipher the
two words, " Trust bearer," with which he
was to call at a certain house in a certain
street in Washington within easy rifle-range
of the White House, ask for the lady of the
house, and present it only to her. This del-
icate mission was as fortunately as it was
deftly executed. In the early morning, as
the newsboys were crying in the as yet
empty streets of Washington the intelligence
that the order was given for the Federal
army to move at once upon my position,
that scrap of paper, apparently so unmean-
ing, reached the hands of the one person
in all that city who could extract any mean-
ing from it. With no more delay than was
necessary for a hurried breakfast and the
writing in cipher by Mrs. G of the words
" Order issued for McDowell to march upon
Manassas to-night," my agent was placed
in communication with another friend, who
carried him in a buggy with a relay of horses
as swiftly as possible down the eastern shore
of the Potomac to our regular ferry across
that river. Without untoward incident the
momentous dispatch was quickly delivered
into the hands of a cavalry courier, and
by means of relays it was in my hands be-
tween eight and nine o'clock that night.
Within half an hour, my outpost commanders,
fe^l^)K^rN
<#■/.
v**-3^
- ^
BULL RUN, NEAR BLACKBURN S FCRD.
[After a photograph taken in March, 1862, when the Confederate troops had been withdrawn.]
THE BATTLE OF BULL BUN.
85
;«M3p
IBlIll
~x v
wy&J
.ft^::S;:y;>Ss 's:-.::
*'^H^-^^t
(AFTER A PHOTOGRAPH BY FREDERICKS.)
advised of what was impending, were directed,
at the first evidence of the near presence of the
enemy in their front, to fall back in the manner
and to positions already prescribed in anticipa-
tion of such a contingency in an order confiden-
tially communicated to them four weeks before,
and the detachment at Leesburg was directed
to join me by forced marches. Having thus
cleared my decks for action, I next ac-
quainted Mr. Davis with the situation, and
ventured once more to suggest that the
Army of the Shenandoah, with the brigade
at Fredericksburg or Acquia Creek, should be
Vol. XXIX.— 9.
ordered to reenforce me, — suggestions that
were at once heeded so far that General
Holmes was ordered to carry his command to
my aid, and General Johnston was given dis-
cretion to do likewise. After some telegraphic
discussion with me, General Johnston was
induced to exercise this discretion in favor
of the swift march of the Army of the Shen-
andoah to my relief; and to facilitate that
vital movement, I hastened to accumulate
all possible means of railway transport
at a point designated on the Manassas
Gap railroad at the eastern foot of the
86
THE BATTLE OE BULL RUN.
THE STONE HOUSE ON THE WARRENTON
TURNPIKE. FROM PHOTOGRAPH,
MARCH, 1862.
[The stream in the foreground is Young's Branch. The Sudley road
crosses a little to the left of the picture. See map.J
Blue Ridge, to which Johnston's troops di-
rected their march. However, at the same time,
I had submitted the alternative proposition to
General Johnston, that, having passed the Blue
Ridge, he should assemble his forces, press for-
ward by way of Aldie, north-east of Manassas,
and fall upon McDowell's right rear ; while I,
prepared for the operation, at the first sound
of the conflict, should strenuously assume
the offensive in my front. The situation and
circumstances specially favored the signal
success of such an operation. The march to
the point of attack could have been accom-
plished as soon as the forces were brought
ultimately by rail to Manassas Junction ;
our enemy, thus attacked so nearly simul-
taneously on his right flank, his rear, and his
front, naturally would suppose that I had been
able to turn his flank while attacking him in
front, and, therefore, that I must have an
overwhelming superiority of numbers ; and
his forces, being new troops, most of them
under fire for the first time, must have soon
fallen into a disastrous panic. Moreover, such
an operation must have resulted advanta-
geously to the Confederates, in the event that
McDowell should, as might have been antici-
pated, attempt to strike the Manassas Gap
railway to my left, and thus cut off railway
communications between Johnston's forces
and my own, instead of the mere effort to
strike my left flank which he actually essayed.*
It seemed, however, as though the deferred
attempt at concentration was to go for naught,
for on the morning of the 18th the Federal
forces were massed around Centreville, but
three miles from Mitchell's ford, and soon
were seen advancing upon the roads leading to
* " I am, however, inclined to believe he [the enemy] may attempt to turn my left flank by a movement in
the direction of Vienna, Frying-pan Church, and, possibly, Gum Spring, and thus cut off Johnston's line
of retreat and communication with this place [Manassas Junction] via the Manassas Gap railroad, while
threatening my own communications with Richmond and depots of supply by the Alexandria and Orange
railroad, and opening his communications with the Potomac through Leesburg and Edwards' Ferry." —
{Extract from letter addressed by Gen. Beauregard to Jefferson Davis, July 11, 1861. )
THE BATTLE OF BULL RUN.
87
that and Blackburn's ford. (See outline map.) which had been but momentarily shaken by
My order of battle, issued in the night of the the alarm caused by McDowell's march upon
17th, contemplated an offensive return, par- Richmond. f As this was not an order in terms,
ticularly from the strong brigades on the right but an urgency which, notwithstanding its
and right center. The Federal artillery opened superior source, left me technically free and
in front of both fords, and the infantry, while could define me as responsible for any mis-
demonstrating in front of Mitchell's ford, event, I preferred to keep both the situation
endeavored to force a passage at Blackburn's, and the responsibility, and continued every
Their column of attack, Tyler's division, was effort for the prompt arrival of the Shenan-
opposed by Longstreet's forces, to the reen- doah forces, being resolved, should they come
forcement of which Early's brigade, the before General McDowell again attacked, to
reserve line at McLean's ford, was ordered take myself the offensive. General McDowell,
up. The Federals, after several attempts to fortunately for my plans, spent the 19th and
force a passage, met a final repulse and re- 20th in reconnaissances ; \ and, meanwhile,
treated. After their infantry attack had General Johnston brought 6000 men from
ceased, about one o'clock, the contest the Shenandoah valley, with 20 guns, and
lapsed into an artillery duel, in which the General Holmes 1265 rank and file, with six
Washington Artillery of New Orleans won pieces of artillery from Acquia Creek. As
credit against the renowned batteries of the these forces arrived (most of them in the
United States regular army. A ,;.
comical effect of this artillery fight
was the destruction of the dinner
of myself and staff by a Federal
shell that fell into the fire-place
of my headquarters at the Mc-
Lean House.*
Our success in this
first limited collision
was of special pres-
tige to my army of
newtroops,and,
moreover, of
decisive impor- -' 7>
tance by so in- " :\
creasing Gener-
al McDowell's cau-
tion as to give time
P'VV
SUDLEY SPRINGS HOTEL.
(FROM the stream near the mill.)
afternoon of the 20th)
I placed them chiefly
so as to strengthen my
left center and left, the
latter being weak from
lack of available troops.
The disposition of the
entire force was now
as follows (see outline
map): At Union Mills
ford, Ewell's brigade,
for the arrival of some - %
of General Johnston's
forces. But while on the 19th
I was awaiting a renewed and
general attack by the Federal
army, I received a telegram
from the Richmond military authorities urging supported by Holmes's ; at McLean's ford
me to withdraw my call on General Johnston D. R. Jones's brigade, supported by Early's;
on account of the supposed impracticability of at Blackburn's ford, Longstreet's brigade ; at
the concentration — an abiding conviction Mitchell's ford, Bonham's brigade. Cocke's
* It is denied that a serious attempt "to force a passage" was made by the Federal troops on the 18th.
(See " McDowell and Tyler in the Campaign of Bull Run," by General James B. Fry, who was Assistant Ad-
jutant-General to General McDowell in this campaign. N. Y., Van Nostrand, 1884.) This engagement
was called by the Confederates the Battle of Bull Run, the main fight on the 21st being known in the South
as the battle of Manassas (pronounced Ma-nass'-sa). — Ed.
* t [telegram. ]
Richmond, July 19, 1861.
General Beauregard, Manassas, Va.
We have no intelligence from General Johnston. If the enemy in front of you has abandoned an imme-
diate attack, and General Johnston has not moved, you had better withdraw your call upon him, so that
he may be left to his full discretion. All the troops arriving at Lynchburg are ordered to join you. From
this place we will send as fast as transportation permits. The enemy is advised at Washington of the
projected movement of Generals Johnston and Holmes, and may vary his plans in conformity thereto.
S. Cooper, Adjt.-Gen.
X Lack of rations, as well as the necessity for information, detained McDowell at Centreville during these
two days. — Ed.
88
THE BATTLE OE BULL RUN.
PRESENT VIEW OF SUDLEY SPRINGS FORD.
[This stream is the Cat Harpin Run, which empties into Bull Run a short distance to the right. In making- the flank movement the Federal
troops, under General Hunter, crossed from right to left of the picture, followed later in the day by the ambulances and munition wagons.
The retreat, also, was chiefly by this ford. The ruins of the Sudley Sulphur Spring House are shown on the left, and the Sudley church,
which was the main hospital after the fight, is a short distance away.]
brigade held the line in front and rear of Bull
Run from Bonham's left, covering Lewis's,
Ball's, and Island fords, to the right of Evans's
demi-brigade, which covered the Stone Bridge
and a farm ford about a mile above, and
formed part also of Cocke's command. The
Shenandoah forces were placed in reserve —
Bee's and Bartow's brigades between Mc-
Lean's and Blackburn's fords, and Jackson's
between Blackburn's and Mitchell's fords.
This force mustered 29,188 rank and file and
55 guns, of which 21,923 infantry, cavalry,
and artillery, with 29 guns, belonged to my
immediate forces, i. e., the Army of the
Potomac.
The preparation, in front of an ever-threat-
ening enemy, of a wholly volunteer army,
composed of men very few of whom had
ever belonged to any military organization,
had been a work of many cares not incident
to the command of a regular army. These
were increased by the insufficiency of my
staff organization, an inefficient management
of the quartermaster's department at Rich-
mond, and the preposterous mismanagement
of the Commissary- General, who not only
failed to furnish rations, but caused the re-
moval of the army commissaries, who, under
my orders, procured food from the country in
front of us to keep the army from absolute
want — supplies that were otherwise exposed
to be gathered by the enemy. So specially
severe had been the recent duties at head-
quarters, aggravated not a little by night
alarms arising from the enemy's immediate
presence, that, in the evening of the 20th,
I found my chief-of-staff sunken upon the
papers that covered his table, asleep in
sheer exhaustion from the overstraining
and almost slumberless labor of the last days
and nights. I covered his door with a guard to
secure his rest against any interruption, after
which the army had the benefit of his usual
active and provident services.
There was much in this decisive conflict
about to open, not involved in any after battle,
which pervaded the two armies and the people
behind them and colored the responsibility of
the respective commanders. The political
hostilities of a generation were now face to
face with weapons instead of words. Defeat
to either side would be a deep mortification,
THE BATTLE OF BULL RUN.
89
•V. '•
1 1
[FROM A PHOTOGRAPH BY BRADY, TAKEN itf NOVEMBER, 1867.]
but defeat to the South must turn its claim of
independence into an empty vaunt; and the
defeated commander on either side might
expect, though not the personal fate awarded
by the Carthaginians to an unfortunate com-
mander, at least a moral fate quite similar.
To the judge of chances the issue must have
seemed to incline strongly to the North, on
account of their great superiority in numbers
and all else that goes to make up advantage
in the field, excepting the personal worth of
the individual soldiers. However, though dis-
appointed that the concentration I had sought
had not been permitted at the moment and
for the purpose preferred by me, and notwith-
standing the non-arrival of some five thou-
sand troops of the Shenandoah forces, my
strength was now so increased that I had
good hope of successfully meeting my ad-
versary, despite all unfavoring odds.
General Johnston was the ranking officer,
and entitled, therefore, to assume command
of the united forces ; but as the extensive
field of operations was one which I had occu-
9°
THE BATTLE OE BULL RUN.
COLONEL F. S. BARTOW. (FROM A PHOTOGRAPH IN POSSES-
SION OF THE GEORGIA HISTORICAL SOCIETY.)
pied since the beginning of June, and with
which I was thoroughly familiar in all its
extent and* military bearings, while he was
wholly unacquainted with it, and, moreover,
as I had made my plans and dispositions for
the maintenance of the position, General
Johnston, in view of the gravity of the im-
pending issue, preferred not to assume the
responsibilities of the chief direction of the
forces during the battle, but to assist me upon
the field. Thereupon, I explained my plans and
purposes, to which he agreed.
Sunday, July 21st, bearing the fate of the
new-born Confederacy, broke brightly over
the fields and woods that held the hostile
forces. My scouts, thrown out in the night
toward Centreville along the Warrenton turn-
pike, had reported that the enemy was concen-
trating along the latter. This fact, together with
the failure of the Federals in their attack
upon my center at Mitchell's and Black-
burn's fords, had caused me to apprehend
that they would attempt my left flank at the
Stone Bridge, and orders were accordingly
issued by half-past four o'clock to the brigade
commanders to hold their forces in readiness
to move at a moment's notice, together with
the suggestion that the Federal attack might
be expected in that quarter. Shortly after-
ward the Federals were reported to be
advancing from Centreville on the Warren-
ton turnpike, and at half-past five o'clock as
RUINS OF THE STONE BRIDGE, LOOKING TOWARD THE BATTLE-FIELD.
[This view is from a photograph taken in March, 1862, the region having been left open to the Federals by the withdrawal of the Confederate forces,
whereupon the bridge probably was destroyed by the latter. The battery which commanded the bridge was placed on the left in the felled
timber, which formed an abatis across the road. The battle was opened from beyond the small house on the right by the Rhode Island troops.]
THE BATTLE OF BULL RUN.
deploying a force in front of Evans. As their
movement against my left developed the op-
portunity I desired, I immediately sent orders
to the brigade commanders, both front and
reserves, on my right and center to advance
and vigorously attack the Federal left flank
and rear at Centreville, while my left, under
Cocke and Evans with their supports, would
sustain the Federal attack in the quarter of
the Stone Bridge, which they were directed
to do to the last extremity. The center was
likewise to advance and engage the enemy in
front, and directions were given to the reserves,
when without orders, to move toward the
sound of the heaviest firing. The ground in
our front on the other side of Bull Run afforded
particular advantage for these tactics. Cen-
treville was the apex of a triangle — its short
side running by the Warrenton turnpike to
Stone Bridge, its base Bull Run, its long side
a road that ran from Union Mills along the
front of my other Bull Run positions and
trended off to the rear of Centreville, where
McDowell had massed his main forces;
branch roads led up to this one from the
fords between Union Mills and Mitchell's.
My forces to the right of the latter ford
were to advance, pivoting on that position ;
Bonham was to advance from Mitchell's
ford, Longstreet from Blackburn's, D. R.
Jones from McLean's, and Ewell from Union
Mills by the Centreville road. Ewell, as hav-
ing the longest march, was to begin the move-
ment, and each brigade was to be followed
by its reserve. In anticipation of this method
of attack, and to prevent accidents, the sub-
ordinate commanders had been carefully in-
structed in the movement by me in confer-
ence the night before, as they were all new to
the responsibilities of command. They were
to establish close communication with each
other before making the attack. About half-
past eight o'clock I set out with General John-
ston for a convenient position, — a hill in
rear of Mitchell's ford, — where we waiteol for
the opening of the attack on our right, from
which I expected a decisive victory by mid-
day, with the result of cutting off the Federal
army from retreat upon Washington.
Meanwhile, about half-past five o'clock, the
peal of a heavy rifled gun was heard in front
of the Stone Bridge, its second shot striking
through the tent of my signal officer, Captain
E. P. Alexander; and at six o'clock a full
rifled battery opened against Evans and then
against Cocke, to which our artillery remained
dumb, as it had not sufficient range to reply.
But later, as the Federal skirmish-line ad-
vanced, it was engaged by ours, thrown well
forward on the other side of the Run. A
scattering musketry fire followed, and mean-
while, about seven o'clock, I ordered Jackson's
brigade, with Imboden's and five guns of
Walton's battery, to the left, with orders to
support Cocke as well as Bonham; and the
brigades of Bee and Bartow, under the com-
BRIG.-GEN. BARNARD E. BEE (IN THE UNIFORM OF A CAPTAIN
OF INFANTRY OF THE OLD SERVICE). (FROM A PHOTO-
GRAPH BY TUCKER AND PERKINS.)
mand of the former, were also sent to the
support of the left.
At half-past eight o'clock Evans, seeing
that the Federal attack did not increase in
boldness and vigor, and observing a lengthen-
ing line of dust above the trees to the left of
the Warrenton turnpike, became satisfied that
the attack in his front was but a feint, and
that a column of the enemy was moving
around through the woods to fall on his flank
from the direction of Sudley ford. Informing
his immediate commander, Cocke, of the
enemy's movement, and of his own disposi-
tions to meet it, he left four companies under
cover at the Stone Bridge, and led the remain-
der of his force, six companies of Sloan's
Fourth South Carolina and Wheat's battalion
of Louisiana Tigers, with two six-pounder
howitzers, across the valley of Young's Branch
to the high ground beyond it. Resting his
left on the Sudley road, he distributed his
troops on each side of a small copse, with
such cover as the ground afforded, and look-
THE BATTLE OF BULL RUN.
93
ing over the open fields and a reach of the
Sudley road which the Federals must cover
in their approach. His two howitzers were
placed one at each end of his position, and
here he silently awaited the masses of the
enemy now drawing near.
The Federal turning column, about eighteen
thousand strong, with twenty-four pieces of
artillery, had moved down from Centreville
by the Warrenton turnpike, and after pass-
ing Cub Run had struck to the right by a
forest road to cross Bull Run at Sudley
ford, about three miles above the Stone
Bridge, moving by a long circuit for the pur-
pose of attacking my left flank. The head
of the column, Burnside's brigade of Hunter's
division, at about 9:45 a. m. debouched from
the woods into the open fields, in front of
Evans. Wheat at once engaged their skir-
mishers, and as the Second Rhode Island
regiment advanced, supported by its splendid
battery of six rifled guns, the fronting thicket
held by Evans's South Carolinians poured
forth its sudden volleys, while the two how-
itzers flung their grape-shot upon the attacking
line, which was soon shattered and driven
back into the woods behind. Major Wheat,
after handling his battalion with the utmost
determination, had fallen severely wounded
in the lungs. Burnside's entire brigade was
now sent forward in a second charge, sup-
ported by eight guns; but they encountered
again the unflinching fire of Evans's line, and
were once more driven back to the woods,
from the cover of which they continued the
attack, reenforced after a time by the arrival
of eight companies of United States regular
infantry, under Major Sykes, with six pieces of
artillery, quickly followed by the remaining
regiments of Andrew Porter's brigade of the
same division. The contest here lasted
fully an hour ; meanwhile Wheat's battalion,
having lost its leader, had gradually lost
its organization, and Evans, though still op-
posing these heavy odds with undiminished
firmness, sought reenforcement from^ the
troops in his rear.
General Bee, of South Carolina, a man of
marked character, whose command lay in
reserve in rear of Cocke, near the Stone
Bridge, intelligently applying the general order
given to the reserves, had already moved
toward the neighboring point of conflict, and
taken a position with his own and Bartow's
brigades on the high plateau which stands in
rear of Bull Run in the quarter of the Stone
Bridge, and overlooking the scene of engage-
ment upon the stretch of high ground from
which it was separated by the valley of Young's
Branch. This plateau is inclosed on three
sides by two small water-courses, which empty
Vol. XXIX.— 10.
GENERAL THOMAS J. (" STONEWALL") JACKSON.
[FROM A PHOTOGRAPH BY TANNER AND VAN NESS.]
into Bull Run within a few yards of each
other, a half mile to the south of the Stone
Bridge. Rising to an elevation of quite one
hundred feet above the level of Bull Run at
the bridge, it falls off on three sides to the
level of the inclosing streams in gentle slopes,
but furrowed by ravines of irregular directions
and length, and studded with clumps and
patches of young pines and oaks. The gen-
eral direction of the crest of the plateau is
oblique to the course of Bull Run in that
quarter and to the Sudley and turnpike roads,
which intersect each other at right angles.
On the north-western brow, overlooking
Young's Branch, and near the Sudley road,
as the latter climbs over the plateau, stood
the house of the widow Henry, while to its
right and forward on a projecting spur stood
the house and sheds of the free negro Robin-
son, just behind the turnpike, densely embow-
ered in trees and shrubbery and environed by
a double row of fences on two sides. Around
the eastern and southern brow of the plateau an
almost unbroken fringe of second-growth pines
gave excellent shelter for our marksmen, who
availed themselves of it with the most satis-
factory skill. To the west, adjoining the fields
that surrounded the houses mentioned, a
broad belt of oaks extends directly across
the crest on both sides of the Sudley road,
in which, during the battle, the hostile forces
contended for the mastery. General Bee,
with a soldier's eye to the situation, skillfully
disposed his forces. His two brigades on
either side of Imboden's battery — which he
had borrowed from his neighboring reserve,
94
THE BATTLE OE BULL RUN.
THE MAIN BATTLE-GROUND. — NO. I.
[View of the Henry house, looking west from the spot where General Bee fell. The Bull Run mountains and Thoroughfare Gap appear in the
distance. The Sudley road, a few rods beyond the house, under the hill, runs parallel with the rail fence in the middle ground, behind which
were Griffin's and Ricketts's batteries. Near the house stands the Union Monument, commemorating the battle.]
Jackson's brigade — were placed in a small
depression of the plateau in advance of the
Henry house, whence he had a full view of
the contest on the opposite height across
the valley of Young's Branch. Opening with
his artillery upon the Federal batteries, he
answered Evans's request by advising him to
withdraw to his own position on the height ;
but Evans, full of the spirit that would not
retreat, renewed his appeal that the forces in
rear would come to help him hold his ground.
The newly arrived forces had given the Feder-
als such superiority at this point as to dwarf
Evans's means of resistance, and General Bee,
generously yielding his own better judgment
to Evans's persistence, led the two brigades
across the valley under the fire of the enemy's
artillery, and threw them into action — one
regiment in the copse held by Colonel Evans,
two along a fence on the right, and two under
General Bartow on the prolonged right of
this line, but extended forward at a right
angle and along the edge of a wood not more
than a hundred yards from that held by the
enemy's left, where the contest at short range
became sharp and deadly, bringing many cas-
ualties to both sides. The Federal infantry,
though still in superior numbers, failed to make
any headway against this sturdy van, notwith-
standing Bee's whole line was hammered
also by the enemy's powerful batteries, until
Heintzelman's division of two strong brigades,
arriving from Sudley ford, extended the fire on
the Federal right, while its battery of six ten-
pounder rifled guns took an immediately ef-
fective part from a position behind the Sudley
road. Against these odds the Confederate
force was still endeavoring to hold its ground,
when a new enemy came into the field upon
its right. Major Wheat, with characteristic
daring and restlessness, had crossed Bull Run
alone by a small ford above the Stone Bridge,
in order to reconnoiter, when he and Evans
had first moved to the left, and, falling on some
Federal scouts, had shouted a taunting defi-
ance and withdrawn, not, however, without his
place of crossing having been observed. This
disclosure was now utilized by Sherman's (W.
T.) and Keyes's brigades of Tyler's division;
crossing at this point, they appeared over the
high bank of the stream and moved into
position on the Federal left. There was no
choice now for Bee but to retire — a move-
ment, however, to be accomplished under
different circumstances than when urged by
him upon Evans. The three leaders endeav-
ored to preserve the steadiness of the ranks
as they withdrew over the open fields, aided
THE BATTLE OE BULL RUN.
THE MAIN BATTLE-GROUND. — NO. 2.
[View of the Robinson house, looking north from the spot on the Henry plateau where General Bee fell. At one P. M. this ground lay between
the hostile lines, which were (roughly speaking) parallel with the sides of the picture : Confederates on the right, Federals on the left. The
foreground was between the centers of the positions.
As these two views are taken from the same spot, the reader will best understand their relation by holding the pages at right angles to each other.]
by the fire of Imboden's guns on the plateau
and the retiring howitzers ; but the troops were
thrown into confusion, and the greater part
soon fell into rout across Young's Branch and
around the base of the height in the rear of
the Stone Bridge.
Meanwhile, in rear of Mitchell's ford, I
had been waiting with General Johnston for
the sound of conflict to open in the quarter
of Centreville upon the Federal left flank
and rear (making allowance, however, for the
delays possible to commands unused to battle),
when I was chagrined to hear from General
D. R. Jones that, while he had been long
ready for the movement upon Centreville,
General Ewell had not come up to form on his
right, though he had sent him between seven
and eight o'clock a copy of his own order
which recited that Ewell had been already or-
dered to begin the movement. I dispatched
an immediate order to Ewell to advance ; but
within a quarter of an hour, just as I received
a dispatch from him informing me that he
had received no order to advance in the morn-
ing, the firing on the left began to increase
so intensely as to indicate a severe attack,
whereupon General Johnston said that he
would go personally to that quarter.
After weighing attentively the firing, which
seemed rapidly and heavily increasing, it ap-
peared to me that the troops on the right
would be unable to get into position before
the Federal offensive should have made too
much progress on our left, and that it would
be better to abandon it altogether, maintain-
ing only a strong demonstration so as to de-
tain the enemy in front of our right and center,
and hurry up all available reinforcements —
including the reserves that were to have
moved upon Centreville — to our left and fight
the battle out in that quarter. Communicating
this view to General Johnston, who approved
it (giving his advice, as he said, for what it
was worth, as he was not acquainted with
the country), I ordered Ewell, Jones, and
Longstreet to make a strong demonstration
all along their front on the other side of the
run, and ordered the reserves below our po-
sition, Holmes's brigade with six guns, and
Early's brigade, also two regiments of Bon-
harr^s brigade, near at hand, to move swiftly
to the left. General Johnston and I now
set out at full speed for the point of conflict.
We arrived there just as Bee's troops, after
giving way, were fleeing in disorder behind
the height in rear of the Stone Bridge. They
96
THE BATTLE OF BULL RUN.
CAPTAIN JAMES B. RICKETTS.
had come around between the base of the
hill and the Stone Bridge into a shallow
ravine which ran up to a point on the crest
where Jackson had already formed his bri-
gade along the edge of the woods. We found
the commanders resolutely stemming the
farther flight of the routed forces, but vainly
endeavoring to restore order, and our own ef-
forts were as futile. Every segment of line
we succeeded in forming was again dissolved
while another was being formed ■ more than
two thousand men were shouting each some
suggestion to his neighbor, their voices mingling
with the noise of the shells hurtling through
the trees overhead, and all word of command
drowned in the confusion and uproar. It was
at this moment that General Bee used the
famous expression, " Look at Jackson's bri-
gade ! It stands there like astone wall " — a name
that passed from the brigade to its immortal
commander. The disorder seemed irretriev-
able, but happily the thought came to me that
if their colors were planted out to the front the
men might rally on them, and I gave the order
to carry the standards forward some forty yards,
which was promptly executed by the regi-
mental officers, thus drawing the common eye
of the troops. They now received easily the or-
ders to advance and form on the line of their
colors, which they obeyed with a general
movement ; and as General Johnston and my-
self rode forward shortly after with the colors of
the Fourth Alabama by our side, the line that
had fought all morning, and had fled, routed
and disordered, now advanced again into
position as steadily as veterans. The Fourth
Alabama had previously lost all its field offi-
cers; and noticing Colonel S. R.Gist, an aide to
General Bee, a young man whom I had known
as Adjutant- General of South Carolina, and
whom I greatly esteemed, I presented him
as an able and brave commander to the
stricken regiment, who cheered their new
leader, and maintained under him, to the end
of the day, their previous gallant behavior.
We had come none too soon, as the ene-
my's forces, flushed with the belief of accom-
plished victory, were already advancing
across the valley of Young's Branch and up
the slope, where they had encountered for a
while the fire of the Hampton Legion, which
had been led forward to the Robinson house
and the turnpike in front, covering the re-
treat and helping materially to check the
panic of Bee's routed forces.
As soon as order was restored I requested
General Johnston to go back to Portici (the
Lewis house), and from that point — which I
considered most favorable for the purpose —
forward me the reinforcements as they would
come from the Bull Run lines below and those
that were expected to arrive from Manassas,
while I should direct the field. General John-
ston was disinclined to leave the battle-field
for that position. As I had been compelled
to leave my chief-of-staff, Colonel Jordan, at
Manassas to forward any troops arriving there,
I felt it was a necessity that one of us should
go to this duty, and that it was his place to do
so, as I felt I was responsible for the battle. He
considerately yielded to my urgency, and we
had the benefit of his energy and sagacity in so
directing the reinforcements toward the field
as to be readily and effectively assistant to my
pressing needs and insure the success of the day.
As General Johnston departed for Portici, I
hastened to form our line of battle against the
oncoming enemy. I ordered up the Forty-
ninth and Eighth Virginia regiments from
Cocke's neighboring brigade in the Bull Run
lines. Gartrell's Seventh Georgia I placed in
position on the left of Jackson's brigade, along
the belt of pines occupied by the latter
on the eastern rim of the plateau. As the
Forty-ninth Virginia rapidly came up, its
colonel, ex-Governor William Smith, was en-
couraging them with cheery word and man-
ner, and, as they approached, indicated to
them the immediate presence of the com-
mander. As the regiment raised a loud cheer,
the name was caught by some of the troops
of Jackson's brigade in the immediate wood,
who rushed out calling for General Beaure-
gard. Hastily acknowledging these happy
signs of sympathy and confidence, which re-
enforce alike the capacity of commander and
troops, I placed the Forty-ninth Virginia
in position on the extreme left next to Gar-
THE BATTLE OE BULL RUN.
97
trell, and as I paused to say a few words to
Jackson, while hurrying back to the right, my
horse was killed under me by a bursting shell,
a fragment of which carried away part of the
heel of my boot. The Hampton Legion, which
had suffered greatly, was placed on the right
of Jackson's brigade, and Hunton's Eighth
Virginia, as it arrived, upon the right of Hamp-
ton ; the two latter being drawn somewhat to
the rear so as to form with Jackson's right
slope of which was cut so deep below the ad-
jacent ground as to afford a covered way up
to the plateau. Supported by the formidable
lines of Federal musketry, these two batteries
lost no time in making themselves felt, while
three more batteries in rear on the high ground
beyond the Sudley and Warrenton cross-roads
swelled the shower of shell that fell among
our ranks.
Our own batteries, Imboden's, Stanard's,
STONE CHURCH, CENTREVILLE. (FROM A PHOTOGRAPH TAKEN IN MARCH, 1862.)
regiment a reserve, and be ready likewise to
make defense against any advance from the
direction of the Stone Bridge, whence there
was imminent peril from the enemy's heavy
forces, as I had just stripped that position almost
entirely of troops to meet the active crisis on
the plateau, leaving this quarter now covered
only by a few men, whose defense was other-
wise assisted solely by the obstruction of an
abatis.
With six thousand five hundred men and
thirteen pieces of artillery, I now awaited the
onset of the enemy, who were pressing for-
ward twenty thousand strong, with twenty-
four pieces of superior artillery and seven com-
panies of regular cavalry. They soon appeared
over the farther rim of the plateau, seizing the
Robinson house on my right and the Henry
house opposite my left center. Near the lat-
ter they placed in position the two powerful bat-
teries of Ricketts and Griffin of the regular army,
and pushed forward up the Sudley road, the
five of Walton's guns, reenforced later by Pen-
dleton's and Alburtis's (their disadvantage be-
ing reduced by the shortness of range), swept
the surface of the plateau from their position
on the eastern rim. I felt that, after the acci-
dents of the morning, much depended on main-
taining the steadiness of the troops against
the first heavy onslaught, and rode along the
lines encouraging the men to unflinching be-
havior, meeting, as I passed each command,
a cheering response. The steady fire of their
musketry told severely on the Federal ranks,
and the splendid action of our batteries was a
fit preface to the marked skill exhibited by our
artillerists during the war. The enemy suffered
particularly from the musketry on our left, now
further reenforced by the Second Mississippi —
the troops in this quarter confronting each other
at very short range. Here two companies of
Stuart's cavalry charged through the Federal
ranks that filled the Sudley road, increasing the
disorder wrought upon that flank of the enemy.
98
THE BATTLE OE BULL RUN.
But with superior numbers the Federals were
pushing on new regiments in the attempt to
flank my position, and several guns, in the
effort to enfilade ours, were thrust forward so
near the Thirty-third Virginia that some of its
men sprang forward and captured them, but
were driven back by an overpowering force of
Federal musketry. Although the enemy were
held well at bay, their pressure became so strong
that I resolved to take the offensive, and or-
dered a charge on my right for the purpose
of recovering the plateau. The movement,
made with alacrity and force by the com-
mands of Bee, Bartow, Evans, and Hampton,
thrilled the entire line, Jackson's brigade
piercing the enemy's center, and the left of
the line under Gartrell and Smith following
up the charge, also, in that quarter, so that the
whole of the open surface of the plateau was
swept clear of the Federals.
Apart from its impression on the enemy,
the effect of this brilliant onset was to give a
short breathing-spell to our troops from the
immediate strain of conflict, and encourage
them in withstanding the still more strenuous
offensive that was soon to bear upon them.
Reorganizing our line of battle under the un-
remitting fire of the Federal batteries opposite,
I prepared to meet the new attack which the
enemy were about to make, largely reenforced
by the fresh troops of Howard's brigade, newly
arrived on the field. The Federals again
pushed up the slope, the face of which par-
tially afforded good cover from the numerous
ravines that scored it and the clumps of
young pines and oaks with which it was
studded, while the sunken Sudley road formed
a good ditch and parapet for their aggressive
advance upon my left flank and rear. Gradually
they pressed our lines back and regained pos-
session of their lost ground and guns. With
the Henry and Robinson houses once more
in their possession, they resumed the offensive,
urged forward by their commanders with
conspicuous gallantry.
The conflict now became very severe for
the final possession of this position, which was
the key to victory. The Federal numbers en-
abled them so to extend their lines through
the woods beyond the Sudley road as to out-
reach my left flank, which I was compelled
partly to throw back, so as to meet the
attack from that quarter; meanwhile their
numbers equally enabled them to outflank my
right in the direction of the Stone Bridge, im-
posing anxious watchfulness in that direction.
I knew that I was safe if I could hold out till
the arrival of reinforcements, which was but
a matter of time; and, with the full sense
of my own responsibility, I was determined
to hold the line of the plateau, even if sur-
rounded on all sides, until assistance should
come, unless my forces were sooner overtaken
by annihilation.
It was now between half-past two and
three o'clock ; a scorching sun increased the
oppression of the troops, exhausted from in-
cessant fighting against such heavy odds, many
having been engaged since the morning. Fear-
ing lest the Federal offensive should secure too
firm a grip, and knowing the fatal result that
might spring from any grave infraction of my
line, I determined to make another effort for
the recovery of the plateau, and ordered a
charge of the entire line of battle, including
the reserves, which at this crisis I myself led
into action. The movement of the several
commands was made with such keeping and
dash that the whole surface of the plateau
was swept clear of the enemy, who were
driven down the slope and across the turn-
pike on our right and the valley of Young's
Branch on our left, leaving in our final pos-
session the Robinson and Henry houses, with
most of Ricketts's and Griffin's batteries, the
men of which were mostly shot down where
they bravely stood by their guns. Fisher's
Sixth North Carolina, directed to the Lewis
house by Colonel Jordan from Manassas,
where it had just arrived, and thence to the
field by General Johnston, came up in happy
time to join in this charge on the left. With-
ers's Eighteenth Virginia, which I had or-
dered up from Cocke's brigade, was also on
hand in time to follow and give additional
effect to the charge, capturing, with the
Hampton Legion, several guns, which were
immediately turned and served upon the
broken ranks of the enemy by some of our
officers. This handsome work, which broke
the Federal fortunes of the day, was done,
however, at severe cost. The soldierly Bee,
and the gallant, impetuous Bartow, whose day
of strong deeds was about to close with such
credit, fell a few rods back of the Henry house,
near the very spot whence in the morn-
ing they had first looked forth upon Evans's
struggle with the enemy. Colonel Fisher also
fell at the very head of his troops. Seeing Cap-
tain Ricketts, who was badly wounded in the
leg, and having known him in the old army,
I paused from my anxious duties to ask
him whether I could do anything for him.
He answered that he wanted to be sent
back to Washington. As some of our pris-
oners were there held under threats of not
being treated as prisoners of war, I replied
that that must depend upon how our pris-
oners were treated, and ordered him to be
carried to the rear. I mention this because
the report of the Federal Committee on the
Conduct of the War exhibits Captain Ricketts
THE BATTLE OF BULL RUN.
99
as testifying that I only approached him to
say that he would be treated as our prisoners
might be treated. I sent my own surgeons to
care for him, and allowed his wife to cross
the lines and accompany him to Richmond ;
and my Adjutant-General, Colonel Jordan,
escorting her to the car that carried them to
that city, personally attended to the comfort-
able placing of the wounded enemy for the
journey.
That part of the enemy who occupied the
woods beyond our left and across the Sudley
road had not been reached by the headlong
charge which had swept their comrades from
the plateau ; but the now arriving reinforce-
ments (Kershaw's Second and Cash's Eighth
South Carolina) were led into that quarter.
Kemper's battery also came up, preceded by
its commander, who, while alone, fell into
the hands of a number of the enemy, who
took him prisoner, until a few moments later,
when he handed them over to some of our own
troops accompanying his battery. A small
plateau (Bald Hill), within the south-west angle
of the Sudley and turnpike cross-roads, was
still held by a strong Federal brigade — • How-
ard's fresh troops, together with Sykes's bat-
talion of regulars ; and while Kershaw and
Cash, after passing through the skirts of the
oak wood along the Sudley road, engaged
this force, Kemper's battery was sent forward
by Kershaw along the same road, into posi-
tion near where a hostile battery had been
captured, and whence it played upon the
enemy in the open field.
Quickly following these regiments came
Preston's Twenty-eighth Virginia, which, pass-
ing through the woods, encountered and drove
back some Michigan troops, capturing Briga-
dier-General Willcox. It was now about three
o'clock, when another important reenforcement
came to our aid. Elzey's brigade, seventeen
hundred strong, of the Army of the Shen-
andoah, which, coming from Piedmont by
railroad, had arrived at Manassas station,
six miles in rear of the battle-field, at
noon, and had been without delay directed
thence toward the field by Colonel Jordan,
aided by Major T. G. Rhett, who that morn-
ing had passed from General Bonham's to
General Johnston's staff. Upon nearing the
vicinity of the Lewis house, the brigade was
directed by a staff officer sent by General
Johnston toward the left of the field. As it
reached the oak wood, just across the Sudley
road, led by General Kirby Smith, the lat-
ter fell severely wounded ; but the command
devolved upon Colonel Elzey, an excellent
officer, who was now guided by Captain
D. B. Harris of the Engineers, a highly accom-
plished officer of my staff, still farther to the left
and through the woods, so as to form in exten-
sion of the line of the preceding reinforcements.
Beckham's battery, of the same command, was
hurried forward by the Sudley road and around
the woods into position near the Chinn house ;
from a well-selected point of action, in full
view of the enemy that filled the open fields
west of the Sudley road, it played with deadly
and decisive effect upon their ranks, already
under the fire of Elzey's brigade. Keyes's
brigade, which had made its way across the
turnpike in rear of the Stone Bridge, was
lurking along under cover of the ridges and
a wood in order to turn my line on the right,
but was easily repulsed by Latham's battery,
already placed in position over that approach
by Captain Harris, aided by Alburtis's bat-
tery, opportunely sent to Latham's left by
General Jackson, and supported by fragments
of troops collected by staff officers. Mean-
while, the enemy had formed a line of battle
of formidable proportions on the opposite
height, and stretching in crescent outline,
with flanks advanced, from the Pittsylvania
(Carter) mansion on their left across the Sudley
road in rear of Dogan's,and reaching toward
the Chinn house. They offered a fine spec-
tacle as they threw forward a cloud of skir-
mishers down the opposite slope, preparatory
to a new assault against the line on the
plateau. But their right was now severely
pressed by the troops that had successively
arrived ; the force in the south-west angle of
the Sudley and Warrenton cross-roads were
driven from their position, and, as Early's
brigade, which, by direction of General John-
ston, had swept around by the rear of the
woods through which Elzey had passed, ap-
peared on the field, his line of march bore
upon the flank of the enemy, as he was now
retiring in that quarter.
The movement upon my extreme left was
masked by the trend of the woods from many
of our forces on the plateau • and bidding
those of my staff and escort around me
raise a loud cheer, I dispatched the informa-
tion to the several commands, with orders to
go forward in a common charge. Before the
full advance of the Confederate ranks the
enemy's whole line, whose right was already
yielding, irretrievably broke, fleeing across
Bull Run by every available direction. Major
Sykes's regulars, aided by Sherman's brigade,
made a steady and handsome withdrawal,
protecting the rear of the routed forces, and
enabling many to escape by the Stone Bridge.
Having ordered in pursuit all the troops on the
field, I went to the Lewis house, and, the battle
being ended, turned over the command to
General Johnston. Mounting a fresh horse, —
the fourth on that day, — I started to press the
IOO
THE BATTLE OF BULL RUN.
CAPTAIN CHARLES GRIFFIN.
pursuit which was being made by our in-
fantry and cavalry, some of the latter having
some nervous person that they were a force
of the enemy. It was now almost dark, and
too late to resume the broken pursuit ; on
my return I met the coming forces, and, as
they were very tired, I ordered them to halt and
bivouac for the night where they were. After
giving such attention as I could to the troops,
I started for Manassas, where I arrived about
ten o'clock, and found Mr. Davis at my
head-quarters with General Johnston. Arriv-
ing from Richmond late in the afternoon, Mr.
Davis had immediately galloped to the field,
accompanied by Colonel Jordan. They had
met between Manassas and the battle-field the
usual number of stragglers to the rear, whose
appearance belied the determined array then
sweeping the enemy before it, but Mr. Davis
had the happiness to arrive in time to witness
the last of the Federals disappearing beyond
Bull Run. The next morning I received from
his hand at our breakfast-table my commission,
dated July 21, as General in the Army of the
Confederate States, and after his return to
Richmond the kind congratulations of the
Secretary of War and of General Lee, then
acting as military adviser to the President.
It was a point made at the time at the
North that, just as the Confederate troops
were about to break and flee, the Federal
troops anticipated them by doing so, being
been sent by General Johnston from Lewis's struck into this precipitation by the arrival
ford to intercept the enemy on the turnpike. I upon their flank of the Shenandoah forces
was soon overtaken, however, by a courier marching from railroad trains halted e?i route
bearing a message from Major T. G. Rhett, with that aim — a statement that has been
General Johnston's chief-of-staff on duty at repeated by some writers on both sides, and
Manassas railroad station, informing me of by an ambitious but superficial French author,
a report that a large Federal force, having There were certain sentiments of a per-
pierced our lower line on Bull Run, was mov- sonal character clustering about this first bat-
ing upon Camp Pickens, my depot of supplies tie, and personal anxiety as to its issue, that
near Manassas. I returned, and communicated gladly accepted this theory. To this may be
this important news to General Johnston, added the general readiness to accept a senti-
Upon consultation it was deemed
best that I should take Ewell's and
Holmes's brigades, which were hast-
ening up to the battle-field, but too
late for the action, and fall on this
force of the enemy, while reinforce-
ments should be sent me from the
pursuing forces, who were to be re-
called for that purpose. To head
off the danger and gain time, I hast-
ily mounted a force of infantry be-
hind the cavalry- men then present,
but, on approaching the line of
march near McLean's ford, which
the Federals must have taken, I
learned that the news was a false
alarm caught from the return of
General Jones's forces to this side of the mental or ultra-dramatic, explanation — the
run, the similarity of the uniforms and the magic wrought by the delay or arrival of some
direction of their march having convinced force, or the death or coming of somebody,
CONFEDERATE QUAKER GUNS.
[View of fortifications after their evacuation by the Confederates in the spring- of 1862.
The muzzle of the log was painted black and the breech was covered with
brush to conceal its character from observation by balloon.]
THE BATTLE OF BULL RUN.
101
or any other single magical event — whereby
history is easily caught, rather than to seek
an understanding of that which is but the
gradual result of the operation of many
forces, both of opposing design and actual
collision, modified more or less by the falls
adopted, however, favored above all things
the easy execution of the offensive operations
I had designed and ordered against his left
flank and rear at Centreville. His turning col-
umn— eighteen thousand strong, and presum-
ably his best troops — was thrown off by a long
CONFEDERATE FORTIFICATIONS ABOUT MANASSAS JUNCTION.
[This view is from a photogTaph taken in March, 1862. It represents the works substantially as they were at the time of the battle.]
of chance. The personal sentiment, though
natural enough at the time, has no place in
any military estimate, nor place of any kind at
this day. The battle of Manassas was, like any
other battle, a progression and development
from the deliberate counter-employment of
the military resources in hand, affected by ac-
cidents, as always, but of a kind very different
from those referred to. My line of battle,
which had twice not only withstood the ene-
my's attack, but taken the offensive and
driven him back in disorder, was becoming
momentarily stronger from the arrival, at last,
of the reinforcements provided for; and if the
enemy had remained on the field till the arrival
of E well and Holmes, they would have been so
strongly outflanked that many who escaped
would have been destroyed or captured.
Though my adversary's plan of battle was a
good one against a passive defensive opponent,
such as he may have deemed I must be from
the respective numbers and positions of our
forces, it would, in my judgment, have been
much better if, with more dash, the flank attack
had been made by the stone bridge itself and
the ford immediately above it. The plan
Vol. XXIX.-
ellipse through a narrow forest road to Sudley
ford, from which it moved down upon my left
flank, and was thus dislocated from his main
body. This severed movement of his forces
not only left his exposed left and rear at
Centreville weak against the simultaneous
offensive of my heaviest forces upon it, but the
movement of his turning column would have
been% disconcerted and paralyzed by the early
sound of this heavy conflict in its rear, and it
could not even have made its way back so as
to be available for maneuver before the Cen-
treville fraction had been thrown back upon
it in disorder. A new army is very liable to
panic, and, in view of the actual result of
the battle, the conclusion can hardly be re-
sisted that the panic which fell on the Fed-
eral army would thus have seized it early in
the day, and with my forces in such position
as to wholly cut off its retreat upon Washing-
ton. The commander of the front line on my
right, who failed to move because he re-
ceived no immediate order, was instructed in
the plan of attack, and should have gone for-
ward the moment General Jones, upon whose
right he was to form, exhibited his own
11.
102
THE BATTLE OF BULL RUN.
order, which mentioned one as having been
already sent to that commander. I exonerated
him after the battle, as he was technically
not in the wrong ; but one could not help
recalling Desaix, who even moved in a direc-
tion opposite to his technical orders when
facts plainly showed him the service he ought
to perform, whence the glorious result of
Marengo, — or help believing that if Jackson
had been there, the movement would not
have balked. The Federal commander's flank-
ing movement, being thus uninterrupted by
such a counter-movement as I had projected,
was further assisted through the imperfec-
tion and inefficiency of the staff organization
of the army, through which I was left unac-
quainted with the actual state of affairs on
my left. The Federal attack, already thus
greatly favored, and encouraged, moreover,
by the rout of General Bee's advanced line,
failed for two reasons : their forces were not
handled with concert of masses (a fault often
made later on both sides), and the individual
action of the Confederate troops was supe-
rior, notwithstanding inferiority in numbers,
arms, and equipments, and for a very palpable
reason. That one army was fighting for union
and the other for disunion is a political expres-
sion ; the actual fact on the battle-field, in the
face of cannon and musket, was that the
Federal troops came as invaders, and the
Southern troops stood as defenders of their
homes, and further than this we need not go.
The armies were vastly greater than had
ever before fought on this continent, and
were the largest volunteer armies ever assem-
bled since the era of regular armies. The
personal material on both sides was of ex-
ceptionally good character, and collectively
superior to that of any subsequent period of
the war.* The Confederate army was filled
with generous youths who had answered the
first call of the country. For certain kinds of
field duty they were not as yet adapted,
many of them having at first come with their
baggage and servants ; these they had to dis-
pense with, but, not to offend their suscepti-
bilities, I then exacted the least work from
them, apart from military drills, even to the
prejudice of important field-works, when I
could not get sufficient negro labor; they "had
come to fight, and not to handle the pick and
shovel," and their fighting redeemed well their
shortcomings as intrenchers. Before I left
that gallant army, however, it had learned how
readily the humbler could aid the nobler duty.
As to immediate results and trophies, we cap-
tured a great many stands of arms, batteries,
equipments, standards, and flags, one of which
was sent to me, through General Longstreet,
as a personal compliment by the Texan " crack
shot," Colonel B. F. Terry, who lowered it
from its mast at Fairfax Court House, by cut-
ting the halyards by means of his unerring
rifle, as our troops next morning reoccupied
that place. We captured also many prison-
ers, including a number of surgeons, whom
(the first time in war) we treated not as
prisoners, but as guests. Calling attention to
their brave devotion to their wounded, I re-
commended to the War Department that they
be sent home without exchange, together with
some other prisoners, who had shown per-
sonal kindness to Colonel Jones, of the Fourth
Alabama, who had been mortally wounded
early in the day.
SUBSEQUENT RELATIONS OF MR. DAVIS AND
THE WRITER.
The military result of the victory was far
short of what it should have been. It estab-
lished as an accomplished fact, on the in-
dispensable basis of military success, the
Government of the Confederate States, which
before was but a political assertion; but it
should have reached much further. The im-
mediate pursuit, but for the false alarm which
checked it, would have continued as far as
the Potomac, but must have stopped there
with no greater result than the capture of
more prisoners and material. The true im-
mediate fruits of the victory should have
been the dispersion of all the Federal forces
south of Baltimore and east of the Alleghanies,
the liberation of the State of Maryland, and
the capture of Washington, which could have
been made only by the upper Potomac.
And from the high source of this achievement
other decisive results would have continued
to flow. From my experience in the Mexican
war I had great confidence in intelligent
volunteer troops, if rightly handled ; and with
such an active and victorious war-engine as the
Confederate Army of the Potomac could have
immediately been made, — reenforced, as time
went, by numbers and discipline, — the Federal
military power in the East could never have
reached the head it took by McClellan being
* This battle was noteworthy for the number of participants whose names are now prominently associated
with the war. On the Confederate side, besides Generals Johnston and Beauregard, were Generals Stone-
wall Jackson, Longstreet, Ewell, Early, J. E. B. Stuart, Kirby Smith, Wade Hampton, Fitz-Hugh Lee,
Jordan, Rodes, and others. On the Federal side were Generals McDowell, Sherman, Burnside, Hunter,
Heintzelman, Howard, Franklin, Slocum, Keyes, Hunt, Barry, Fry, Sykes, Barnard, Wadsworth, and others.
Portraits of most of these must be deferred to other engagements. A likeness of General Beauregard will
appear with General Grant's paper on Shiloh. — Ed.
THE BATTLE OF BULL RUN.
j 03
allowed to organize and discipline at leisure
the powerful army that, in the end, wore
out the South. In war one success makes
another easier, and its right use is as the
step to another, until final achievement.
This was the use besought by me in the
plan of campaign I have mentioned as
presented to Mr. Davis on the 14th of
July, a few days before the battle, but re-
jected by him as impracticable, and as rather
offering opportunity to the enemy to crush us.
To supply the deficiency of transportation
(vehicles few in number, and many so poor
as to break down in ordinary camp service), I
myself had assigned to special duty Colonel
(since Governor) James L. Kemper, of Vir-
ginia, who quickly obtained for me some two
hundred good wagons, to which number I
had limited him so as not to arouse again the
jealousy of the President's staff. If my plan
of operations for the capture of Washington
had been adopted, I should have considered
myself thereby authorized and free to obtain,
as I readily could, the transportation necessary.
As it was — although the really difficult part
of this " impracticable " plan of operations had
been proven feasible, that is, the concentration
of the Shenandoah forces with mine (wrung
later than the eleventh hour through the alarm
over the march upon Richmond, and discoun-
tenanced again nervously at the twelfth hour by
another alarm as to how " the enemy may
vary his plans " in consequence), followed by
the decisive defeat of the main Federal forces
— nevertheless the army remained rooted in
the spot, although we had more than fifteen
thousand troops who had been not at all or but
little in the battle and were perfectly organ-
ized, while the remaining commands, in the
high spirits of victory, could have been reor-
ganized at the tap of the drum, and many with
improved captured arms and equipments. I
had already urged my views with unusual
persistency, and acted on them against all but
an express order to the contrary ; and as they
had been deliberately rejected in their ulti-
mate scope by Mr. Davis as the commander-
in-chief, I did not feel authorized to urge
them further than their execution had been
allowed, unless the subject were broached anew
by himself. But there was no * intimation of
any such change of purpose, and the army,
consistently with this inertia, was left unpro-
vided for maneuver with transportation for its
ammunition ; its fortitude, moreover, as a new
and volunteer army, while spending sometimes
twenty-four hours without food, being only less
wonderful than the commissary administration
at Richmond, from which such a state of affairs
could proceed even two weeks after the battle
of Manassas. Although certain political su-
perstitions about not consolidating the North
may then have weighed against the action I
proposed, they would have been light against
a true military policy, if such had existed in
the head of the government. Apart from an
active material ally, such as the colonies had
afield and on sea in the war of Independence
with Great Britain, a country in fatal war
must depend on the vigor of its warfare ; the
more inferior the country, the bolder and
more enterprising the use of its resources,
especially if its frontiers are convenient to
the enemy. I was convinced that our success
lay in a short, quick war of decisive blows,
before the Federals, with their vast resources,
could build up a great military power ; to
which end a concerted use of our forces,
immediate and sustained, was necessary, so
that, weaker though we were at all separate
points, we might nevertheless strike with su-
perior strength at some chosen decisive point,
and after victory there reach for victory now
made easier elsewhere, and thus sum up suc-
cess. Instead of this, which in war we call
concentration, our actual policy was diffusion,
an inferior Confederate force at each separate
point defensively confronting a superior Fed-
eral force ; our power daily shrinking, that of
the enemy increasing; and the avowed Federal
policy of "attrition" of the bigger masses left
free to grind the smaller, one by one, to naught.
Out of this state we never emerged, when
the direction of the government was, as almost
always, necessary, excepting when " Rich-
mond" was immediately in danger.
Thus, in the fall of 1861, about three
months after the battle of Manassas, — after
throwing my whole force forward to Fairfax
Court House, with outposts flaunting our
flags on the hills in sight of Washington, in
order to chafe the Federals to another battle,
but without success, — I proposed that the army
should be raised to an effective of 60,000 men,
by drawing 20,000 for the immediate enter-
prise from several points along the seaboard,
not even at that time threatened, and from
our advanced position be swiftly thrown across
the Potomac at a point which I had had
carefully surveyed for that purpose, and
moved upon the rear of Washington, thus forc-
ing McClellan to a decisive engagement before
his organization (new enlistments) was com-
pleted, and while our own army had the ad-
vantage of discipline and prestige — seasoned
soldiers, whose term, however, would expire
in the early part of the coming summer. This
plan, approved by General Gustavus W. Smith
(then immediately commanding General John-
ston's own forces) as well as by General John-
ston, was submitted to Mr. Davis in a confer-
ence at my headquarters, but rejected because
104
THE BATTLE OF BULL RUN.
he would not venture to strip those points of
the troops we required. Even if those points
had been captured, though none were then
even threatened, they must have reverted as
a direct consequence to so decisive a suc-
cess. I was willing, then, should it have come
to that, to exchange even Richmond tempo-
rarily for Washington. Yet it was precisely
from similar combinations and elements that
the army was made up, to enable it next
spring, under General Lee, to encounter
McClellan's then perfectly organized army of
150,000 men at the very door of Richmond.
If that which was accepted as a last defensive
resort against an overwhelming aggressive
army had been used in an enterprising offen-
sive against that same army while yet in the
raw, the same venture had been made at less
general risk, less cost of valuable lives, and
with immeasurably greater certain results. The
Federal Army of the Potomac would have had
no chance meanwhile to become tempered
to that magnificent military machine which,
through all its defeats and losses, remained
sound, and was stronger, with its readily as-
similating new strength, at the end of the war
than ever before; the pressure would have
been lifted from Kentucky and Missouri, and we
should have maintained what is called an active
defensive warfare, that is, taken and kept the
offensive against the enemy, enforcing peace.
No people ever warred for independence
with more relative advantages than the Con-
federates; and if, as a military question,
they must have failed, then no country must
aim at freedom by means of war. We were
one in sentiment as in territory, starting out,
not with a struggling administration of doubt-
ful authority, but with our ancient State gov-
ernments and a fully organized central govern-
ment. As a military question, it was in no
sense a civil war, but a war between two
countries — for conquest on one side, for self-
preservation on the other. The South, with its
great material resources, its defensive means
of mountains, waterways, railroads, and tele-
graph, with the immense advantage of the
interior lines of war, would be open to dis-
credit as a people if its failure could not be
explained otherwise than by mere material
contrast. The great Frederick, at the head of
a little people, not only beat back a combina-
tion of several great military powers, but con-
quered and kept territory ; and Napoleon held
combined Europe at the feet of France till
his blind ambition overleaped itself. It may
be said that the South had no Fredericks or
Napoleons ; but it had at least as good com-
manders as its adversary. Nor was it the
fault of our soldiers or people. Our soldiers
were as brave and intelligent as ever bore
arms ; and, if only for reasons already men-
tioned, they had a determination superior to
the enemy's. Our people bore a devotion to
the cause never surpassed, and which no war-
making monarch ever had for his support;
they gave their all — even the last striplings
under the family roofs rilling the ranks voided
by the fall of their fathers and brothers. But
the narrow military view of the head of the
government, which illustrated itself in the out-
set by ordering from Europe, not 100,000 or
1,000,000, but 10,000 stands of arms, as an
increase upon 8000, its first estimate, was
equally narrow and consequently timid in its
employment of our armies.
The moral and material forces actually en-
gaged in the war made our success a moral
certainty, but fof the timid policy which —
ignoring strategy as a science and boldness
of enterprise as its ally — could never be
brought to view the whole theater of war as
one subject, of which all points were but in-
tegral parts, or to hazard for the time points
relatively unimportant for the purpose of gath-
ering for an overwhelming and rapid stroke
at some decisive point ; and which, again, with
characteristic mis-elation, would push a vic-
torious force directly forward into unsupported
and disastrous operations, instead of using its
victory to spare from it strength sufficient to
secure an equally important success in another
quarter. The great principles of war are truths,
and the same to-day as in the time of Caesar
or Napoleon, notwithstanding the ideas of
some thoughtless persons — their applications
being but intensified by the scientific discov-
eries affecting transportation and communi-
cation of intelligence. These principles are
few and simple, however various their deduc-
tions and application. Skill in strategy con-
sists in seeing through the intricacies of the
whole situation, and bringing into proper
combination forces and influences, though
seemingly unrelated, so as to apply these
principles, and with boldness of decision
and execution appearing with the utmost force,
and, if possible, superior odds, before the
enemy at some strategic, that is, decisive,
point. AncJ although a sound military plan
may not be always so readily conceived, yet
any plan that offers decisive results, if it agree
with the principles of war, is as plain and
intelligible as these principles themselves, and
no more to be rejected than they. There still
remains, of course, the hazard of accident in
execution, and the apprehension of the en-
emy's movements upsetting your own ; but
hazard may also favor as well as disfavor,
and will not unbefriend the enterprising any
more than the timid. It was this fear of possi-
ble consequences that kept our forces scat-
THE BATTLE OF BULL RUN.
105
tered in inferior relative strength at all points troversy was on Mr. Davis's own staff, where
of the compass, each holding its bit of ground he remained. Mr. Davis made an endeavor
till by slow local process our territory was to suppress the publication of my report of
taken and our separate forces destroyed, or, the battle of Manassas. The matter came up
if captured, retained by the enemy without in a secret debate in the Confederate Congress,
exchange in their process of attrition. To where a host of friends were ready to sustain
stop the slow consumption of this passive me; but I sent a telegram disclaiming any
mode of warfare I tried my part, and, at cer- desire for its publication, and advising that
tain critical junctures, proposed to the Gov- the safety of the country should be our solici-
ernment active plans of operation looking to tude, and not personal ends,
such results as I have described, — sometimes, Thenceforth his hostility was watchful and
it is true, in relation to the employment of adroit, neglecting no opportunity, great or
forces not under my control, as I was the small ; and though, from motives all its oppo-
soldier of a cause and people, not of a monarch site, it was not exposed during the war by
nor even of a government. Two occasions any murmurs of mine, it bruited sometimes
there were when certain of the most noted Fed- in certain circles of its own force. Thus,
eral operations, from their isolated or oppor- when in January, 1862, the Western repre-
tune character, might, with energy and intelli- sentatives expressed a desire that I should
gent venture on the Confederate side,have been separate myself for a time from my Virginia
turned into fatal disaster ; among them Grant's forces and go to the defense of the Mississippi
movement in front of Vicksburg, and his change Valley from the impending offensive of Hal-
ofbase from the north to the south of thejames leek and Grant, it was furthered by the Ex-
River, where I was in command, in his last ecutive with inducements which I trusted, in
campaign against Richmond. I urged par- disregard of Senator Toombs's sagacious
ticularly that our warfare was sure of final warning, that under this furtherance lurked
defeat unless we attempted decisive strokes a purpose to effect my downfall, urged in one
that might be followed up to the end, and of his communications through his son-in-law,
that even if earlier defeat might chance from Mr. Alexander, in words as impressive as they
the risk involved in the execution of the nee- proved prophetic : " Urge General Beaure-
essary combinations, we ought to take that gard to decline all proposals and solicitations,
risk and thereby either win or end another- The Blade of Joab. Verbum Sapienti."*
wise useless struggle. But in addition to the After going through the campaign of Shiloh
radical divergence of military ideas — the and Corinth, not only with those inducements
passive defensive of an intellect timid of unfulfilled, but with vital drawbacks from the
risk and not at home in war, and the active Government, including the refusal of neces-
defensive reaching for success through en- sary rank to competent subordinates to assist
terprise and boldness, according to the les- in organizing my hastily collected and mostly
sons taught us in the campaigns of the great raw troops, I was forced, the following June,
masters — there was a personal feeling that in deferred obedience to the positive order of
now gave cold hearing or none to any rec- my physicians, to withdraw from my immediate
ommendations of mine. Mr. Davis's friend- camp to another point in my department for
ship, warm at the early period of. the war, recovery from illness, leaving under the care
was changed, some time after the battle of of my lieutenant, General Bragg, my army,
Manassas, to a corresponding hostility from then unmenaced and under reorganization
several personal causes, direct and indirect, with a view to an immediate offensive I had
of which I need only mention that, my re- purposed. In anticipation and exclusion of
port of the campaign and battle of Manassas the receipt of full dispatches following my
having contained, as part of its history, a telegram, the latter was tortuously misread, in
statement of the submission of my plan a manner not creditable to a school-boy and
of campaign already described for concen- repugnant to Mr. Davis's exact knowledge of
trating our forces, crushing both McDowell syntax, so as to give pretext to the shocking
and Patterson and capturing Washington, charge that I had abandoned my army, and a
Mr. Davis strangely took offense thereat, and telegram was sent in naked haste directly to
his self-accused responsibility for rejecting the General Bragg, telling him to retain the per-
plan he sought, after the demonstration of manent command of the army. The " Blade
events, to get rid of by denying that such of Joab " had given its thrust. The repre-
a plan had ever been submitted — an issue, sentatives in Congress from the West and
for that matter, easily settled by my pro- South-west applied to Mr. Davis in a body for
auction of the contemporaneous report of my restoration; and when, disregarding his
Colonel James Chesnut, the bearer of the sheer pretext that I had abandoned my army,
mission, who moreover at the time of the con- they still insisted, Mr. Davis declared that I
* II. Samuel, 3, 27.
io6
THE BATTLE OF BULL RUN.
should not be restored if the whole world
should ask it / This machination went to such
length that it was given out in Richmond
that I had softening of the brain and had
gone crazy. So carefully was this report
fostered (one of its tales being that I would
sit all day stroking a pheasant *) that a friend
of mine, a member of the Confederate Con-
gress, thought it his duty to write me a special
letter respecting the device, advising me to
come directly to Richmond to confound it
by my presence — a proceeding which I dis-
dained to take. I had not only then, but from
later still more offensive provocation, impera-
tive cause to resign, and would have done so
but for a sense of public obligation. Indeed,
in my after fields of action the same hos-
tility was more and more active in its vari-
ous embarrassments, reckless that the strains
inflicted upoh me bore upon the troops and
country depending on me and relatively upon
the cause, so that I often dreaded failure more
from my own government behind me than
from the enemy in my front; and, when suc-
cess came in spite of this, it was acknowl-
edged only by some censorious official " in-
quiry " contrasting with the repeated thanks
of Congress. I was, however, not the only one
of the highest military rank with whom Mr.
Davis's relations were habitually unwholesome.
It is an extraordinary fact that during the four
years of war Mr. Davis did not call the five
Generals together into conference with a view
to determining the best military policy or set-
tling upon a decisive plan of operations involv-
ing the whole theater of war, though there was
often ample opportunity for it. We needed for
President either a military man of a high order,
or a politician of the first class (such as
Howell Cobb) without military pretensions.
The South did not fall crushed by the mere
weight of the North ; but it was nibbled away
at all sides and ends because its executive head
never gathered and wielded its great strength
under the ready advantages that greatly
reduced or neutralized its adversary's naked
physical superiority. It is but another of the
many proofs that timid direction may readily
go with physical courage, and that the passive
defensive policy may make a long agony, but
can never win a war.
G. T. Beauregard,
* This silly tale was borrowed from an incident of Shiloh. Toward the end of the first day's battle a soldier
had found a pheasant cowering, apparently paralyzed under the ceaseless din, and brought it to my headquarters
as a present to me. It was a beautiful bird, and after receiving it I gave directions to place it in a cage, as I
intended sending it as a pleasant token of the battle to the family of Judge Milton Brown, of Jackson, Ten-
nessee, from whom I had received as their guest, while occupying that place, the kindest attentions ; but
in the second day's conflict the poor waif was lost. — G .T. B.
CHARGE OF THE FEDERAL LINE TO RETAKE THE HENRY HILL.
RECOLLECTIONS OF A PRIVATE.— IJ
INCLUDING THE BATTLE OF BULL RUN.)
EFORE the war had
really begun I enlist-
ed. I had read the
papers, and attend-
ed flag-raisings, and
heard orators declaim
of " undying devotion
to the Union." One
speaker to whom I
listened declared that
" human life must be
cheapened," but I
never learned that he
helped on the work ex-
perimentally. When
men by the hundred
walked soberly and
deliberately to the
a soldier of 1861 (i4TH new front and signed the
enlistment papers, he
didn't show any inclination that way. As I came
out of the hall with conflicting emotions, feeling
as though I should have to go finally or forfeit
my birthright as an American citizen, one of
the orators who stood at the door, glowing with
enthusiasm and patriotism, and shaking hands
effusively with those who enlisted, said to me :
" Did you enlist ? "
" No," I said. " Did you ? "
" No ; they wont take me. I have got a lame
leg and a widowed mother to take care of."
Another enthusiast I remember, who was
eager to enlist — others. He declared the
family of no man who went to the front
should suffer. After the war he was promi-
nent among those in our town who at town-
meeting voted to refund the money to such
as had expended it to procure substitutes dur-
ing the war. He has, moreover, been fierce
and uncompromising toward the ex-Confed-
erates since the war closed, and I have heard
him repeatedly express the wish that all the
civil and general officers of the late Con-
federacy might be court-martialed and shot.
I was young, but not unobserving, and did
not believe, from the first, in a sixty days'
war ; nor did I consider ten dollars a month,
and the promised glory, large pay for the
services of an able-bodied young man. En-
listment scenes are usually pictured as entirely
heroic, but truth compels me to acknowledge
that my feelings were mixed. At this moment
I cannot repress a smile of amusement and pity
for that young recruit — myself. It was the
news that the Sixth Massachusetts regiment
had been mobbed by roughs on their passage
through Baltimore which gave me the war
fever. When I read Governor Andrew's pa-
thetic telegram to have the hero martyrs
" preserved in ice and tenderly sent forward,"
somehow, though I felt the pathos of it, I could
not reconcile myself to the ice. Ice in con-
nection with patriotism did not give me agree-
able impressions of war, and when I came to
think of it, the stoning of the heroic " Sixth "
didn't suit me; it detracted from my desire to
die a soldier's death. I lay awake all night
thinking it over, with the " ice " and " brick-
bats " before my mind. However, the fever
culminated that night, and I resolved to
enlist.
" Cold chills " ran up and down my back as I
got out of bed after the sleepless night, and
shaved, preparatory to other desperate deeds
of valor. I was twenty years of age, and
when anything unusual was to be done, like
fighting or courting, I shaved. With a nerv-
ous tremor convulsing my whole system and
my heart thumping like muffled drum-beats, I
stood before the door of the recruiting-office,
and, before turning the knob to enter, read and
re-read the advertisement for recruits posted
thereon, until I knew all its peculiarities. The
promised chances for "travel and promotion"
seemed good, and I thought I might have
made a mistake in considering war so seri-
ous, after all. " Chances for travel ! " I must
confess now, after four years of soldiering, that
the " chances for travel " were no myth. But
" promotion " was a little uncertain and slow.
* Copyright, 1884, by The Century Co. All rights reserved. It is proper to say at the beginning of these
papers that while they relate in chief part the experiences of the writer, he also (as in the case of the latter por-
tion of the present article) has availed himself of the reminiscences of comrades known to him to be trust-
worthy. The general title of the papers must therefore not be read literally. — Ed.
t The battle of Bull Run was notable in a minor way for the variety of uniforms worn on both sides — a
variety greater than was shown in any later engagement. The Federal blue had not yet been issued, and
the troops wore either the uniforms of their militia organizations or those furnished by their several States.
Besides the Zouave regiments there was one in Highland dress (the 79th New York). The Confederate
uniforms exhibited similar variety ; some regiments were in citizens' dress, and several of the general officers
who had been in the old service — including, we are informed, Generals Johnston, Beauregard, and Longstreet
— still wore the dress of the U. S. Army. — Ed.
io8
RECOLLECTIONS OF A PRIVATE.
I was in no hurry to open the door.
Though determined to enlist, I was half in-
clined to put it off awhile ; I had a fluctua-
tion of desires; I was faint-hearted and
brave ; I wanted to enlist, and yet . Here
I turned the knob, and was relieved. I had
been more prompt, with all my hesitation,
than the officer in his duty ; he wasn't in.
Finally he came, and said : " What do you
want, my boy ? " "I want to enlist," I re-
sponded, blushing deeply with upwelling pa-
triotism and bashfulness. Then the surgeon
came to strip and examine me. In justice to
myself, it must be stated that I signed the
rolls without a tremor. It is common to the
most of humanity, I believe, that, when con-
fronted with actual danger, men have less
fear than in its contemplation. I will, how-
ever, make one exception in favor of the first
shell I heard uttering its hoarse anathema
and its blood-curdling hisses, as though a
steam locomotive were traveling the air. With
this exception I have found danger always
less terrible face to face than on the night be-
fore the battle.
My first uniform was a bad fit : my trow-
sers were too long by three or four inches;
the flannel shirt was coarse and unpleasant,
too large at the neck and too short else-
where. The forage cap was an ungainly bag
with pasteboard top and leather visor; the
blouse was the only part which seemed decent;
while the overcoat made me feel like a little
nib of corn amid a preponderance of husk.
Nothing except " Virginia mud " ever took
down my ideas of military pomp quite so low.
After enlisting I didn't seem of so much
consequence as I expected. There was not so
much excitement on account of my military
appearance as I deemed justly my due. I was
taught my facings, and at the time I thought
the drill-master needlessly fussy about shoulder-
ing, ordering, and presenting arms. The musket,
after an hour's drill, seemed heavier and less
ornamental than it had looked to be. The first
day I went out to drill, getting tired of doing
the same things over and over, I said to the
drill-sergeant : " Let's stop this fooling and
go over to the grocery." His only reply was
addressed to a corporal : " Corporal, take
this man out and drill him like h — 1 ; " and
the corporal did. I found that suggestions
were not as well appreciated in the army as
in private life, and that no wisdom was equal
to a drill-master's " Right face," " Left wheel,"
and " Right, oblique, march." It takes a raw
recruit some time to learn that he is not to
think or suggest, but obey. Some never do
learn. I acquired it at last, in humility and
mud, but it was tough. Yet I doubt if my
patriotism, during my first three weeks' drill,
was quite knee high. Drilling looks easy to a
spectator, but it isn't. Old soldiers who read
this will remember their green recruithood
and smile assent. After a time I had cut down
my uniform so that I could see out of it, and
had conquered the drill sufficiently to see
through it. Then the word came: On to
Washington !
Our company was quartered at a large hotel
near the railway station in the town in which
it was recruited. Bunks had been fitted up
within a part of the hotel but little used. We
took our meals at the regular hotel table, and
found fault with the style. Six months later
we should have considered ourselves aristo-
cratic to have slept in the hotel stables with
the meal-bin for a dining-table. There was
great excitement one morning at the report
that we were going to be sent to the front.
Most of us obtained a limited pass and went to
see our friends for the last time, returning the
same night. All our schoolmates and home ac-
quaintances " came slobbering around camp,"
as one of the boys ungraciously expressed it.
We bade adieu to our friends with heavy hearts,
and lightly as I may here seem to treat the sub-
ject, it was no light thing for a boy of twenty
to start out for three years into the unknown
dangers of a civil war. Our mothers — God
bless them ! — had brought us something good
to eat, — pies, cakes, doughnuts, and jellies. It
was one way in which -a mother's heart found
utterance. Our young ladies (sisters, of
course) brought an invention, generally made
of leather or cloth, containing needles, pins,
thread, buttons, and scissors, so that nearly
every recruit had an embryo tailor's shop —
with the goose outside. One old lady, in the
innocence of her heart, brought her son an
umbrella. We did not see anything particu-
larly laughable about it at the time, but our
old drill-sergeant did. Finally we were ready
to move ; our tears were wiped away, our
buttons were polished, and our muskets were
as bright as emery-paper could make them.
How our buttons and muskets did shine !
We were brilliant there, if nowhere else.
" Wad " Rider, a member of our company,
had come from a neighboring State to enlist
with us. He was about eighteen years of
age, red-headed, freckled-faced, good-natured,
and rough, with a wonderful aptitude for cry-
ing or laughing from sympathy. Another
comrade, whom I will call Jack, was honored
with a call from his mother, a little woman,
hardly reaching up to Jack's shoulder, with a
sweet, motherly, careworn face. At the last
moment, though she had tried hard to pre-
serve her composure, as is the habit of New
England people, she threw her arms around
her boy's neck, and with an outburst of sob-
RECOLLECTIONS OF A PRIVATE.
109
bing and crying, said J " My dear boy, my
dear boy, what will you? poor old mother do
without you ? You are going to fight for your
country. Don't forget your mother, Jack;
God bless you, God bless you ! " We felt as
if the mother's tears and blessing were a
benediction over us all. There was a touch
of nature in her homely sorrow and solicitude
over her big boy, which drew tears of sym-
pathy from my eyes as I thought of my own
sorrowing mother at home. The sympathetic
Wad Rider burst into tears and sobs. His
eyes refused, as he expressed it, to " dry up,"
until, as we were moving off, Jack's mother,
rushing toward him with a bundle tied like a
wheat-sheaf, called out, in a most pathetic
voice, " Jack ! Jack ! you've forgotten to take
your pennyroyal." We all laughed, and so
did Jack, and I think the laugh helped him
more than the cry did. Everybody had said
his last word ; we were on the cars and off.
Handkerchiefs were waved at us from all the
houses we passed, and we cheered till we were
hoarse, and then settled back and swung our
handkerchiefs. Handkerchiefs did double
duty that day. Just here let me name over the
contents of my knapsack, as its contents were a
fair sample of what all the volunteers started
with. There were in it a pair of trowsers, two
pairs of drawers, a pair of thick boots, four pairs
of stockings, four flannel shirts, a blouse, a
looking-glass, a can of peaches, a bottle of
cough-mixture, a button-stick, chalk, razor
and strop, the " tailor's shop " spoken of above,
a Bible, a small volume of Shakspere, and
writing utensils. To its top was strapped a
double woolen blanket and a rubber one. It
was boiling over, like a ripe cotton-pod. I
remember, too, many other things left behind
because of lack of room in or about the
knapsack. We would have packed in a port-
able cooking-stove each had there been room.*
On our arrival in Boston we were marched
through the streets — the first march of any
consequence we had taken with our knap-
sacks and equipments on. Our dress con-
sisted of a belt about the body, which held a
cartridge-box and bayonet, a cross-belt, also
a haversack and tin drinking-cup, a can-
teen, and, last but not least, the knapsack
strapped to the back. The straps ran over,
around, and about one, in confusion most
perplexing to our unsophisticated shoulders ;
the knapsack giving one constantly the feeling
that he was being pulled over backward.
We marched along the streets, my canteen
banging against my bayonet, both the tin cup
and bayonet badly interfering with the butt
of my musket, while my cartridge-box and
haversack were constantly flopping up and
down — the whole jangling like loose har-
ness and chains on a runaway horse. I felt
like old Atlas, with the world on his shoulders
and the planetary system suspended around
him. We marched into Boston Common, and
I involuntarily cast my eye about for a bench.
But for a former experience in offering advice,
I should have proposed to the captain to "chip
in " and hire a team to carry our equipments.
Such was my first experience in war harness.
Afterward, with hardened muscles, rendered
athletic by long marches and invigorated by
hardships, I could look back upon those days
and smile, while carrying a knapsack as
lightly as my heart. That morning my heart
was as heavy as my knapsack. At last the wel-
come orders came : " Prepare to open ranks !
Rear, open order, march ! Right dress ! Front !
Order arms ! Fix bayonets ! Stack arms ! Un-
sling knapsacks ! In place, rest ! "
The tendency of raw soldiers is to over-
load themselves on their first march. Expe-
rience only can teach them its disadvantages,
and the picture I have attempted to draw is
not exaggerated. On the first long march
the reaction sets in, and the recruit goes to
the opposite extreme, not carrying enough
of the absolutely necessary baggage, and
thereby becoming dependent upon his obliging
comrades when a camp is reached. Old sol-
diers preserve a happy medium. I have seen a
new regiment start out with all the indescrib-
able material carried by raw troops, some-
times including sheet-iron stoves, and come
back after a long march covered with more
mud than baggage, stripped of everything
except their blankets, haversacks, canteens,
muskets, and cartridge-boxes. These were the
times when the baggage of the new recruits
was often worth more than their services.
During that afternoon in Boston, after
marching and countermarching, or, as one
of our farmer-boy recruits expressed it, after
" hawing and geeing " around the streets,
we were sent to Fort Independence for the
night for safe-keeping. A company of reg-
ulars held the fort ; guards walked their post
with a stiffness and uprightness that was as-
tonishing, They acted more like pieces of
mechanism than men. Our first impression
of these old regulars was that there was a
needless amount of " wheel about and turn
about, and walk just so," and of saluting, and
presenting arms. We were all marched to our
quarters within the fort, where we unslung
our knapsacks. The first day's struggle with a
* It is said by a member of the Monticello Guards, a Confederate organization that took part in the Battle
of Bull Run, that most of its members started to the front with an abundant supply of fine linen shirts. — Ed.
no
RECOLLECTIONS OF A PRIVATE.
knapsack over, the general verdict was " got
too much of it," At supper-time we were
marched to the dining-barracks, where our
bill of fare was beefsteak, coffee, wheat bread,
and potatoes, but not a sign of milk or butter. It
struck me as queer when I heard that the army
was never provided with butter and milk.
The next day we were started for Washing-
ton, by rail and boat, and the following morn-
ing we took breakfast in Philadelphia, where
we were attended by matrons and maidens,
who waited upon us with thoughtful tender-
ness, as if they had been our own mothers and
sweethearts instead of strangers. They feasted
us and then filled our haversacks. God bless
them ! If we did not quite appreciate them then,
we did afterward. After embarking on the cars
at Philadelphia, the waving of handkerchiefs
was less and less noticeable along the route.
We arrived in Baltimore late at night and
marched through its deserted streets silently,
as though we were criminals instead of patri-
ots. On our arrival in Washington the next
morning, we were marched to barracks, dig-
nified by the name of " Soldiers' Retreat,"
where a half loaf of " soft-tack," as we had
already begun to call wheat bread, was issued,
together with a piece of " salt junk," about
as big and tough as the heel of my govern-
ment shoe, and a quart of coffee, — which
constituted our breakfast. Our first day in
Washington was spent in shaving, washing,
polishing our brasses and buttons, and clean-
ing-up for inspection. A day or two later
we moved to quarters not far from the
armory, looking out on the broad Potomac,
within sight of Long Bridge and the city of
Alexandria. We were at the front, or near
enough to satisfy our immediate martial desires.
The weather was so mild in that February,
1862, that many of us used the river for bathing,
and found its temperature not uncomfortable.
Here and there the sound of a gun broke the
serenity, but otherwise the quiet seemed in-
consistent with the war preparations going
on around us. In the distance, across the
wide bay, we could see the steeples and
towers of the city of Alexandria, while up
stream, on the right, was the Long Bridge.
Here and there was to be seen the moving
panorama of armed men, as a regiment crossed
the bridge ; a flash of sunlight on the polished
muskets revealed them to the eye ; while
the white-topped army baggage-wagons filed
over in constant procession, looking like sec-
tions of whitewashed fence in motion. The
overgrown country village of that period,
called Washington, can be described in a few
words. There were wide streets stretching
out from a common center like a spider's web.
The Capitol, with its unfinished dome; the
Patent Office, the Treasury, and the other
public buildings, were in marked and classic
contrast with the dilapidated, tumble-down,
shabby look of the average homes, stores,
groceries, and groggeries, which increased in
shabbiness and dirty dilapidation as they re-
ceded from the center. Around the muddy
streets wandered the long-faced, solemn-vis-
aged hog, uttering sage grunts. The climate of
Washington was genial, but the mud was fear-
ful. I have drilled in it, marched in it, and run
from the provost-guard in it, and I think I ap-
preciate it from actual and familiar knowledge.
In the lower quarter of the city there was not
a piece of sidewalk. Even Pennsylvania Ave-
nue, with its sidewalks, was extremely dirty; the
cavalcade of teams, artillery caissons, and bag-
gage-wagons, with their heavy wheels stirred
the mud into a stiff batter for the pedestrian.
Officers in tinsel and gold lace were so thick
on Pennsylvania Avenue that it was a severe
trial for a private to walk there. The salute ex-
acted by officers, of bringing the hand to the
visor of the cap, extending the arm to its full
length, then letting it drop by the side, was tire-
some when followed up with the industry re-
quired by this horde. Perhaps I exaggerate, but
in a half-hour's walk on the avenue I think
I have saluted two hundred officers. Brigadier-
generals were more numerous there than I
ever knew them to be at the front. These
officers, many of whom won their positions
by political wire-pulling at Washington, we
privates thought the great bane of the war ;
they ought to have been sent to the front rank
of battle, to serve as privates until they had
learned the duties of a soldier. Mingled with
these gaudy, useless officers were citizens in
search of fat contracts, privates, " non-com's,"
and officers whose uniforms were well worn
and faded, showing that they were from the
encampments and active service. Occasion-
ally a regiment passed through the streets,
on the way to camp ; all surged up and down
wide Pennsylvania Avenue.
This was shortly before the battle of Fort
Donelson ; and the first Bull Run, being the
only considerable pitched battle up to that
time, was still a never-failing topic of discus-
sion and reminiscence among the men.
When we fell in with soldiers who had been
in the fight, we were inquisitive. Before en-
listing, and while on a visit to a neighboring
town, I was one evening at the village
store, when the talk turned upon the dura-
tion of the war. Jim Tinkham, the clerk
of the grocery store, announced his be-
lief in a sixty days' war. I modestly asked
for more time. The older ones agreed with
Jim and argued, as was common at that
time, that the Government would soon block-
RECOLLECTIONS OE A PRIVATE.
in
ade all the Rebel ports and starve them
out. Tinkham proposed to wager a supper
for those present, if the Rebels did not
surrender before snow came that year. I
accepted. Neither of us put up any money,
and in the excitement of the weeks which
followed I had forgotten the wager. During
my first week in Washington, who should I
meet but Jim Tinkham, the apostle of the
sixty-day theory. He was brown with sun-
burn, and clad in a rusty uniform which
showed service in the field. He was a vet-
eran, for he had been at the battle of Bull
Run. He confidentially declared that after
getting the order to retreat at that battle, he
should not have stopped short of Boston if he
had not been halted by a soldier with a mus-
ket, after crossing Long Bridge.
" They were enlisting a regiment for three
months in our town," he said, " and I thought
I'd come out with the rest of the boys and set-
tle the war. Our regiment was camped near
Alexandria, and the whole of us, the recruits,
grew impatient to end the war and get home
to see the folks. I tell you, we were glad when
we were told to get ready for a march. We
left our knapsacks and heavy luggage in camp
with a few old fellows and sick ones, who
grieved because they couldn't go on the ex-
cursion and help the Secesh out of Virginia.
" They gave us rations of salt junk, hard-
tack, sugar, and coffee. Each man carried his
rubber and woolen blanket, forty rounds of
cartridges, a canteen, his gun and equip-
ments, and most of us a patent drinking-
tube. I threw away the salt junk and hard-
tack, and filled my haversack with peach-pie,
cakes, and goodies. I hadn't been on the march
an hour before I realized that it might not
be such fun, after all. There was a thirty-two-
pound gun mooring on the road, with sixteen
or eighteen horses to pull it. Finally, two or
three companies were detailed to help the
horses. The weather was scorching hot, but
the most trying thing was the jerky way they
marched us. Sometimes they'd double-quick
us, and again they'd keep us standing in the
road waiting in the hot sun for half an hour,
then start us ahead again a little way, then
halt us again, and so on. The first day we
marched until after sundown, and when we
halted for the night we were the tiredest
crowd of men I ever saw.
" The next day was the 17th of July. I had
eaten up all my pies and cakes and was
hungry, so I stopped at a house and asked if
they would sell me something to eat. There
were three negro girls, a white woman, and
her daughter, in the house. The white folks
were proud and unaccommodating. They
said the Yankees had stolen everything — all
their ' truck,' as they called it; but when I
took out a handful of silver change, they
brought me a cold Johnny-cake and some
chicken. As I was leaving the house, the
daughter said : ' You'n Yanks are right peart
just now, but you'ns'll come back soon a right
smart quicker than yer'r going, I recken ! '
— a prophecy we fulfilled to the letter.
" We marched helter-skelter nearly all night
without orders to stop, until, just before day-
light, we halted near a little building they called
a church (Pohick Church). I kept up on the
march with my company, though my feet were
blistered and my bones ached badly.
" The first gun of the fight I heard," added
Tinkham, " was when we were eight or ten
miles from Centreville, on the afternoon of the
1 8th of July, the engagement at Blackburn's
ford. We were hurried up at double-quick
and marched in the direction of the firing
until we reached Centreville, about eleven
o'clock that night. It looked like war, and
no mistake, in the morning. Batteries and
stacked arms lined the roads; officers on
horseback were everywhere ; regiments were
marching on to the field, and excitement and
enthusiasm prevailed. On the 20th more
Virginians ca*me into camp, looking, as they
said, for negroes, and complaining of our
soldiers. We got new rations of beef and pork,
and, very early on the morning of the 21st, we
marched through Centreville up the turnpike
road. Near Cub Run we saw carriages and
barouches which contained civilians who had
driven out from Washington to witness the oper-
ations. A Connecticut boy said: 'There's our
Senator ! ' and some of our men recognized Sen-
ator Wilson and other members of Congress.
Everyone of us expected to have our names in
the papers when we got home. We thought
it wasn't a bad idea to have the great men
from Washington come out to see us thrash
the Rebs.
" That day was the hottest one I ever ex-
perienced. We marched and marched and
double-quicked, and didn't appear to get ahead
at all. Every one of whom we inquired the
distance to Manassas Junction said five miles.,
and after a while they would say ten miles
instead of five, and we know now that that
was under the truth. Then we began to throw
away our blankets. After a while we turned
off from the main road into a cart path which
led through the woods and dry, dusty, worn-
out fields. At last we arrived at Sudley's ford
and rested, while several regiments, under
General Hunter, waded Bull Run. While here
we could see shells bursting in little round
clouds in the air far to the left of us down the
Run. The dust rising on the roads ahead
was said to be the Rebel army advancing to
112
RECOLLECTIONS OF A PRIVATE.
fight us. We were going to have a fight ; there
was but little doubt about it now !
" We soon followed the others across Bull
Run and came to a field on a hill (near the
Matthews house), where we saw dead and
wounded men. It made me feel faint to look
at them. A battery of the enemy had just left
a position in front of us. An officer here rode
up, pointed toward the enemy, and said some-
thing which was not distinguishable to me, but
the boys began exclaiming : ' Hurrah, they
are running ! ' — ' The Rebels are running ! ' —
' It's General McDowell ! He says they are
running ! ' On the right of us was a battery,
in the field, the guns of which were fired as
fast as the men could load. One of the men
on the battery told me afterward that they
made the Rebel battery change position every
fifteen minutes. We advanced to the crest, fired
a volley, and saw the Rebels running toward
the road below (the Warrenton turnpike). Then
we were ordered to lie down and load. We
aimed at the puffs of smoke we saw rising in
front and on the left of us. The men were
all a good deal excited. Our rear rank had
singed the hair of the front rank, who were
more afraid of them than of the Rebels.
" The next thing I remember was the order
to advance, which we did under a scattering
fire ; we crossed the turnpike, and ascending
a little way, were halted in a depression or
cut in the road which runs from Sudley's ford.
The boys were saying constantly, in great glee :
' We've whipped them.' ' We'll hang Jeff
Davis to a sour apple-tree.' ' They are run-
ning.' ' The war is over.' About noon there
wasn't much firing, and we were of the opinion
that the enemy had all run away. There was a
small wooden house on the hill, rising from the
left-hand side of the road as we were going,
where, we afterward heard, a Mrs. Henry, an
invalid, had been killed in the engagement.*
About one o'clock the fence skirting the road
at the foot of the hill was pulled down to
let our batteries (Griffin's and Ricketts's) pass
up to the plateau. The batteries were in the
open field near us. We were watching to see
what they'd do next, when a terrible volley was
poured into them. It was like a pack of Fourth-
of-July fire-crackers under a barrel, magnified
a thousand times. The Rebels had crept upon
them unawares, and the men at the batteries
were about all killed or wounded."
Here let me interrupt Tinkham's narrative
to say that one of the artillery-men there en-
gaged has since told me that, though he had
been in several battles since, he had seldom
seen worse destruction in so short a time.
He said they saw a regiment advancing, and
the natural inference was that they were
Rebels. But an officer insisted it was a New
York regiment which was expected for sup-
port, and so no order was given to fire on
them. " Then came a tremendous explosion
of musketry," said the artillery-man, " and all
was confusion. Wounded men with dripping
wounds were clinging to caissons, to which
were attached frightened and wounded horses.
Horses attached to caissons rushed through
the infantry ranks. I saw three horses gallop-
ing off, dragging a fourth, which was dead.
" The dead cannoniers lay with the rammers
of the guns and sponges and lanyards still in
their hands. The battery was annihilated by
those volleys in a moment. Those who could
get away didn't wait. We had no supports
near enough to v ^otect us properly, and the
enemy were within seventy yards of us when
that volley was fired. Our battery being
demolished in that way was the beginning of
our defeat at Bull Run," said this old regular.
" Did the volunteers fight well ? " I inquired.
" Yes, the men fought well and snowed
pluck. I've seen a good deal worse fighting
and I've seen better since. I saw the Rebels
advance and try to drag away those eleven
guns three times, but they were driven back
by steady volleys from our infantry. Then
some of our men tried to drag the guns away,
but were ordered to take their places in the
ranks to fight. They couldn't be spared ! "
But, to return to Tinkham's recollections
of the fight :
" It must have been Your o'clock in the
afternoon," he said, " at a time when our
fire had become scattered and feeble, that
the rumor passed from one to another
that the Rebels had got reinforcements.
Where are ours ? we asked. There was no
confusion or panic then, but discouragement.
And at this juncture, from the woods ahead,
on each side of the Sudley ford road, there
came terrible volleys. The Confederates were
in earnest. A wounded Southerner lying near
me said earnestly and repeatedly : l Thank
God, I die for my country ! ' Our men began
to feel it was no use to fight without rein-
forcements. They fell back steadily, cursing
their generals because no reinforcements were
sent to them. The men had now in most
cases been marching and fighting thirteen
hours. The absence of general officers con-
* Mrs. Judith Henry, bedridden from old age, was living in the house with her children. When the
battle opened near the Matthews house, a mile away, Mrs. Henry was carried for safety into a ravine on the
left, below the Sudley road. A little later the house seemed to be the safest place, and she was carried back
to her bed. For a time the house was in the line of the artillery fire from both sides. Mrs. Henry received
five wounds from fragments of shells and died two hours after the battle. — Ed.
A PHASE OF SOCIAL SCIENCE.
JI3
vinced us more than anything else that it was
no use to fight longer. The enemy were
pressing us, and we fell back. We didn't run ! "
Complaint against the officers, like this by
Tinkham, was common among the privates
with whom I talked. Said another man to me :
" The fault was, we were not well disci-
plined or officered. I noticed in the reports
that several Rebel generals and commis-
sioned officers were killed and wounded.
You'll notice, on the other hand, that but very
few of ours were.* Companies, and in some
instances regiments, were commanded by
non-commissioned officers, on account of the
absence of those of higher rank."
An old regular said to me regarding the
stampede :
" That was the fault of the officers who
allowed the baggage-wagons to come to
the front, instead of being parked at Centre-
ville. The stampede and confusion began
among them first. Why, the men were so
little frightened when they began to fall back
in groups scattered through the fields that I
saw them stop frequently to pick blackberries.
Frightened men don't act in that way. At
Cub Run, between the Stone Bridge and
Centreville, the irresponsible teamsters, with
the baggage-wagons, were all crowded to-
gether near the bridge, and were in a desperate
hurry to cross. A Rebel battery began dropping
shell in among them, and thus demolished
some of the wagons and blocked the way.
The confusion and hurry and excitement then
began. The drivers on the south side, finding
they couldn't cross with their wagons, now be-
gan to cut their traces and mount their horses
and hurry away. Those who drove baggage-
wagons on the safe side of Cub Run then began
to desert them and cut the traces and shout and
gallop off. The infantry, seeing this confusion
and not understanding the cause of it, quick-
ened their pace. Soon the narrow road became
filled with flying troops, horses, baggage-
wagons, and carriages. Then the volunteers
began to throw away their muskets and equip-
ments, so as to stand an even chance in the
race. Here and there, all along the route,
abandoned wagons had been overturned and
were blocking the way. One white-headed citi-
zen, an old man, looking very sorrowful, stood
directing the soldiers on their way to Washing-
ton, saying : ' You'd better hurry on/ or the
cavalry will cut off your retreat ! ' The houses
all along the route were filled with wounded
men, while the ambulances were filled with
officers hastening to Washington. Soldiers
here and there marched in groups, and sor-
rowfully discussed the situation and its causes.
The expression heard on every side among
them was : ' Why were not the reserves
brought up from Centreville to help us ? '
' Why didn't they bring up the troops from
Fairfax Court House?'" — questions, it seems
to me, hard to answer, even if they did come
from private soldiers running away from the
field of Bull Run !
Warren Lee Goss.
* The official reports show the losses of officers to be — Federal: killed, 19; wounded, 64; missing, 40;
total, 123. Confederate : killed, 25 ; wounded, 63 ; missing, 1 ; total, 89. In view of these figures, it would
seem that the Federal officers were at least as exposed to danger as the Confederates. That they were
relatively to the enemy no less brave than their own men, would appear from this table (from official records)
of losses of enlisted men — Federal : killed, 462 ; wounded, 947 ; missing, 1 176 ; total, 2585. Confederate :
killed, 362; wounded, 1519; missing, 12; total, 1893. The proportion of officers lost to men lost is, on the
Federal side, 1 to 21 ; on the Confederate side, 1 to 21.27; too slight a difference upon which to formulate
theories of bravery. — Ed.
A PHASE OF SOCIAL SCIENCE.
In a striking passage in his " History of Eng-
land" (vol. I., p. 332, Am. ed.) Macaulay calls
attention to the contrast between the social
condition of England in the seventeenth
century and the nineteenth. He says :
^ " There is scarcely a page in the history or lighter
literature of the seventeenth century which does not
contain some proof that our ancestors were less hu-
mane than their posterity. The discipline of work-
shops, of schools, of private families, though not more
efficient than at present, was infinitely harder. Mas-
ters, well born and bred, were in the habit of beating
their servants. Pedagogues knew no way of imparting
knowledge but by beating their pupils. Husbands of
decent station were not ashamed to beat their wives.
The implacability of hostile factions was such as we
can scarcely conceive. Whigs were disposed to mur-
mur because Stafford was suffered to die without
seeing his bowels burned before his face. ... As
little mercy was shown by the populace to sufferers
of an humbler rank. If an offender was put into the
pillory, it was well if he escaped with life from the
shower of brick-bats and paving-stones. If he was
tied to the cart's tail, the crowd pressed round him,
imploring the hangman to give it the fellow well, and
make him howl. Gentlemen arranged parties of pleas-
ure to Bridewell on court days, for the purpose of
seeing the wretched women who beat hemp there,
U4
A PHASE OF SOCIAL SCIENCE.
whipped. A man pressed to death for refusing to
plead, a woman burned for coining, excited less
sympathy than is now felt for a galled horse or
an over-driven ox. . . . The prisons were hells
on earth, seminaries of every crime and of every dis-
ease. At the assizes the lean and yellow culprits
brought with them from their cells an atmosphere of
stench and pestilence which sometimes avenged them
signally on bench, bar, and jury. But on all this
misery society looked with profound indifference.
Nowhere could be found that sensitive and restless
compassion which has in our time extended a power-
ful protection to the factory child, to the negro slave —
which pries into the stores and water-casks of every emi-
grant ship, which winches at every lash laid on the back
of a drunken soldier, which will not suffer the thief in the
hulks to be ill-fed or over-worked, and which has repeat-
edly endeavored to save the life even of the murderer."
It is nearly thirty years since these words
were written. It is interesting to speculate
how much more strongly and strikingly they
might have been emphasized if they had been
written to-day. What we call social science,
or the study which concerns itself with the
elevation of men in their homes and in their
social and municipal relations, was then com-
paratively in its infancy. The wide-spread
activity of individuals and associations busy-
ing themselves with the condition of the pau-
per and criminal classes ; the devotion of
women of wealth, leisure, and social refine-
ment to the reform and improvement of our
jails and hospitals and almshouses; the active
interest and expenditure of capitalists in the
improvement of the homes of the poor; the
scientific study of questions of drainage and
ventilation, of foods and food supply ; the
whole subject of the rights of women and
their emancipation from restrictive and op-
pressive prejudices; the mutual obligations
of employer and employed, with the closely
related questions of strikes and trades-
unions, cooperative building and manufac-
turing schemes, and the like; the societies
for the prevention of cruelty to children and
for the better provision for the education and
recreation of the poor, the laboring classes.
the crippled, the blind, and the deaf and
dumb, — all these manifold forms of activity in
the interest of the advancement and elevation
of society are largely the product of the last
quarter of a century.
What now is their relation to Christian
ethics ? or, to put the question, as I prefer to
do, in a more concrete and homely way, What
has the religion of the New Testament to say
to our modern social science ?
Two things, it seems to me, it has to say
with equal emphasis and explicitness, one of
them in the way of warning and the other of
encouragement.
And, first, in the way of warning. The
moment that men begin to grapple with the
evils which afflict society, they are in danger
of forgetting or ignoring the everlasting prin-
ciple of personal responsibility. In the face
of poverty, disease, unemployed labor, intem-
perance, and kindred forms of human wretch-
edness, the first impulse of a humane spirit is
to devise some means of relieving these vari-
ous ills without adequately recognizing the
causes which have produced them. Hence
we have those public and private institutions
of charity which are so preeminently the char-
acteristic of our own generation. No sooner
does the cry of want arise than some benev-
olent hand opens the door of a refuge or
lodging-house, where men and women are fed
and housed without money and without price.
No sooner does a man fall behind in the
strife of trade or the professions than he
turns to the charitable to carry him over the
hard times until some rising tide of prosperity
shall fill the channels of his wonted calling.
No sooner does an unscrupulous father aban-
don his family, or an extravagant mother pre-
fer to appropriate her earnings to drink or
dress instead of spending them in the decent
maintenance of her children, than some in-
stitution steps forward to take the custody of
the children and relieve the parents of their
charge. " Don't you think we had better send
such a one's children to the Home for the
Friendless ? " said a warm-hearted woman to
a neighbor. " On what ground ?" was asked.
" Because their mother neglects them so ha-
bitually," was the answer, as though it would
be wiser to disband a family than to educate
its head into a wiser and more Christian
recognition of her duty to her own offspring.
A man may make his home a hell and his
children congenital drunkards and vagabonds,
and the most efficient method of dealing with
his vices which we seem thus far to have de-
vised is to send his family to the poor-house
and himself to the inebriate asylum. Over
against every form of thriftlessness and prod-
igality we erect an institution to interpose
between the individual and the righteous
penalty of his own extravagance. It is the
bitterest cause of the philanthropy of our
generation that it has created a sentiment
among the poor, the reckless, the intemperate,
and the indolent, that, somehow or other,
come what may, they will be provided for.
I arraign this policy on the ground that it
traverses the plain teaching of that most help-
ful volume which has ever been given to men,
and which we know as the New Testament.
I open the pages of that volume and I read:
" Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he
reap." I open them again and I read : " He
that provideth not for his household is worse
than an infidel." And again : " If any man
will not work, neither shall he eat." And yet
A PHASE OF SOCIAL SCIENCE.
ii
again : " If thy hand or thy foot offend thee,
cut it off and cast it from thee." I find the
great Apostle to the Gentiles setting an ex-
ample of self-respecting independence which
is at once an inspiration and a rebuke to all
subsequent time, by working at his trade as a
tent-maker with his own hands. I read in his
letter to the Church at Ephesus : " Let him
that stole, steal no more, but rather let him
labor, working with his hands the thing which
is good"; and in all these various passages
I see so many side-lights throwing into
stronger relief the great principle that that
social compassion is neither wise nor Chris-
tian which lifts the burden of individual obli-
gation or interposes to arrest the penalty of
personal unfaithfulness.
Nay, more, I arraign our social policy on
another and still higher ground. A Christian
socialism must needs be based on the com-
mandment, " Thou shalt love thy neighbor
as thyself," and in its practical workings it
will think more of the influence of what it
does upon its brother man than upon its own
feelings. But our ordinary dealing with the
social problems of our own time is like that
of a weak mother who will not chastise her
child nor suffer him to be chastised because
of the pain which it causes to her own feel-
ings. It does not occur to her that such a
course of conduct is inspired, not by mater-
nal love, but by personal selfishness. If you
loved your child you would deal with him,
not as your mere feelings dictated, but as his
highest interests demanded ; and even so, if
you love your brother man you will do for
him, not what he wants you to do for him,
but what he needs to have done for him. But
we have cultivated a morbid sentimentalism
in regard to individual suffering until there
must be no form of misery which we cannot
straightway hustle out of sight or effusively
relieve. It is enough for us that a sturdy per-
sonage sits on the curb-stone begging. Where
did he come from ? How long has he been
there ? What is the truth or falsehood of his
story ? These are questions for which we
have no time and less taste. " Here is a half-
dollar, my man ! A plague on those hard-
hearted theorists who declaim against the
giving of doles in the street ! Do you say
that you want more ? Well, then, here is a
ticket for a night's lodging or a free bed in
the Home for the Homeless ; " and, having
buttoned up our pocket-books once more, we
pass on with a comfortable sense of our su-
perior benevolence. Here, again, it does not
occur to us that we should have done better
if we had merely given our brother a kick
and passed on. Yes, a thousand times better !
for a kick would have been, at most, merely a
physical indignity, whereas, as it is, we have
subjected this fellow-creature of ours to the
keenest moral indignity, for we have said to
him, by an act far more eloquently expressive
than any words, " Morally you are already on
the way to that most abject degradation, a
state of chronic pauperism. Well, then, lie
there where you are in the gutter and rot. I
have no time or inclination to help you to
stand upon your own feet. It is easier and
more congenial to leave you where you are,
and by what I may do for you to encourage
you to stay there." It is high time for men to
ask the question whether this is or is not sub-
stantially the teaching of our social benefi-
cence, as we actually see it about us.
And here, as I believe, enters the domain
of Christian ethics. There is much of human
suffering, ignorance, and poverty which is the
fruit of misfortune, that it is our plain duty
always and everywhere to relieve. There is
much more which is the fruit of indolence
and thriftlessness and vice. To interfere be-
tween this latter and its penalty is not and
never was meant to be the promise of our
social science ; nor, if I read the New Testa-
ment aright, is this the teaching of its pages
or of the Master himself. " Give us of your
oil," cry the improvident and foolish virgins to
their wise and more provident companions,
and according to the teaching of our modem
socialism and of much of our modern philan-
thropy the answer ought to have been, " Cer-
tainly, dear sisters, take the larger share, and
so learn how generous we can be to others
less forecasting than ourselves "; but in fact the
answer is, " Not so, lest there be not enough
for us and you, but go ye and buy for yourselves"
But again, the mission of Christian
ethics to our modern social science is to
speak not only a word of warning, but also a
word of encouragement. That branch of
science has concerned itself largely in
our own generation with the relations of
capital to labor, with the improvement of
men's homes and streets, of prisons and alms-
houses and hospitals. One of the most en-
couraging features of the social progress of our
time has been the hearty and often gener-
ous interest which landlords and capitalists,
men of science and men of the various pro-
fessions, have shown in bringing every latest
scientific discovery to bear upon the practi-
cal elevation of the poor, and the physical
and intellectual improvement of the less
favored. The immense sums of money spent
for placing educational advantages within the
reach of the masses who spend their lives in
daily toil, and the sums, scarcely less vast?
which, in our mother country if not in our
own, have been spent in building model cot-
n6
A PHASE OF SOCIAL SCIENCE.
tages and tenements, and even factories for
the poor, is a demonstration of this. But in
all this expenditure of money and wealth
there is often involved an experience of dis-
couragement which it is idle to ignore. The
classes who are most benefited by these re-
forms do not care for social science. Model
dwellings and rules of hygiene are equally
distasteful and uninteresting to them. If you
appeal to them to conform their lives to
wiser rules of cleanliness, temperance, fru-
gality, and forecast, too often you appeal to
them in vain. Essays on light and drainage
and ventilation, which laboriously you circu-
late among them, are left unread. Even the
most elaborate and costly schemes for their
advantage fail of any practical effect. It is
tolerably well ascertained, for instance, that
the Peabody lodging-houses have not reached,
or, at any rate, have not greatly benefited,
the class for whom they were designed.
These have shunned homes involving rules
of decency, cleanliness, and self-restraint,
which would have been to them intolerable,
as they would have shunned a prison ; and
the Peabody model tenements became the
homes of the better class of skilled mechanics,
and even of clergymen and other professional
men, by whom they were in no sense needed. In
other words, no argument of the science of soci-
ology by itself was strong enough efficiently
to reach the class to whom it was addressed.
But when social reforms have allied them-
selves to the spirit and motives of the New
Testament, when a woman like Octavia
Hill has gone into the homes of the poor to
reform the evils of London tenements, not
with the power of mere money or mere organ-
ization, or merely scientific theories, but with
the power of personal sympathy, the situation
has been wholly changed. The transforming
power of his love who "having loved his
own, loved them unto the end," has trans-
fused the spirit of scientific reform with the
spell of self-sacrificing and Christ-like en-
thusiasm. It has taught men that highest
motive for cooperating in the upbuilding of
a higher and purer social law and life, which
is to be found in the brotherhood of man
and the fatherhood of God. It has quickened
the brain and the hand of science with the
magic spell of love. It has enlarged the vision
of the reformer to see in human society,
here and now, the type and prophecy of that
diviner society yet to be. And so, when
men's hearts have grown cold and their hands
weary, with what has seemed so often a futile
and fruitless grapple with the evils which
afflict society, it has bidden them lift their
eyes to One who gave himself for his brethren,
and so has taught them a lesson of immortal
hope and patience !
And this is the message of encouragement
which Christian ethics brings to our social
science of to-day. How shall we deal with
these urgent social problems of the hour —
whether they concern the reclaiming of our
fallen brethren and sisters here at our very
side, or our fellow-creature, the despised
Chinaman, who has found his way to our far-
off Pacific coast, save as we look at each
and every one of them in the light that streams
from the cross of One who gave himself to
lift men up ? In such a spirit is the mighty
influence that is to reach and redeem society ;
and when our whole social philosophy is in-
terpenetrated and saturated with that spirit,
then and not till then shall our social prob-
lems find their final solution.
And therefore, when we find ourselves dis-
couraged — as who of us does not ? — with the
slowness of that progress which any social re-
form makes among us, — when we face the
obduracy, the prejudice, the dense and stolid
ignorance, which almost any and every move-
ment in the interests of a sounder social science
is sure to encounter, — this becomes at once
our loftiest motive and our most lasting en-
couragement. We are not working for an hour
or a day ; we are not striving for the advance
of a race which was born yesterday and will
perish to-morrow. Our faith in social progress
is at once part and prophecy of a grander
future. Over all that we do to make life
cleaner and wiser and healthier, moves the
plan of Him whose will it is to make His
children immortal. And our social science
will be a spell of power and blessing among
men just in so far as it is transfused by His
spirit and ennobled by His love.
Henry C. Potter.
FREE JOE AND THE REST OF THE WORLD.
13 HE name of Free Joe strikes humorously
upon the ear of memory. It is impos-
sible to say why, for he was the hum-
blest, the simplest, and the most serious
of all God's living creatures, sadly
lacking in all those elements that sug-
gest the humorous. It is certain, more-
over, that in 1850 the sober-minded
citizens of the little Georgian village
of Hillsborough were not inclined to
take a humorous view of Free Joe, and
neither his name nor his presence
provoked a smile. He was a black
atom, drifting hither and thither with-
out an owner, blown about by all the
winds of circumstance and given over
to shiftlessness.
The problems of one generation are
the paradoxes of a succeeding one,
particularly if war, or some such in-
cident, intervenes to clarify the atmos-
phere and strengthen the understand-
ing. Thus, in 1850, Free Joe represented not only a problem of large concern, but, in the
watchful eyes of Hillsborough, he was the embodiment of that vague and mysterious danger
that seemed to be forever lurking on the outskirts of slavery, ready to sound a shrill and
ghostly signal in the impenetrable swamps and steal forth under the midnight stars to mur-
der, rapine, and pillage • a danger always threatening, and yet never assuming shape ; intan-
gible, and yet real ; impossible, and yet not improbable. Across the serene and smiling front
of safety the pale outlines of the awful shadow of insurrection sometimes fell. With this
invisible panorama as a background, it was natural that the figure of Free Joe, simple and
humble as it was, should assume undue proportions. Go where he would, do what he might,
he could not escape the finger of observation and the kindling eye of suspicion. His lightest
words were noted, his slightest actions marked.
Under all the circumstances it was natural that his peculiar condition should reflect itself
in his habits and manners. The slaves laughed loudly day by day, but Free Joe rarely
laughed. The slaves sang at their work and danced at their frolics, but no one ever heard
Free Joe sing or saw him dance. There was something painfully plaintive and appealing in his
attitude, something touching in his anxiety to please. He was of the friendliest nature, and
seemed to be delighted when he could amuse the little children who had made a playground
of the public square. At times he woulcr please them by making his little dog Dan perform
all sorts of curious tricks, or he would tell them quaint stories*of the beasts of the field and
birds of the air ; and frequently he was coaxed into relating the story of his own freedom.
That story was brief, but tragical.
In the year of our Lord 1840, when a negro-speculator of a sportive turn of mind
reached the little village of Hillsborough on his way to the Mississippi region, with a cara-
van of likely negroes of both sexes, he found much to interest him. In that day and at that
time there were a number of young men in the village who had not bound themselves
over to repentance for the various misdeeds of the flesh. To these young men the negro-
speculator (Major Compton was his name) proceeded to address himself. He was a Vir-
ginian, he declared, and, to prove the statement, he referred all the festively inclined young
men of Hillsborough to a barrel of peach brandy in one of his covered wagons. In the
minds of these young men there was less doubt in regard to the age and quality of the
brandy than there was in regard to the negro-trader's birthplace. Major Compton might or
might not have been born in the Old Dominion, — that was a matter for consideration and
inquiry ; but there could be no question as to the mellow pungency of the peach brandy.
Vol. XXIX.— 12
n8
FREE JOE AND THE REST OF THE WORLD.
THE GREAT GAME OF POKER.
In his own estimation Major Compton
was one of the most accomplished of men.
He had summered at the Virginia Springs ;
he had been to Philadelphia, to Washington,
to Richmond, to Lynchburg, and to Charles-
ton, and had accumulated a great deal of ex-
perience, which he found useful. Hillsborough
was hid in the woods of middle Georgia, and
its general aspect of innocence impressed
him. He looked on the young men who had
shown their readiness to test his peach brandy
as overgrown country boys who needed to be
introduced to some of the arts and sciences
he had at his command. Thereupon the
Major pitched his tents, figuratively speaking,
and became, for the time being, a part and
parcel of the innocence that characterized
Hillsborough. A wiser man would doubtless
have made the same mistake.
The little village possessed advantages that
seemed to be providentially arranged to fit
the various enterprises that Major Compton
had in view. There was the auction-block
in front of the stuccoed court-house, if he
desired to dispose of a few of his negroes ;
there was a quarter-track, laid out to his
hand and in excellent order, if he chose to
enjoy the pleasures of horse-racing ; there
were secluded pine thickets within easy reach,
if he desired to indulge in the exciting pas-
time of cock-fighting ; and various lonely
and unoccupied rooms in the second story
of the tavern, if he cared to challenge the
chances of dice or cards.
Major Compton tried them all with varying
luck, until he began his famous game of poker
with Judge Alfred Wellington, a stately gen-
tleman with a flowing white beard and mild
blue eyes that gave him the appearance of a
benevolent patriarch. The history of the
game in which Major Compton and Judge
Alfred Wellington took part is something
more than a tradition in Hillsborough, for
there are still living three or four men who
sat around the table and watched its progress.
It is said that at various stages of the game
Major Compton would destroy the cards with
which they were playing, and send for a new
pack, but the result was always the same.
The mild blue eyes of Judge Wellington, with
few exceptions, continued to overlook " hands "
that were invincible — a habit they had ac-
quired during a long and arduous course of
training from Saratoga to New Orleans.
Major Compton lost his money, his horses,
his wagons, and all his negroes but one,
his body-servant. When his misfortune had
reached this limit the Major adjourned the
game. The sun was shining brightly, and all
nature was cheerful. Is is said that the Major
FREE JOE AND THE REST OF THE WORLD.
119
also seemed to be cheerful. However this
may be, he visited the court-house and
executed the papers that gave his body-
servant his freedom. This being done, Major
Compton sauntered into a convenient pine
thicket and blew out his brains.
The negro thus freed came to be known
as Free Joe. Compelled, under the law, to
enjoyed the distinction the name gave him;
at any rate, he never resented it, and it was
not often that he missed an opportunity to
show that he deserved it. Calderwood's place
was two or three miles from the village of
Hillsborough, and Free Joe visited his wife
twice a week, Wednesday and Saturday nights.
One Sunday he was sitting in front of
" CALDERWOOD READ IT ALOUD SLOWLY.
choose a guardian, he chose Judge Welling-
ton, chiefly because his wife Lucinda was
among the negroes won from Major Comp-
ton. For several years Free Joe had what
may be called a jovial time. His wife Lu-
cinda was well provided for, and he found
it a comparatively easy matter to provide for
himself; so that, taking all the circumstances
into consideration, it is not matter for aston-
ishment that he became somewhat shiftless.
When Judge Wellington died, Free Joe's
troubles began. The Judge's negroes, includ-
ing Lucinda, went to his half-brother, a man
named Calderwood, who was a hard master
and a rough customer generally — a man of
many eccentricities of mind and character.
His neighbors had a habit of alluding to him
as " Old Spite," and the name seemed to fit
him so completely that he was known far and
near as "Spite" Calderwood. He probably
Lucinda's cabin when Calderwood happened
to pass that way.
" Howdy, marster ?" said Free Joe, taking
off his hat.
. " Who are you ? " exclaimed Calderwood
abruptly, halting and staring at the negro.
" I'm name' Joe, marster. I'm Lucindy's
ole man."
" Who do you belong to ? "
" Marse John Evans is my gyardeen,
marster."
" Big name — gyardeen. Show your pass."
Free Joe produced that document, and
Calderwood read it aloud slowly, as if he
found it difficult to get at the meaning :
" To whom it may concern : This is to certify
that the boy Joe Compton has my permission to
visit his wife Luanda."
This was dated at Hillsborough, and signed
uJohn W. Evans"
I20
FREE JOE AND THE REST OF THE WORLD.
Calderwood read it twice and then looked
at Free Joe, elevating his eyebrows and show-
ing his discolored teeth.
" Some mighty big words in that there.
Evans owns this place, I reckon. When's he
comin' down to take hold ? "
Free Joe fumbled with his hat. He was
badly frightened.
maintain toward them. No doubt his instinct
taught him that to hold himself aloof from
the slaves would be to invite from the whites
the toleration which he coveted, and without
which even his miserable condition would be
rendered more miserable still.
His greatest trouble was the fact that he
was not allowed to visit his wife ; but he soon
" Lucindy say she speck you wouldn't min' found a way out of this difficulty. After he
my comin', long ez I behave, marster." had been ordered away from the Calderwood
Calderwood tore the pass in pieces and place, he was in the habit of wandering as
flung it away.
" Don't want no free niggers 'round here,"
he exclaimed. " There's the big road. It'll
carry you to town. Don't let me catch you
here no more. Now, mind what I tell you."
Free Joe presented a shabby spectacle as
he moved off with his little dog Dan slinking
far in that direction as prudence would per-
mit. Near the Calderwood place, but not on
Calderwood's land, lived an old man named
Micajah Staley and his sister, Becky Staley.
These people were old and very poor. Old
Micajah had a palsied arm and hand, but, in
spite of this, he managed to earn a precari-
at his heels. It should be said in behalf of ous living with his turning-lathe.
Dan, however, that his bristles were up, and When he was a slave Free Joe would have
that he looked back and growled. It may be scorned these representatives of a class known
that the dog had the advantage of insignifi- as poor white trash, but now he found them
cance, but it is difficult to conceive how a sympathetic and helpful in various ways,
dog bold enough to raise his bristles under From the back door of their cabin he could
Calderwood's very eyes could be as insignifi- hear the Calderwood negroes singing at night,
cant as Free Joe. But both the negro and his and he sometimes fancied he could distin-
little dog seemed to give a new and more guish Lucinda's shrill treble rising above the
dismal aspect to forlornness as they turned other voices. A large poplar grew in the
into the road and went toward Hillsborough, woods some distance from the Staley cabin,
After this incident Free Joe appeared to
have clearer ideas concerning his peculiar
condition. He realized the fact that though
he was free he was more helpless than any
slave. Having no owner, every man was his
master. He knew that he was the object
of suspicion, and therefore all his slender
resources (ah! how pitifully slender
they were ! ) were devoted to win-
ning, not kindness and appre-
ciation, but toleration ; all his
efforts were in the direction
of mitigating the circum-
stances that tended to
make his condition so much
worse than that of the
negroes around him —
negroes who had friends
because they had masters.
So far as his own race
was concerned Free Joe
was an exile. If the slaves
secretly envied him his
freedom (which is to be
doubted, considering his
miserable condition), they
openly despised him, and
lost no opportunity to treat
him with contumely. Per-
haps this was in some meas-
ure the result of the attitude
wnicQ r ree joe cnose to free joe at the poplar
FREE JOE AND THE REST OF THE WORLD.
121
and at the foot of this tree Free Joe would
sit for hours, with his face turned toward Cal-
derwood's. His little dog Dan would curl up
in the leaves near by, and the two seemed to
be as comfortable as possible.
One Saturday afternoon Free Joe, sitting
at the foot of this friendly poplar, fell asleep.
How long he slept he could not tell ; but when
he awoke little Dan was licking his face, the
moon was shining brightly, and Lucinda, his
wife, stood before him, laughing. The dog, see-
ing that Free Joe was asleep, had grown some-
what impatient, and he concluded to make an
excursion to the Calderwood place on his own
account. Lucinda was inclined to give the in-
cident a twist in the direction of superstition.
" I 'uz settin' down front er de fire-place,"
she said, " cookin' me some meat, w'en all of
a sudden I year sumpin at de do' — scratch,
scratch. I tuck'n tu'n de meat over, en make
out I aint year it. Bimeby it come dar 'gin
— scratch, scratch. I up en open de do', I
did, en, bless de Lord ! dar wuz little Dan, en
it look like ter me dat his ribs done grow ter-
geer. I gin 'im some bread, en den, w'en he
start out, I tuck'n foller 'im, kaze, I say ter my-
se'f, maybe my nigger man mought be some'rs
'roun'. Dat ar little dog got sense, mon."
Free Joe laughed and dropped his hand
lightly on Dan's head. For a long time after
that he had no difficulty in seeing his wife.
He had only to sit by the poplar-tree until
little Dan could run and fetch her. But after
a while the other negroes discovered that Lu-
cinda was meeting Free Joe in the woods,
and information of the fact soon reached
Calderwood's ears. Calderwood was what is
called a man of action. He said nothing ;
but one day he put Lucinda in his buggy and
carried her to Macon, sixty miles away. He
carried her to Macon and came back without
her, and nobody in or around Hillsborough,
or in that section, ever saw her again.
For many a night after that Free Joe sat
in the woods and waited. Little Dan would
run merrily off and be gone a long time, but
he always came back without Lucinda. This
happened over and over again. The " willis-
whistlers " would call and call, like phantom
huntsmen wandering on a far-off shore ; the
screech-owl would shake and shiver in the
depths of the woods ; the night-hawks, sweep-
ing by on noiseless wings, would snap their
beaks as though they enjoyed the huge joke
of which Free Joe and little Dan were the
victims ; and the whip-poor-wills would cry to
each other through the gloom. Each night
seemed to be lonelier than the preceding, but
Free Joe's patience was proof against loneli-
ness. There came a time, however, when little
Dan refused to go after Lucinda. When Free
Vol. XXIX.— 13.
Joe motioned him in the direction of the Cal-
derwood place, he would simply move about
uneasily and whine; then he would curl up
in the leaves and make himself comfortable.
One night, instead of going to the poplar-
tree to wait for Lucinda, Free Joe went to the
Staley cabin, and, in order to make his wel-
come good, as he expressed it, he carried
with him an armful of fat-pine splinters. Miss
Becky Staley had a great reputation in those
parts as a fortune-teller, and the school-girls,
as well as older people, often tested her powers
in this direction, some in jest and some in
earnest. Free Joe placed his humble offering
of light-wood in the chimney-corner, and
then seated himself on the steps, dropping
his hat on the ground outside.
" Miss Becky," he said presently, " whar
in de name er gracious you reckon Lucindy
is ? "
" Well, the Lord he'p the nigger ! " ex-
claimed Miss Becky, in a tone that seemed to
reproduce, by some curious agreement of
sight with sound, her general aspect of
peakedness. " Well, the Lord he'p the nigger !
haint you been a-seein' her all this blessed
time ? She's over at old Spite Calderwood's,
if she's anywheres, I reckon."
" No'm, dat I aint, Miss Becky. I aint seen
Lucindy in now gwine on mighty nigh a
mont'."
" Well, it haint a-gwine to hurt you," said
Miss Becky, somewhat sharply. " In my day
an' time it wuz allers took to be a bad sign
when niggers got to honeyin' 'roun' an' gwine
on."
" Yessum," said Free Joe, cheerfully assent-
ing to the proposition — " Yessum, dat's so,
but me an' my ole 'oman, we 'uz raise tergeer.
en dey aint bin many days w'en we 'uz 'way
fum one 'n'er like we is now."
" May be she's up an' took up wi' some un
else," said Micajah Staley from the corner.
" You know what the sayin' is, ' New master,
new nigger.' "
" Dat's so, dat's de sayin', but taint wid
my ole 'oman like 'tis wid yuther niggers.
Me en her wuz des natally raise up tergeer.
Dey's lots likelier niggers dan w'at I is," said
Free Joe, viewing his shabbiness with a crit-
ical eye, " but I knows Lucindy mos' good ez
I does little Dan dar — dat I does."
There was no reply to this, and Free Joe
continued :
" Miss Becky, I wish you please, ma'am,
take en run yo' kyards en see sump'n n'er
'bout Lucindy ; kaze ef she sick, I'm gwine
dar. Dey ken take en take me up en gimme
a stroppin', but I'm gwine dar."
Miss Becky got her cards, but first she picked
up a cup, in the bottom of which were some
122
FREE JOE AND THE REST OF THE WORLJJ.
coffee-grounds. These she whirled slowly
round and round, ending finally by turning
the cup upside down on the hearth and allow-
ing it to remain in that position.
" I'll turn the cup first," said Miss Becky,
" and then I'll run the cards and see what
they say."
As she shuffled the cards the fire on the
hearth burned low, and in its fitful light the
gray-haired, thin-featured woman seemed to
deserve the weird reputation which rumor and
gossip had given her. She shuffled the cards
for some moments, gazing intently in the dy-
ing fire ; then, throwing a piece of pine on the
coals, she made three divisions of the pack,
disposing them about in her lap. Then she
took the first pile, ran the cards slowly through
her fingers, and studied them carefully. To
the first she added the second pile. The study
of these was evidently not satisfactory. She
said nothing, but frowned heavily ; and the
frown deepened as she added the rest of the
cards until the entire fifty-two had passed in
review before her. Though she frowned, she
seemed to be deeply interested. Without
changing the relative position of the cards
she ran them all over again. Then she threw
a larger piece of pine on the fire, shuffled the
cards afresh, divided chem into three piles, and
subjected them to the same careful and crit-
ical examination.
" I can't tell the day when I've seed the
cards run this a-way," she said after a while.
"What is an' what aint, I'll never tell you;
but I know what the cards sez."
" W'at does dey say, Miss Becky ? " the
negro inquired, in a tone the solemnity of
which was heightened by its eagerness.
" They er runnin' quare. These here that
I'm a-lookin' at," said Miss Becky, " they
stan' for the past. Them there, they er the
present; and the t'others, they er the future.
Here's a bundle, " — tapping the ace of clubs
with her thumb, — " an' here's a journey as
plain as the nose on a man's face. Here's
Lucinda "
" Whar she. Miss Becky ? "
" Here she is — the queen of spades."
Free Joe grinned. The idea seemed to
please him immensely.
" Well, well, well ! " he exclaimed. " Ef
dat don't beat my time ! De queen er spades !
W'en Lucindy year dat hit'll tickle 'er, sho' ! "
Miss Becky continued to run the cards
back and forth through her fingers.
" Here's a bundle an' a journey, and here's
Lucinda. An* here's ole Spite Calderwood."
She held the cards toward the negro and
touched the king of clubs.
" De Lord he'p my soul ! " exclaimed Free
Joe with a chuckle. " De faver's dar. Yesser,
dat's him ! W'at de matter 'long wid all un
um, Miss Becky ? "
The old woman added the second pile of
cards to the first, and then the third, still run-
ning them through her fingers slowly and
critically. By this time the piece of pine in
the fire-place had wrapped itself in a mantle
of flame, illuminating the cabin and throwing
into strange relief the figure of Miss Becky as
she sat studying the cards. She frowned om-
inously at the cards and mumbled a few words
to herself. Then she dropped her hands in
her lap and gazed once more into the fire.
Her shadow danced and capered on the wall
and floor behind her, as if, looking over her
shoulder into the future, it could behold a
rare spectacle. After a while she picked up
the cup that had been turned on the hearth.
The coffee-grounds, shaken around, presented
what seemed to be a most intricate map.
" Here's the journey," said Miss Becky,
presently ; " here's the big road, here's rivers
to cross, here's the bundle to tote." She
paused and sighed. " They haint no names
writ here, an' what it all means I'll never tell
you. Cajy, I wish you'd be so good as to
han' me my pipe."
" I haint no hand wi' the kyards," said
Cajy, as he handed the pipe, " but I reckon
I can patch out your misinformation, Becky,
bekaze the other day, whiles I was a-finishin'
up Mizzers Perdue's rollin'-pin, I hearn a
rattlin' in the road. I looked out, an' Spite
Calderwood was a-drivin' by in his buggy,
an' thar sot Lucinda by him. It'd in-about
drapt out er my min'."
Free Joe sat on the door-sill and fumbled at
his hat, flinging it from one hand to the other.
" You aint see um gwine back, is you,
Mars Cajy ? " he asked after a while.
" Ef they went back by this road," said Mr.
Staley, with the air of one who is accustomed
to weigh well his words, " it must 'a' bin
endurin' of the time whiles I was asleep,
bekaze I haint bin no furder from my shop
than to yon bed."
" Well, sir ! " exclaimed Free Joe in an
awed tone, which Mr. Staley seemed to regard
as a tribute to his extraordinary powers of
statement.
" Ef it's my beliefs you want," continued
the old man, " I'll pitch 'em at you fair and
free. My beliefs is that Spite Calderwood is
gone an' took Lucindy outen the county.
Bless your heart and soul ! when Spite Cal-
derwood meets the Old Boy in the road
they'll be a tumble scuffle. You mark what
I tell you."
Free Joe, still fumbling with his hat, rose
and leaned against the door-facing. He
seemed to be embarrassed. Presently he said :
FREE JOE AND THE REST OF THE WORLD.
123
"I speck I better be gittin' 'long. Nex'
time I see Lucindy, I'm gwine tell 'er w'at
Miss Becky say 'bout de queen er spades —
dat I is ! Ef dat don't tickle 'er, dey aint no
nigger 'oman never bin tickle'."
He paused a moment as though waiting
for some remark or comment — some confir-
mation of misfortune, or, at the very least, some
indorsement of his suggestion that Lucinda
would be greatly pleased to know that she
had figured as the queen of spades ; but neither
Miss Becky nor her brother said anything.
" One minnit ridin' in the buggy 'longside er
Mars Spite, en de nex' highfalutin' 'roun' play-
in' de queen er spades. Mon, deze yer nigger
gals gittin' up in de pictur's — dey sholy is."
With a brief " Good-night, Miss Becky,
Mars Cajy," Free Joe went out into the
darkness, followed by little Dan. He made
his way to the poplar, where Lucinda had
been in the habit of meeting him, and sat
down. He sat there a long time ; he sat
there until little Dan, growing restless, trotted
off in the direction of the Calderwood place.
Dozing against the poplar, in the gray dawn
of the morning, Free Joe heard Spite Calder-
wood's fox-hounds in full cry a mile away.
" Shoo ! " he exclaimed, scratching his
head and laughing to himself, " dem ar dogs
is des a-warmin' dat old fox up."
But it was Dan the hounds were after, and
the little dog came back no more. Free Joe
waited and waited until he grew tired of
waiting. He went back the next night and
waited, and for many nights thereafter. His
waiting was in vain, and yet he never regarded
it as in vain. Careless and shabby as he was,
Free Joe was thoughtful enough to have his
theory. He was convinced that little Dan
had found Lucinda, and that some night when
the moon was shining brightly through the
trees, the dog would rouse him from his
dreams as he sat sleeping at the foot of the
poplar- tree, and. he would open his eyes and
behold Lucinda standing over him, laughing
merrily as of old ; and then, he thought what
fun they would have about the queen of spades.
How many long nights Free Joe waited
at the foot of the poplar-tree for Lucinda and
little Dan no one can ever know. He kept no
account of them, and they were not recorded
by Micajah Staley nor by Miss Becky. The
season ran into summer and then into fall.
One night he went to the Staley cabin, cut
the two old people an armful of wood, and
seated himself on the door-steps, where he
rested. He was always thankful — and proud,
as it seemed — when Miss Becky gave him a
cup of coffee, which she was sometimes
thoughtful enough to do. He was especially
thankful on this particular night.
" You er still layin' off for to strike up wi'
Lucindy out thar in the woods, I reckon,"
said Micajah Staley, smiling grimly. The sit-
uation was not without its humorous aspects.
" Oh, dey er comin', Mars Cajy — dey er
comin', sho," Free Joe replied. " I boun' you
dey'll come, en w'en dey does come, I'll des
take en fetch um yer, whar you kin see um
wid you own eyes, you en Miss Becky."
" No," said Mr. Staley, with a quick and
emphatic gesture of disapproval. " Don't !
Don't fetch 'em anywheres. Stay right wi' 'em
as long as may be."
Free Joe chuckled and slipped away into
the night, while the two old people sat gazing
in the fire. Finally Micajah spoke :
" Look at that nigger — look at 'im. He's
pine-blank as happy now as a killdee by a mill-
race. You can't 'faze 'em. I'd in-about give
up my t'other hand ef I could stan' flat-footed
an' grin at trouble like that there nigger."
" Niggers is niggers," said Miss Becky,
smiling grimly, " an' you can't rub it out ; yit
I lay I've seed a heap of white people lots
meaner'n Free Joe. He grins, — an that's
nigger, — but I've ketched his under jaw
a-trimblin' when Lucindy's name uz brung
up. An' I tell you," she went on, bridling up
a little and speaking with almost fierce em-
phasis, " the Old Boy's done sharpened his
claws for Spite Calderwood. You'll see it."
" Me, Rebecca ? " said Mr. Staley, hugging
his palsied arm. " Me ? I hope not."
" Well, you'll know it, then," said Miss
Becky, laughing heartily at her brother's look
of alarm.
The next morning Micajah Staley had oc-
casion to go into the woods after a piece of
timber. He saw Free Joe sitting at the foot
of the poplar, and the sight vexed him some-
what.
" Git up from there," he cried, " an' go an'
arn your livin'. A mighty purty pass it's come
to,when great big buck niggers can lie a-snorin'
in the woods all day, when t'other folks is got
to be up an' a-gwine. Git up from there ! "
Receiving no response, Mr. Staley went to
Free Joe and shook him by the shoulder ; but
the negro made no response. He was dead.
His hat was off, his head was bent, and a
smile was on his face. It was as if he had
bowed and smiled when death stood before
him — humble to the last. His clothes were
ragged ; his hands were rough and callous ; his
shoes were literally tied together with strings;
he was shabby in the extreme. A passer-by,
glancing at him, could have no idea that such
a humble creature had been summoned as a
witness before the Lord God of Hosts.
Joel Chandler Harris.
HOW SHALL WE ELECT OUR PRESIDENTS?
An American writer, of some local repute
in his day, addressing his countrymen soon
after the Constitution of the United States
went into operation, said: " You have nothing
to fear from your Constitution; your Consti-
tution has everything to fear from you." This
antithesis contained some truth when it was
uttered ; it contains some now. Our Consti-
tution is, in its theory, the most nearly perfect
system of free government that was ever de-
vised. It has but few defects ; and although,
when it had been completed and was first pro-
mulgated, it seemed to that generation very
hazardous to commit such powers of govern-
ment to a central authority acting for the
whole people of the United States, so that
the Constitution as originally framed had to
be amended, the true way in which the
system should be regarded, in judging of its
merits, is to consider the first ten amendments
just as if they had been incorporated into the
text of the instrument as it came from the
hands of its framers. Thus complemented by
the addition of certain restrictive and explan-
atory clauses, there was as little danger to
liberty from the Constitution as there was
danger of anarchy, notwithstanding the anx-
iety felt by our grandfathers when they gave
their assent to the new government. But
while the people have had nothing to fear
from the Constitution, the Constitution has
often had a good deal to fear from the people
and their public servants. False constructions,
loose official interpretations, departures from
the intent and spirit of many of its provisions,
the strifes of parties, the antagonisms of sec-
tions, the conflicts of local interests, the
ambitions of individuals, — these, and many
other causes for which the Constitution itself
is not responsible, have at different times
powerfully contributed to bring this nearly
perfect system of government into much peril.
I do not now propose to treat of the great
schism which, nearly a quarter of a century
ago, seemed likely to end in a permanent
disruption of the Union, and by consequence
in the loss of the Constitution. I now seek
to direct public attention to an evil that has
been growing in magnitude for a period of
about fifty years, and which is to-day one of
the most serious and menacing of all the
causes that may finally lead to an overthrow
of this form of government. I allude to the
abuses of the electoral system, — abuses of the
machinery which the Constitution established
for constituting the executive head of the
government.
There can be very little question about the
intent of the plan by which the framers of the
Constitution proposed to have the office of
President of the United States filled at stated
intervals of four years. Whether this period
was or was not too short, there can be no
doubt that the method of election was well
devised. It interposed between the people of
each State and the ultimate choice a body
of electors, measured in numbers by the
aggregate representation of the State in the
two Houses of Congress. The design of this
intermediate body was twofold : first, to
avoid the tumults that might attend a direct
vote of the people for a chief executive officer
to whom such great powers were to be com-
mitted ; and, secondly, to enable the function-
aries called electors to exercise a deliberate
and independent choice from among the
public men of the country for an office of so
much dignity and authority. The fact that
the first President was chosen under circum-
stances which operated as a distinct moral
instruction to the electors to cast the votes
of their States for Washington, does not de-
tract from the obvious design of the electoral
system. While the men who made that system
anticipated that to insure the success of the
experiment of their new government Wash-
ington must be and would be the first Presi-
dent, they so framed the electoral machinery
that in subsequent elections the choice would,
as they believed, take place without any
moral or any other kind of instruction to
compel the selection of the individual to fall
upon a previously designated person. In like
manner, although at the time when the Con-
stitution went into operation there were,
properly speaking, no parties or party divis-
ions,— for the differences between the friends
of the Constitution and its opponents certainly
did not amount to organized parties such as
we have since known, — yet it was foreseen
that questions of administration and public
policy would necessarily lead to the forma-
tion of parties ; and it is quite certain that
one of the chief reasons for interposing a
body of electors, by whom the office of Presi-
dent was to be filled, was to avoid in some
degree the dictation and control of parties,
and to allow some scope for the voice of
minorities in the electoral colleges. So, too,
when we interpret the text of the electoral
HOW SHALL WE ELECT OUR PRESIDENTS?
I25
system by known historical facts and con-
temporary documents and discussions, there
can be no doubt that one of the chief purposes
of this system was to have the President ap-
pointed by public functionaries who should
act without the control of positive instruction
respecting the individual for whom they were
to cast the votes of their States. This view
of the original design of the electoral bodies
leaves to political parties all the scope that
they ought to have in the choice of a Presi-
dent; for it leaves the dominant majority of
the people of every State to appoint as
electors men of their own political faith and
opinions, and at the same time it avoids the
dictation of the individual to whom the elec-
toral votes of the States are to be given. The
members of an electoral college, appointed
by the totes of a majority of the people of a
State, may properly, and will naturally, cast
their electoral votes for some public man who
is of the same party ; but it is simply an
abuse of the electoral system, as it was origi-
nally designed to operate, to have the electors
put under a moral, an honorary, or any other
obligation not in any case to vote for any
person but the individual who is designated,
or, as it is called, " nominated," by a party
convention.
Let us now see what has come about in the
past forty or fifty years. Before the advent of
the so-called national conventions, nomina-
tions for the Presidency were made by bodies
called caucuses, composed of the members
of Congress who were adherents of the re-
spective parties of the time. This was a method
that was open to some of the objections which
belong to the convention system of nomina-
tions; that is to say, all nominations which
operate finally as positive instructions to the
State electors, however they may be made,
are bad, because they lead to intrigue, to the
exclusion of the best men, to more or less of
corruption, and, therefore, to a violation of
the original design of the electoral system.
But the nominating caucuses that were held
at the seat of government by the political
parties, and were composed of such members
of Congress as chose to take part in them,
bad as they were on some accounts, did not
lead to a tithe of the evils of the convention
system. It is to the consequences of this sys-
tem of national party conventions, as it has
operated ever since it was resorted to, that I
wish to draw the attention of reflecting men,
and then to consider whether anything can
be done to put an end to it, and at the same
time to leave to political parties all the vigor
and activity that they ought to have in a
popular government like ours.
The operation of the convention system is
this : An irresponsible body, unknown to the
Constitution or the laws, the creature of a
usage only, and organized by the action in
primary assemblies of probably not a tenth
part of the American people, assembles in
some great city. Some of the delegations
come with positive instructions from the po-
litical cabals which appointed them to secure
the nomination of a particular individual, who
may or may not be a person of national repu-
tation. Other delegations are not so posi-
tively fettered, but perhaps they are under
the operation of a device called the " unit
rule," whereby the whole vote of the delega-
tion is thrown by a majority of its members, —
an ingenious plan for suppressing the voices of
a minority of the delegation in the final count
of the votes of the whole convention. In addi-
tion to the regular delegates from the differ-
ent States, come organized bands of noisy
partisans, to " work " for their respective
candidates. Here and there may be seen
eminent citizens, who have traveled great
distances from their homes with the patriotic
purpose of bringing about a good nomination.
The influence, however, of this class of men
is often lost in the tumultuary excitements of
the scene. The assembly is usually convened
in some very large building which admits of
enormous crowds in its galleries; and these
crowds, composed of the most heterogeneous
materials, often partake of some of the char-
acteristics of a mob. It has not seldom hap-
pened that wise deliberation and conscientious
action have been impossible under such cir-
cumstances ; and it has sometimes happened
that the presiding officer has been unable to
distinguish between the decisions of the body
itself and the decisions of the surrounding
vociferating and excited galleries. In the dis-
cussions, conferences, bargains, and combina-
tions that take place out of the sittings of the
convention, if money is not used, and used
in large sums, to buy votes, these bodies have
been belied for many years. The probability
is that for at least twenty years, in the nomi-
nating conventions of both of the great
political parties, money has been a factor.
But these transactions are so conducted that
they are unknown to any but the vendors and
purchasers of the votes. The staple of the
argument that is openly pressed for this or
that candidate for the nomination is his abil-
ity to " carry " this or that State which is sup-
posed likely to be "'the battle-ground " or one
of the battle-grounds of the election. The
" pivotal States," as they are denominated in
the political jargon of these occasions, some-
times make the nomination turn upon consid-
erations of the lowest kind. Something in the
past history of a public man is supposed to
26
HOW SHALL WE ELECT OUR PRESLDENTS?
give him the best chance to capture the "sol-
dier " vote, or the "Irish" vote, or the "Ger-
man " vote, or the " negro " vote, or the
liquor or the anti-liquor interest, or the work-
ingman's interest, and so on through all the
catalogue of diversified prejudices and pas-
sions which sway, or are supposed to sway,
the popular impulses of different localities or
classes at these times of the quadrennial ballot
for a President. Very little is heard of the
solid grounds on which the public character
of a statesman ought to be able to challenge
public confidence ; very little of the qualities
which should fit a man for the office. Nearly
the whole effective force of a great party is
expended in calculation of the elements of
what is called the " strength " of the different
prominent men of the party. An accurate
definition of this curious quality of political
strength excludes the personal fitness of a
man to be President of the United States, and
includes his supposed " availability," which
means some adventitious capacity to win
more votes in the election than any one else.
Undoubtedly, so long as the convention sys-
tem of nominations, with all their binding
force, is continued, the quality that is univer-
sally understood as " strength," low as it is
in the scale of calculations, is an element of
some importance. But let any one follow out
the whole process of these nominations and
the working of the whole machinery, and then
compare it with the obvious design of the
electoral system, and he will be convinced
that if the framers of the Constitution could
have foreseen in what their system was to re-
sult, they never would have established it.
The ballotings in these nominating con-
ventions often afford a curious study. The
first balloting generally reveals the " strength "
of the respective persons for whom the votes
are cast. Then ensues a strange kind of lot-
tery. Across the calculations and combina-
tions which, at one moment, have seemed
almost certain to bring about a concerted re-
sult, wild waves of feeling and impulse sweep
with unaccountable force, and' some other
person comes to the front. Perhaps he is one
of those whose candidacy has been contem-
plated by a part of the public and by a strong
body of adherents, so that he belongs to
the category of men known to the nation.
Perhaps he is that mysterious personage
known as the " dark horse," who rides into
the arena from comparative obscurity and
suddenly carries off the prize, no man can
tell how or why. But in some mode, after
the contending forces have worked out a ma-
jority for somebody, a nomination is made.
Then follows the application of the device
by which the mouths of all dissenters are
to be shut. The nomination is declared to
be the unanimous act of the convention,
amid loud vociferation, waving of banners,
and all the hubbub of an excitement which
a calm looker-on would suppose indicated a
universal conviction that something of great
importance to the public welfare had occurred.
Meantime everybody knows that the una-
nimity is one of those fictions which it is no
abuse of language to characterize as lies. To
be sure, no one is deceived by it. It is only a
formality, meaning nothing.
A certain number of throws from two dice-
boxes will inevitably give a major number of
points to one or the other of the persons
playing ; but a by-stander might as well un-
dertake to predict what is to come out of a
given number of casts of dice, as to pronounce
beforehand who will receive the nomination
of a party convention for the great office
of President of the United States. Eminent
talent, long public service, high character,
statesmanlike accomplishments, which would
seem to be sure elements of calculation, are
the least potent of all the factors which bring
about the result ; and of those factors which
really produce the result, there is no calcu-
lation possible, — they are so diverse, contra-
dictory, and inappreciable. The only tangi-
ble one of all those factors is money, or its
equivalent in the shape of promises of future
preferment. But somehow a nomination is
made. Thereupon, instantly, all over the land,
throughout all the adherents of the party, if
white has not become black and black white,
it has become inexpedient to speak of the
difference. Presses which had previously
urged, with all the ability they could com-
mand, the high political and moral expediency
of electing some eminent statesman to the
Presidency, suddenly find themselves advo-
cating the election of a very inferior sort of
person. Principles of political conduct which
a little while before were thought to be the
highest political virtue are speedily put out
of sight. Men become boisterous in their
praises of what they strongly disapproved one
week or two weeks since. The few who will
neither surrender their principles nor bury
them in silence are stigmatized by a term
borrowed from the turf, which describes the
refusal of a beast under whip and spur to
obey the reins, as " bolters."
We have wandered so far from the princi-
ples of the Constitution — they are so little
understood at the present day by the great
body of citizens — that perhaps the statement
that the Constitution does not contemplate
or intend that the President shall be conclu-
sively designated by a popular vote will cause
some surprise. Yet there is no proposition
HOW SHALL WE ELECT OUR PRESLDENTS?
-1 27
concerning the Constitution that can be
made more indisputable than this. In the dis-
cussions which attended its formation and
adoption, we can trace the effort to frame a
system by which the President could be ap-
pointed without being absolutely elected by
the votes of the people. Project after project
was brought forward in the Federal Conven-
tion, all of them of a different character, but
all designed as substitutes for a direct ap-
pointment by the people. At one time it was
proposed that the national executive should
be appointed by the national legislature; at
another, by the legislatures of the States ; and
still another plan was that electors should be
chosen by the State legislatures or appointed
by the State executives. At length, after the
most laborious and careful consideration, the
plan was adopted of electors to be ap-
pointed by the different States according to
the ratio of their representation in Congress.
These officers were interposed between the
popular vote and the actual choice, with the
intent that they should make the choice upon
high public motives, without positive instruc-
tion, pledge, or obligation binding them to
*vote for a specified person. It was intended
to secure a body of electors whose calm and
sound judgment might be relied upon to pre-
vent the executive office from falling into the
hands of men of great personal popularity,
or influence, or distinction, not accompanied
by high qualifications for its duties. It was
doubtless not intended to exclude the sense
of the people from the consideration of the
electors. But it was certainly intended that
the electors should exercise a real choice ;
that they should weigh the sense of the peo-
ple, but not be controlled by it, if a sound
judgment of the public good required them
to disregard it. They were to be the agents
of the people in choosing a President, but not
to be their agents for the inevitable selection
of a particular individual. No other function
in the government was assigned to them.
Having discharged their trust, they were to
return into the body of their fellow-citizens.
But this wise and careful institution has
lost its purpose. The electors exercise no
choice, no judgment, no volition. They come
into official existence pledged to vote for a
particular candidate, and they are assumed to
be dishonorable men and traitors to their
party if they do not obey its behests. In some
States they are appointed by a majority of
the voters ; in some a plurality only deter-
mines the person for whom they are to vote,
while a majority of votes have perhaps been
cast against him.
It has fared no better with the people.
The candidate for whom the electors are
expected and required to vote is not only
designated before they have assembled, but
he is designated by a body that is unknown
to the law, that derives its existence and
authority from those who choose to get
together and institute it, and who are, too, a
numerical minority of the political party in
whose name they claim to act. But notwith-
standing the total want of all proper authority,
notwithstanding the fact that the primary
assemblies which appoint the delegates to the
nominating conventions notoriously embrace
but a small part of the voters of a party, the
power of these conventions is immense. To
break away from their dictation requires an
effort that few men who feel party obligations
like to make. The people have not only
accepted the control of the conventions over
the electors, but they have lost all proper
freedom of choice in casting their own votes.
The election is supposed to be popular. It is
not a popular election, if by that is meant that
the people, or a majority of them, express
their preferences by their votes. They have
no opportunity for such an expression. They
are just as much debarred from all proper
freedom of choice as if a foreign army, able
to overrun and overawe the country, were to
land on our coast and say : " Choose for your
executive one of two men whom we present
to you." The people do not choose the Presi-
dent; they determine which of two "candi-
dates " shall be President, and this is all.
Can anything be done to put an end to this
state of things ? That something ought to
be done, if it be possible, few reflecting men
will deny. If we can get rid of the pernicious
operation of the political maxim that " to the
victors belong the spoils," and can confine
the function of parties to the promotion of
differing views of public policy, we shall have
begun a work that may take away one of the
principal motives that actuate a large class
of our politicians who busy themselves in
organizing and conducting the nominating
conventions. How potent this motive is, no
one need be told. So long as it is left in op-
eration, so long the successful candidate for
the Presidency will be obliged to yield to the
demands that are made upon him, whether
he has or has not entered into previous
stipulations to reward his supporters. It re-
quires great firmness of character in any
newly elected President to resist the demands
of an active and influential politician who
can come to him and say : " Sir, I secured
your nomination to this great office ; more
than that, I carried my State for you; the
usages of the party, its effective force for the
present and the future, its common law of
political action, give me a claim to a certain
128
HOW SHALL WE ELECT OUR PRESLDENTS?
amount of the public patronage for myself
and my friends." Every one knows how these
claims are always responded to ; how often
an administration, and even the usefulness
of a successful party, have been wrecked in
the effort to reconcile the conflicting claims
of the leading political managers of a nomi-
nation and a campaign. If there ever was
such a degree of political utility in the spoils
system as to amount to a plausible necessity
for making it a principle of party action, it
has come to be such an abuse that the true
function of parties is swamped beneath a
deluge of corruption. In a government like
ours, the only legitimate office of a party is
to develop and carry out public policies ; and
among all the nearly countless public positions
which the vast patronage of the Federal
Government embraces, there are but a very
few which it is in any proper sense necessary
to fill with adherents of the party which the
President represents. If we ever reach the
condition that is aimed at in what is called
Civil Service Reform, an administration of
any vigor can always find means to prevent
inferior officers of the civil service from acting
improperly against its public policy, unless the
laws which regulate the term of such offices
are very unwisely framed. The objection that
any fixity of tenure, which will take away the
President's power of removal at his pleasure,
will tend to the establishment of an oligar-
chy of office-holders, or a permanent official
class, or a bureaucracy, is much more spe-
cious than real. Many governments have
found by experience that the advantage of
retaining civil officers in the public service so
long as they well and faithfully perform the
duties far outweighs any advantage that can
be derived from a universal change at every
change of the executive administration. Ro-
tation in office, as such changes are euphe-
mistically denominated, is a principle of
republican government only in a sentimental
sense. In a practical sense it is of no value
excepting as a means of rewarding partisan
service and continuing the domination of a
party. Just as soon as a party ceases to com-
mand the confidence of the people by its
public policy, its hold upon the executive as
well as the legislative branch of the govern-
ment ought to cease at the first opportunity
for a change ; and it is simply absurd to leave
in its hands the means of continuing its pos-
session of power by the enormous patronage
of a government that disburses more money
and employs more public servants than the
whole aggregate of the civil lists of all the
States in the Union many times over. But be
the disadvantages of a fixed tenure of office
what they may, the people of the United
States are now brought to the necessity of
determining which is the greater evil, to have
a class of official men not removable from
their places excepting for some cause other
than the political aims of the existing admin-
istration, or to have the enormous patronage
of the Federal Government used, as it has
heretofore been, for the purpose of getting or
keeping power.
The tendency of the existing mode of nomi-
nating and electing candidates for the Presi-
dency is to divide American statesmanship
into two classes of men of very unequal
numbers. The high-toned men, who will not
stoop to the acts and use the appliances
necessary to procure a nomination, are the
exceptions. They may and generally do hold
as strongly to the tenets of their party as the
men who belong in the other category ; their
political principles are deep convictions ; and
ambition, the infirmity of noble minds, may
not be, and need not be, wanting to them.
But with this class of men ambition is re-
strained by a self-respect which forbids solic-
itation or management in their own interest.
They may have friends and followers who
will gladly do the political work required \B>
effect for them a party nomination, and do it
disinterestedly ; but they do not allow them-
selves to be drawn into the schemes necessary
to bring it about, nor are their followers likely
to be persons willing to embark very far in
such schemes. The consequence is that this
class of our public men, who have achieved
high reputation on the theater of national
affairs, and who are the best representatives
of the American character as well as of the
parties with which they act, are the least
possessed of that peculiar recommendation
called political strength, and are therefore the
least likely to find favor with the nominating
conventions of their party. Nevertheless,
these are the very men from among whom
the Presidential electors ought to select a
chief magistrate for the nation.
The emancipation of the country from the
evils of the spoils system may do something
to break up the convention system of making
nominations. But it needs to be supplemented
by an emancipation of the people and the
Presidential electors from the thralldom which
confines the choice of a President to designated
candidates. I conceive that the following
plan, if it can receive the support of disinter-
ested men of all parties, would go far to ac-
complish the object. My suggestion involves
an amendment of the Constitution; and I
am well aware that no amendment can be
adopted without the support of the principal
statesmen of the country, regardless of party.
But if the amendment which I suggest can
HOW SHALL WE ELECT OUR PRESIDENTS?
129
receive that support, it can be adopted. It
is somewhat invidious to speak of classes in
this country, but it is sometimes necessary.
There is a very large proportion of the people
of the United States who for convenience may
be called the middle class: that great body
of men who are neither rich nor poor; who
vote sometimes with one party, sometimes
with another, but who have no selfish ob-
jects in their political action. It is quite plain
that this system of nominating candidates for
the Presidency, and confining the choice
by the operation of the binding force of the
party nominations upon the consciences of
the electors to the designated candidate of
the party, in sheer violation of the intent of
the electoral system, cannot go on much
longer without bringing that system into
utter contempt. The middle class of people
will see before long that the mode in which
these nominations are brought about, and the
restriction of choice which the practice entails,
deprives the country of the services of its fit-
test men in the office of President of the United
States. Thousands of honest citizens who
now deposit their votes in the ballot-boxes
with serious misgivings about the candidate
for whom their vote will be counted, will not
much longer endure the strain upon their
consciences and their judgments. They will
demand such a modification of the electoral
system as will restore its main original design,
by freeing the electors from the absolute dic-
tation of a party nomination. This may be
done by a single change.
The Constitution, as it stood until the year
1804, after providing for the appointment of
electors by each State in such manner as its
legislature might direct, required them to
meet and ballot in their respective States, but
authorized the Congress to determine the time
of choosing them and the day on which their
votes were to be given, requiring the day to
be the same throughout the United States.
They were to vote by ballot for two persons,
of whom one at least must not be an inhabi-
tant of the same State with themselves. A
mode was provided for determining which of
the two persons voted for was to be the
President and which the Vice-President. The
electors were to make a list of all the persons
voted for and of the number of votes for each,
and they were to transmit it, sealed, to the seat
of government, directed to the President of
the Senate, who, in the presence of the Senate
and House of Representatives, was to open all
the certificates, and the votes were then to be
counted. The twelfth amendment, adopted
in 1804, continued the original provision
which required the electors to meet and vote
in their respective States, but changed the
method of balloting so as to designate what
person they voted for as President, and what
person they voted for as Vice-President, re-
quiring distinct lists of the votes for each of
them. The amendment also continued the
original method of transmitting the sealed
certificates, the opening of the certificates,
and the counting of the votes.
It is a well-known historical fact that the
framers of the Constitution required the
electors to meet and vote in their respective
States, and on the same day throughout
the United States, in order to prevent
intrigue and corruption. Contemplating for
each State a body of untrammeled electors
who were to make a real choice of two
persons, one of whom, having the highest
number of all the electoral votes in the Union,
was by operation of law to be the Presi-
dent, and the other, having the next high-
est number of votes, was to be the Vice-
President, the framers of the Constitution
assumed that the danger of improper influ-
ences and corrupt or factious combinations
would lie, if anywhere, in the electoral bodies
themselves. It could be obviated, as they
supposed, by requiring the electors to meet
and vote in their respective States, and on the
same day. But it was not foreseen that the
danger of intrigue and corruption was to arise
in another quarter; that this danger would
precede the appointment and assembling of
the electors ; and that the whole system would
be deflected from its original purpose, not by
any legitimate constitutional change in the
function of the electors, but by a practice of
party nominations imposing upon the electors
of every State an irresistible customary law, of
honorary obligation, requiring them to vote
and to vote only for a person designated by a
party convention. This reduction of the elect-
ors to the position of mere automata, restrict-
ing their votes to a candidate previously desig-
nated by a body in which every art of intrigue
and corruption can be successfully applied,
and designated often by a hap-hazard proc-
ess, has rendered the assembling and voting
by the electors in their respective States of
no value at all. Of what consequence is it
where the electors of a State meet and vote,
if they have no function but to register the
previous decrees of a party convention ?
Wherever they may meet and vote, they are
not often intrigued with or corrupted after
they have assembled, or after they have been
appointed. They are usually honest and up-
right persons, of no great consequence as
individuals, acting, according to the prevalent
customary obligation, as mere instruments to
give a formal constitutional shape to the
popular vote of their party for some nomi-
130
HOW SHALL WE ELECT OUR PRESLDENTS?
nated candidate. They could do this if they
were all assembled in one body, just as well
as to do it in separate colleges. Wherever
they do it, it is certain that the Constitution
did not intend that the popular vote should
absolutely designate the President by any
process whatever.
There is another and a long train of unfor-
tunate consequences that have flowed from
the electoral voting in the separate States,
accompanied by the requirement of certifi-
cates to be transmitted to the President of the
Senate, to be opened by him, and then to be
acted on by the two Houses of Congress in
counting the votes. It is almost unnecessary
to advert to the dangerous questions that have
arisen out of this process of returning and
counting the electoral votes, or to the manner
in which these difficulties have been met.
Recent occurrences of a very painful nature
will be in the recollection of every reader. If
any safe and prudent method can be devised,
which, while accomplishing other benefits,
will take the whole process of counting the
electoral votes out of the hands of the two
Houses of Congress, it will be a consumma-
tion most devoutly to be wished.
Both theoretically and practically, the elect-
ors appointed by the respective States to
ballot for a President ought to be, and the
Constitution contemplates that they shall be,
persons fit to exercise a peculiar function ;
and over this function experience has shown
that the legislative bodies should have no
control. As the Constitution was planned,
requiring the electors to meet and vote in
their respective States, it became necessary to
provide for some central authority to open
their certificates, count their votes, and make
a public record of the results. It was expe-
dient that this should be a public solemnity ;
and as some one public oificer must receive
and open the certificates, and as the votes
must be publicly counted, the President of the
Senate was designated for one of these pur-
poses and the two Houses for the other. But
it is quite obvious that there is an alternative
method, which may dispense with a return of
certificates to any officer of the government,
and with the counting of the votes by the
two Houses. We are entirely familiar with the
operation of the principle which makes a
public body the judge of the elections, quali-
fications, and returns of its own members; and
where the body is a large one, performing a
dignified and important function in the gov-
ernment, this principle works in general with
as much purity and honesty as any institution
can in a government conducted by political
parties. It is, at all events, the best principle
that can be applied to the determination of a
right to sit and act in a public body ; and
although it may sometimes be found expe-
dient, as of late in the British House of Com-
mons, to delegate the exercise of this power
of determination to a judicial or quasi-judi-
cial tribunal, its exercise is always under the
control of the body itself. With us this power
has never been delegated by our legislative
bodies, but is always held and exercised by
the public body in which it is vested, without
inquiry, appeal, or revision elsewhere. The
instance in which this power was in some-
manner delegated to a commission to deter-
mine between conflicting electoral certificates,,
is not one that stands in history as a fortu-
nate precedent in the working of the system
for counting the votes of the Presidential
electors.
No more important or dignified function
exists in this government of ours than that
which is assigned by the Constitution to the
Presidential electors. In the aggregate they
constitute a very numerous body; as numerous
as the whole number of the two Houses of
Congress. Chosen for a temporary but most
sacred function, and dissolved as soon as they
have performed it, they would be, if assem-
bled in one body, less likely to be swayed by
improper or factious motives than bodies,
which are to continue in existence, and are
closely connected with the parties and fac-
tions of the time. If they can be emancipated
from the thralldom which now binds them, we
might expect to see men of the highest order
of character willing to assume and exercise
a function of such transcendent importance,,
instead of seeing, as we now see, these appoint-
ments distributed as empty honors among the
politicians, or as party compliments to men
to whom there is at present nothing else to-
give, and who will make as good machines as.
anybody.
Why not, then, assemble the whole body
of the electors at the seat of government,,
making them an electoral chamber, and con-
stituting the body itself the judge of the elec-
tions, qualifications, and returns of its own,
members ? We should thus obviate the ne-
cessity for returning the certificates of their
appointment to any public officer who was-
not an officer of the electoral chamber itself,,
and should vest in the body itself every ques-
tion that could arise on any of the certificates..
Every certificate would be filed with some
designated officer of the chamber, and the
chamber would proceed to organize itself as;
other public bodies do in whom the same-
power is lodged. Of course the different
members of the chamber would come with
their party affinities and predilections; but„
acting in public, and with a sense of their
HOW SHALL WE ELECT OUR PRESLDENTS?
*3i
responsibility to the nation as well as to their
constituents, they would be compelled to
decide with decency every preliminary ques-
tion that could arise. If we are willing to
trust this power to every legislative body in
the land, why not trust it to the Presidential
electors ? They will be or might be removed
from many of the improper and unfair motives
that sometimes sway the action of legislative
bodies on questions of contested seats.
Still it may be frankly admitted that this
plan could not work well, unless the force
of the obligation which now compels every
elector to vote for a designated candidate,
and not to vote for any other, can be broken.
Where, by the law of the State, its electors are
chosen on one ticket by a plurality vote of
the people, the entire electoral vote of that
State is now cast for a candidate who may
not be the choice of a majority of all the
voters. It is true that where the law of a State
admits of the appointment of electors by dis-
tricts, the elector of any district can make his
vote and the wishes of his constituents felt in
the final count. But assemble the whole body
of the electors in one chamber, and let them
vote for a President per capita, without regard
to the fact whether they were elected on gen-
eral State tickets or elected in districts, and
minorities and sometimes even majorities
would be better represented in the final result
than they are now. It seems to be a reason-
able calculation that this method of voting
in the electoral chamber, after it had become
appreciated by the people of all the States,
would strongly stimulate them to select men
worthy of the electoral trust, who would not,
under all imaginable circumstances, surrender
their judgments to the dictate of a nominating
convention, which has perhaps been packed
in the interest of some one man.
I am by no means disposed to forget the
potency of political parties, nor the force of
their machinery. But I am not arguing with
the common run of politicians. I put ife to
the sober sense of the people — if anything
that I can think or say can reach them —
whether parties are of any value to them ex-
cepting as a means of carrying out some public
policy ; and whether our present mode of
nominating and electing our Presidents is either
necessary or useful to the legitimate objects
of a party. I grant that so long as the spoils
remain the grand objective point of party
exertion and activity, or so long as the con-
trol of the public patronage is coupled as a
means to the accomplishment of a public
policy as an end, so long we must have nom-
inating conventions, and the consequent deg-
radation of the electoral system. But destroy
the spoils system, eliminate entirely the cohe-
sive power of the public plunder from the
means which hold parties together, and we
shall break up this mode of choosing Pres-
idents, and still leave to political parties all
their legitimate functions. If we can choose a
President in the mode which I have ventured
to sketch, he will still be the representative
of a party in every sense in which he ought
to be ; for the electors who appointed him
would represent the public policy of a party ;:
but he would not be a President bound to*
reward with office the partisans who had pro-
cured his nomination by a national party con-
vention. We should thus destroy the vice of
these conventions, and should still leave to
them all the virtue that they can have, for
they could still meet and resolve and announce
their policies by platforms or otherwise. The
vice of the system is the absolute dictation to
the electors, which makes it impossible for
them to think of but one candidate for the
office which they are supposed to fill.
But I have been told in answer to this plan
that the parties will still make their nomina-
tions, and that the force of these nominations
will not be lessened by having the electors
assemble and act as one chamber. There will
be, it is said, just the same dictation, just the
same honorary and imperative obligation to
vote for the one man only. This may fairly
be doubted, if we can once have what Civil
Service Reform aims to accomplish. When
that is effected, the national party conven-
tions, if they continue to be held, will be
attended chiefly by men who will seek to
make them exclusively organs for declaring
some public policy. It is not at all necessary
that some one Presidential candidate should
be presented to the people as the sole repre-
sentative of a party policy. The electors of
each State will come to the proposed cham-
ber as representatives of the policy preferred
by the voters who have appointed them to
exercise the electoral trust. Unrestricted in
their choice in all but one respect, they will
be at liberty to select from among the public
men of the same party the man whom they
deem the most eligible for the office. They
can therefore give, as they do not now give,
due weight to all those considerations of
character and capacity which ought to govern
their votes. As no bargains have been made
by them or for them, or by or for any one
else, they will have no stipulations to fulfill by
their votes ; and the sole restriction that they
will be under will be the public expediency
of choosing some qualified statesman who
concurs in the public policy of the party which
made them electors. The President, when
thus chosen, will be free to give his attention
to the legitimate objects of the party associa-
132
HOW SHALL WE ELECT OUR PRESLDENTS?
tion, and will not be obliged to consider how
he is to pay his political debts, for he will
have none to discharge.
Shall I be told that this scheme is Utopian ?
In a free and popular government, the value
of any scheme that is pure and sound in its
theory depends upon the practicability of once
getting it into operation. No change should
be regarded as Utopian or visionary, unless
there are practical obstacles to its inauguration
and trial. I know of but one practical obstacle
to the proposed plan, and as this is one that
will come chiefly from the interested class of
politicians, it is worthy only of a passing
notice. The people, says the astute politician,
have been so long accustomed to the exercise
of a power of designating the man who is to
be President as absolutely as if they chose
him by a direct vote, that they will never sur-
render the existing practice. The people never
surrender any power which they have once
gained, least of all a power to make their
will felt directly in their government. This
suggestion of what the people will not do, in
reference to the present subject, is derived
from two sources. One of its sources is the
assumption that the people are not intelligent
enough to understand, and virtuous enough
to secure, their own interest. The other is the
fact that the spoils system, in the long history
of party conventions, has been the main-
spring of party activity and the cement of
party consolidation. If, therefore, it is true
that we cannot have the benefit of parties
without the cohesive and stimulating power
of the spoils, — cannot conduct our govern-
ment without a vicious principle of action that
really deprives us of half the legitimate benefits
of party association, — our national institutions
are on the road to ruin, whatever may be our
material prosperity. Recent symptoms would
seem to indicate that the people are intelli-
gent enough to see this, and that the poli-
tician who shrewdly calculates that they are
not is this time at fault.
One of the most palpable and mischievous
consequences of the present method of mak-
ing candidates for the Presidency remains to
be noticed. For a long period of time the
people of the United States have been, and
they will probably continue to be, divided
into two great parties. But there are always
bodies of men who are associated politically
upon some other principle, — some crotchet or
other which they deem of supreme importance,
but of which the two principal parties make
little account, or with which they dabble
more or less in certain localities. The forma-
tion of these " third parties " — political mush-
rooms springing up suddenly and suddenly
disappearing — is on the whole a public mis-
fortune. They owe their existence, nine times
out of ten, to the inability of the two prin-
cipal parties to satisfy everybody with a "plat-
form " or a candidate. But the advent of a
third party into the field, not numerous or
powerful enough to elect its own candidate,
but able to draw voters away from both the
principal parties, has a strong tendency to
throw the election of a President into the
House of Representatives, or else to bring
about the election of a President who will not
be the choice of a majority of the whole
people of the United States. The secondary
election by the House of Representatives, in
case no choice is effected by the electors, was
a necessary provision, but it is always a great
misfortune when it has to be resorted to. It is
no less a misfortune when a President is chosen
by the votes of a sufficient number of the elec-
tors, some of whom may in their respective
States owe their places to a mere plurality vote
of the people. Would the assembling of the
electors in one chamber, and their voting per
capita, have any tendency to prevent or dis-
courage the formation of third parties ? There
is good hope that it might, when we consider
that these third parties are frequently organ-
ized in reference to some question or class
of questions that are not matters of national
concern, or subjects over which the Federal
Government has any jurisdiction. If the true
function of the electors can be practically re-
stored, the people of all the States will recog-
nize the importance of clothing the most
eminent and independent citizens with this
trust, who will act upon truly national con-
siderations, and the chances of the presence
in the electoral chamber of men representing
some third and, nationally speaking, unim-
portant party will be thus diminished.
It would seem, then, that the Constitution
needs but one change, and that this one
would be followed by the elimination of
many present evils and by the accomplishment
of some important benefits. The appoint-
ment of the electors by their respective States
in such manner as their legislature shall de-
termine, and the negative qualification which
forbids the appointment as an elector of any
senator or representative, or any person
holding an office of trust or profit under the
United States, should both by all means be
retained. Nor does there seem to be any
good reason for changing the provision which
empowers Congress to determine the time of
choosing the electors. But the reason for their
voting in their respective States has passed
away. Experience has shown that this
practice is utterly powerless to prevent the
corruption which lies back of their appoint-
ment, in the nominating conventions which
HOW SHALL WE ELECT OUR PRESLDENTS?
J33
are able to convert them into mere mechani-
cal instruments. As things are now managed,
there is nothing to prevent a President from
rewarding with an office a politician who has
actively aided in bringing about his nomina-
tion by a party convention, and has then be-
come an elector to carry out the party decree.
But let the electors be assembled and obliged
to vote in one chamber, require every mem-
ber of that chamber to write his name upon
the ballot that he gives, make a public record
of the votes and of the electors who give
them, and we shall do something to forestall
the operation of the system which now im-
poses upon the electors the sole duty of reg-
istering a party decree in favor of some one
candidate for the Presidency and of him alone.
An elector under the present practice is utterly
irresponsible for his vote, morally or politi-
cally; but an elector who is obliged to dis-
charge his trust in the face of the nation, and
to leave on the public records the mode in
which he has discharged it, may be made re-
sponsible for his vote. He will hardly dare
to accept an appointment of any kind from a
President whom he has helped to elect; nor
would a President have any motive for reward-
ing an elector in any way, if the people who
appointed that elector would take care not to
appoint any man who had been a member of a
nominating party convention. Doubtless, in
order to effectuate the thorough reform that
it is desirable to bring about, there are changes
in the sphere of political morals that need to
be accomplished, and that are out of the do-
main of positive institution or constitutional
provision. But positive institution, if rightly
framed, can do much to reform the unwritten
code of political morality. If the positive in-
stitution and the unwritten law of political
morality can be made to help each other,
the electoral chamber, assembled and acting
in one body, would be a very august assembly,
composed of the most eminent citizens, who
would be under no party restriction in casting
their votes for a President, excepting the obli-
gation to carry out in the best manner the
public policy of the party to which they might
respectively belong.
As the time for appointing the electors drew
near, the public attention would be occupied
by the discussion of the policies and aims of
the two great parties. All that farrago of
whether Mr. A. or Mr. B. could " carry "
New York or Pennsylvania or Ohio would
be thrust out of existence. There would
be no battle-ground to be disputed between
two candidates, for there would be no fixed
candidates. The electoral chamber would
both nominate and elect. The electors would
weigh the public characters of the prominent
statesmen of their respective parties ; and
they would vote with a real responsibility to
the nation, because they would exercise a real
volition. A public functionary who acts with-
out any volition of his own, who obeys an order
imposed on him by another will, when he ought
to exercise his own judgment and obey the
dictates of his own conscience, is completely
irresponsible for his conduct. The nominat-
ing convention, which now performs the
function of naming the sole candidate for the
suffrages of a great party, and the unwritten
law of party obligation which confines the
votes of the electors to that candidate, render
the party leaders who have accomplished his
nomination irresponsible for anything that
they have done. They are actuated by an
object which is expressed in the avowal that
what they have to do is to win in the
popular election. If they can do that, the
electors are tied hand and foot to the trium-
phal car of the successful candidate, who has
carried the popular election against another
candidate nominated in the same manner,
with the same object.
The public, and sometimes the private,
character of a man who is to be elevated to
the great dignity of President of the United
States are matters of public concern. But
what is it that gives to discussions of the pub-
lic and private characters of the candidates
nominated by the political parties the ferocity
that we are often obliged to endure ? It is
the fact that the popular election, which in
law is nothing but an appointment of a body
of electors, is made to designate the inevitable
choice that the electors are to make, joined
with the other fact that the choice of the peo-
ple is practically confined to two designated
men. When the citizen comes to the polls
his vote contributes to the success of one or
the other of these two men. Whatever can
influence his judgment is intensified by the
power which he practically wields > and his
judgment is often assailed by the most un-
scrupulous means, or by means that are irrel-
evant to the question on which he ought to
act. Confine that question to the public pol-
icies of the political parties without reference
to the individual character of a designated
candidate for the Presidency, restore to the
electors the function of both nominating and
electing a President, and let the citizen feel,
when he comes to the polls, that he does
nothing but help to constitute a body of pub-
lic functionaries who are to discharge the elec-
toral trust upon their consciences and their
honor, and this savage canvassing of the char-
acters of two candidates will cease. To such
a body of men we may safely intrust all the
scrutiny into the past lives of our public men
134
HOW SHALL WE ELECT OUR PRESIDENTS?
that the public welfare demands. Beyond a
doubt this was the purpose of the electoral
system. If that purpose cannot be restored
to its normal operation, it would be better to
do away with the electors entirely, and let the
people in contemplation of law vote for a
President directly, as they do now in point
of actual practice. A great institution, orig-
inally designed for a most important purpose,
but which has come to be a sham, should
not be suffered to remain so. Re-invigorate
and renovate it, or put it to a civil death.
In order to give a full and clear idea of
the change suggested in this paper, I have
'cast it into the subjoined form of an amend-
ment of the Constitution. It may be that the
order and details of the organization of the
electors into an electoral chamber, sketched
in this amendment, can be much improved.
The great object to be accomplished would
of course be a safe mode of organizing such
an important assembly. In regard to the time
to be allowed to the chamber for effecting an
election of a President and a Vice-President,
it is obvious that there must be some limita-
tion. I have not specified the number of
days, but have left it in blank in each case.
It seems to me that they should be kept sep-
arate, as in one case the election would go to
the House of Representatives and in the
other to the Senate, if the electoral chamber
did not make a choice.
ARTICLE XVI.
The electors appointed under Article II. of this Con-
stitution shall assemble in the hall of the House of
Representatives in the city of Washington on the first
Monday in February next after their appointment by
their respective States, and shall, when so assembled
and organized, constitute the electoral chamber. They
shall have previously met in their respective States,
and shall have constituted a chairman of the delegation,
who shall bring with him to the seat of government
the credentials of the appointment of himself and his
colleagues, certified in such manner as the legislature
of the State may direct, and shall file the same with
the secretary of the chamber, as soon as that officer is
appointed. The chamber shall be called to order by
the president of the Senate, who shall act as its pre-
siding officer until it is fully organized. For the pur-
poses of the organization, the presiding officer shall
cause a roll of the electors to be made from the cre-
dentials in the hands of the chairman of each delega-
tion, and the right to sit and vote in the organization
shall be determined by this roll. The electors so borne
upon the preliminary roll shall then proceed to choose
one of their own number as president of the chamber,
and one of their own number as its secretary, who
shall, before the temporary presiding officer, take and
subscribe an oath for the faithful performance of the
duties of their respective offices. The temporary pre-
siding officer shall then retire, and the secretary of the
chamber shall receive and file the credentials of the
electors, and they shall be referred to a committee of
one elector from each State, to be appointed by the
president of the chamber. The chamber shall be the
judge of the elections, qualifications, and returns of its
members. On the report of the committee, the secre-
tary shall make a voting roll of all the electors found
entitled to sit and vote in the election of President and
Vice-President. The voting roll so made by the secre-
tary shall be used in balloting for a President and
Vice-President. Before such balloting, each elector
shall take and subscribe an oath for the faithful per-
formance of his electoral duties, and also an oath to
support the Constitution of the United States.
The electors, when so organized, shall vote by ballot
for President and Vice-President, one of whom at
least shall not be an inhabitant of the same State with
themselves ; they shall name in their ballots the per-
son voted for as President, and in distinct ballots the
person voted for as Vice-President, and each elector
shall indorse his name on every ballot by him given.
The secretary shall make distinct lists of all persons
voted for as President, and of all persons voted for as
Vice-President, and of the number of votes for each,
which lists he shall sign and certify, and shall deposit
in the Department of State, directed to the Secretary of
State, who shall make and keep a record thereof. The
provisions of the twelfth amendment, of this Consti-
tution which determine the choice by the electors of
a President and a Vice-President respectively, and
which regulate the election of the one by the House
of Representatives and of the other by the Senate, in
cases where a choice has not been effected by the elect-
ors, are hereby continued in force.
The time allowed for an election of a President by
the electors shall be limited to full days next
after the organization of the chamber, and if within
that time no person receive the majority of votes re-
quired by the said twelfth amendment, the election
shall devolve on the House of Representatives as pro-
vided in that amendment: and in like manner the
time allowed for an election of a Vice-President shall
be limited to full days next after the expiration
of the time allowed for an election of a President by
the chamber ; and if no person have the majority of
votes for Vice-President required by the said twelfth
amendment, the election shall devolve on the Senate,
as is provided in that amendment. When an election
of a President or a Vice-President has been effected
by the electoral chamber and duly certified to the Sec-
retary of State, he shall make publication thereof in two
newspapers published in the city of Washington, and
shall notify each of the persons so chosen by furnish-
ing to him a certified copy of the record under the
seal of the Department.
The Speaker of the House of Representatives shall
designate persons to act as messengers, door-keepers,
and peace officers of the electoral chamber, and the
Congress shall provide by law for all expenses attend-
ing the sitting of the chamber, including mileage and
attendance of the electors and compensation of all
officers of the chamber.
The provisions of the twelfth amendment of this
Constitution inconsistent with the provisions of the
present article are hereby repealed.
George Ticknor Curtis,
A TALE OF NEGATIVE GRAVITY.
My wife and I were staying at a small town
in northern Italy ; and on a certain pleasant
afternoon in spring we had taken a walk of
six or seven miles to see the sun set behind
some low mountains to the west of the town.
Most of our walk had been along a hard,
smooth highway, and then we turned into a
series of narrower roads, sometimes bordered
by walls, and sometimes by light fences of
reed, or cane. Nearing the mountain, to a
low spur of which we intended to ascend, we
easily scaled a wall about four feet high, and
found ourselves upon pasture land, which led,
sometimes by gradual ascents, and sometimes
by bits of rough climbing, to the spot we
wished to reach. We were afraid we were a
little late, and therefore hurried on, running
up the grassy hills, and bounding briskly over
the rough and rocky places. I carried a knap-
sack strapped firmly to my shoulders, and
under my wife's arm was a larg% soft basket
of a kind much used by tourists. Her arm
was passed through the handles, and around
the bottom of the basket, which she pressed
closely to her side. This was the way she
always carried it. The basket contained two
bottles of wine, one sweet for my wife, and
another a little acid for myself. Sweet wines
give me a headache.
When we reached the grassy bluff, well
known thereabouts to lovers of sunset views,
I stepped immediately to the edge to gaze
upon the scene, but my wife sat down to take
a sip of wine, for she was very thirsty ; and
then, leaving her basket, she came to my side.
The scene was indeed one of great beauty.
Beneath us stretched a wide valley of many
shades of green, with a little river running
through it, and red-tiled houses here and
there. Beyond rose a range of mountains,
pink, pale- green, and purple where their tips
caught the reflection of the setting sun, and
of a rich gray-green in shadows. Beyond all
was the blue Italian sky, illumined by an
especially fine sunset.
My wife and I are Americans, and at the
time of this story were middle-aged people
and very fond of seeing in each other's com-
pany whatever there was of interest or beauty
around us. We had a son about twenty-two
years old, of whom we were also very fond,
but he was not with us, being at that time a
student in Germany. Although we had good
health, we were not very robust people, and,
under ordinary circumstances, not much given
to long country tramps. I was of medium
size, without much muscular development,
while my wife was quite stout, and growing
stouter.
The reader may, perhaps, be somewhat sur-
prised that a middle-aged couple, not very
strong, or very good walkers, the lady loaded
with a basket containing two bottles of wine
and a metal drinking-cup, and the gentleman
carrying a heavy knapsack, filled with all sorts
of odds and ends, strapped to his shoulders,
should set off on a seven-mile walk, jump over
a wall, run up a hill-side, and yet feel in very
good trim to enjoy a sunset view. This pecu-
liar state of things I will proceed to explain.
I had been a professional man, but some
years before had retired upon a very comfort-
able income. I had always been very fond of
scientific pursuits, and now made these the
occupation and pleasure of much of my leis-
ure time. Our home was in a small town ;
and in a corner of my grounds I built a labor-
atory, where I carried on my work and my
experiments. I had long been anxious to dis-
cover the means, not only of producing, but
of retaining and controlling, a natural force,
really the same as centrifugal force, but which
I called negative gravity. This name I adopt-
ed because it indicated better than any other
the action of the force in question, as I pro-
duced it. Positive gravity attracts everything
toward the center of the earth. Negative
gravity, therefore, would be that power which
repels everything from the center of the earth,
just as the negative pole of a magnet repels the
needle, while the positive pole attracts it. My
object was, in fact, to store centrifugal force
and to render it constant, controllable, and
available for use. The advantages of such a
discovery could scarcely be described. In a
word, it would lighten the burdens of the
world.
I will not touch upon the labors and disap-
pointments of several years. It is enough to
say that at last I discovered a method of pro-
ducing, storing, and controlling negative
gravity.
The mechanism of my invention was rather
complicated, but the method of operating it
was very simple. A strong metallic case, about
eight inches long, and half as wide, contained
the machinery for producing the force ; and
this was put into action by means of the press-
ure of a screw worked from the outside. As
soon as this pressure was produced, negative
136
A TALE OF NEGATIVE GRAVITY.
gravity began to be evolved and stored, and
the greater the pressure the greater the force.
As the screw was moved outward, and the
pressure diminished, the force decreased, and
when the screw was withdrawn to its fullest
extent, the action of negative gravity entirely
ceased. Thus this force could be produced or
dissipated at will to such degrees as might be
desired, and its action, so long as the requisite
pressure was maintained, was constant.
When this little apparatus worked to my
satisfaction I called my wife into my labora-
tory and explained to her my invention and
its value. She had known that I had been at
work with an important object, but I had never
told her what it was. I had said that if I
succeeded I would tell her all, but if I
failed she need not be troubled with the mat-
ter at all. Being a very sensible woman, this
satisfied her perfectly. Now I explained
everything to her, the construction of the
machine, and the wonderful uses to which
this invention could be applied. I told her
that it could diminish, or entirely dissipate, the
weight of objects of any kind. A heavily loaded
wagon, with two of these instruments fastened
to its sides, and each screwed to a proper
force, would be so lifted and supported that
it would press upon the ground as lightly as
an empty cart, and a small horse could draw
it with ease. A bale of cotton, with one of
these machines attached, could be handled
and carried by a boy. A car, with a number of
these machines, could be made to rise in the
air like a balloon. Everything, in fact, that
was heavy could be made light ; and as a great
part of labor, all over the world, is caused by
the attraction of gravitation, so this repellent
force, wherever applied, would make weight
less and work easier. I told her of many,
many ways in which the invention might be
used, and would have told her of many more
if she had not suddenly burst into tears.
" The world has gained something wonder-
ful," she exclaimed, between her sobs, " but I
have lost a husband ! "
" What do you mean by that ? " I asked, in
surprise.
" I haven't minded it so far," she said, " be-
cause it gave you something to do, and it
pleased you, and it never interfered with our
home pleasures and our home life. But now
that is all over. You will never be your own
master again. It will succeed, I am sure, and
you may make a great deal of money, but we
don't need money. What we need is the happi-
ness which we have always had until now.
Now there will be companies, and patents, and
lawsuits, and experiments, and people calling
you a humbug, and other people saying they
discovered it long ago, and all sorts of peo-
ple coming to see you, and you'll be obliged
to go to all sorts of places, and you will be
an altered man, and we shall never be happy
again. Millions of money will not repay us
for the happiness we have lost."
These words of my wife struck me with
much force. Before I had called her my
mind had begun to be filled and perplexed
with ideas of what I ought to do now that
the great invention was perfected. Until now
the matter had not troubled me at all. Some-
times I had gone backward and sometimes
forward, but, on the whole, I had always felt
encouraged. I had taken great pleasure in
the work, but I had never allowed myself to
be too much absorbed by it. But now every-
thing was different. I began to feel that it
was due to myself and to my fellow-beings,
that I should properly put this invention be-
fore the world. And how should I set about
it ? What steps should I take? I must make
no mistakes. When the matter should be-
come known hundreds of scientific people
might set themselves to work ; how could I
tell but that they might discover other meth-
ods of producing the same effect. I must
guard myself against a great many things. I
must get patents in all parts of the world.
Already, as I have said, my mind began to
be troubled and perplexed with these things.
A turmoil of this sort did not suit my age or
disposition. I could not but agree with my
wife that the joys of a quiet and contented
life were now about to be broken into.
" My dear," said I, " I believe, with you,
that the thing will do us more harm than
good. If it were not for depriving the world
of the invention I would throw the whole
thing to the winds. And yet," I added, re-
gretfully, " I had expected a great deal of
personal gratification from the use of this in-
vention."
" Now, listen," said my wife, eagerly, "don't
you think it would be best to do this : use
the thing as much as you please for your own
amusement and satisfaction, but let the world
wait. It has waited a long time, and let it
wait a little longer. When we are dead let
Herbert have the invention. He will then be
old enough to judge for himself whether it
will be better to take advantage of it for his
own profit, or just to give it to the public for
nothing. It would be cheating him if we were
to do the latter, but it would also be doing
him a great wrong if we were, at his age, to
load him with such a heavy responsibility.
Besides, if he took it up, you could not help
going into it, too."
I took my wife's advice. I wrote a careful
and complete account of the invention, and,
sealing it up, I gave it to my lawyers to be
A TALE OF NEGATIVE GRAVITY.
I37
handed to my son after my death. If he died
first, I would make other arrangements. Then
I determined to get all the good and fun out
of the thing that was possible without telling
any one anything about it. Even Herbert,
who was away from home, was not to be told
of the invention.
The first thing I did was to buy a strong
leathern knapsack, and inside of this I fast-
ened my little machine, with a screw so ar-
ranged that it could be worked from the out-
side. Strapping this firmly to my shoulders,
my wife gently turned the screw at the back
until the upward tendency of the knapsack
began to lift and sustain me. When I felt
myself so gently supported and upheld that I
seemed to weigh about thirty or forty pounds,
I would set out for a walk. The knapsack
did not raise me from the ground, but it gave
me a very buoyant step. It was no labor at
all to walk; it was a delight, an ecstasy.
With the strength of a man and the weight
of a child, I gayly strode along. The first day
I walked half a dozen miles at a very brisk
pace, and came back without feeling in the least
degree tired. These walks now became one
of the greatest joys of my life. When nobody
was looking, I would bound over a fence,
sometimes just touching it with one hand, and
sometimes not touching it at all. I delighted
in rough places. I sprang over streams. I
jumped and I ran. I felt like Mercury himself.
I now set about making another machine,
so that my wife could accompany me in my
walks ; but when it was finished she positively
refused to use it. " I can't wear a knapsack,"
she said, " and there is no other good way of
fastening it to me. Besides, everybody about
here knows I am no walker, and it would
only set them talking."
I occasionally made use of this second ma-
chine, but I will only give one instance of its
application. Some repairs were needed to the
foundation-walls of my barn, and a two-horse
wagon, loaded with building-stone, had been
brought into my yard and left there. In the
evening, when the men had gone away, I
took my two machines and fastened them
with strong chains, one on each side of the
loaded wagon. Then, gradually turning the
screws, the wagon was so lifted that its weight
became very greatly diminished. We had an
old donkey which used to belong to Herbert,
and which was now occasionally used with a
small cart to bring packages from the station.
I went into the barn and put the harness on
the little fellow, and, bringing him out to the
wagon, I attached him to it. In this position
he looked very funny, with a long pole stick-
ing out in front of him and the great wagon
behind him. When all was ready, I touched
Vol. XXIX.— 14.
him up; and, to my great delight, he moved
off with the two-horse load of stone as easily
as if he were drawing his own cart. I led
him out into the public road, along which
he proceeded without difficulty. He was an
opinionated little beast, and sometimes
stopped, not liking the peculiar manner in
which he was harnessed ; but a touch of the
switch made him move on, and I soon turned
him and brought the wagon back into the
yard. This determined the success of my in-
vention in one of its most important uses,
and with a satisfied heart I put the donkey
into the stable and went into the house.
Our trip to Europe was made a few months
after this, and was mainly on our son Her-
bert's account. He, poor fellow, was in great
trouble, and so, therefore, were we. He had
become engaged, with our full consent, to a
young lady in our town, the daughter of a
gentleman whom we esteemed very highly.
Herbert was young to be engaged to be mar-
ried, but as we felt that he would never find
a girl to make him so good a wife, we were
entirely satisfied, especially as it was agreed
on all hands that the marriage was not to
take place for some time. It seemed to us
that in marrying Janet Gilbert Herbert would
secure for himself, in the very beginning of
his career, the most important element of a
happy life. But suddenly, without any rea-
son that seemed to us justifiable, Mr. Gilbert,
the only surviving parent of Janet, broke off
the match; and he and his daughter soon
after left the town for a trip to the West.
This blow nearly broke poor Herbert's
heart. He gave up his professional studies
and came home to us, and for a time we
thought he would be seriously ill. Then we
took him to Europe, and after a continental
tour of a month or two we left him, at his
own request, in Gottingen, where he thought
it would do him good to go to work again.
Then we went down to the little town in
Italy where my story first finds us. My wife
had suffered much in mind and body on her
son's account, and for this reason I was
anxious that she should take outdoor exer-
cise, and enjoy as much as possible the
bracing air of the country. I had brought
with me both my little machines. One was
still in my knapsack, and the other I had
fastened to the inside of an enormous family
trunk. As one is obliged to pay for nearly
every pound of his baggage on the Continent,
this saved me a great deal of money. Every-
thing heavy was packed into this great trunk,
— books, papers, the bronze, iron, and marble
relics we had picked rap, and all the articles
that usually weigh down a tourist's baggage.
I screwed up the negative gravity apparatus
138
A TALE OF NEGATIVE GRAVITY.
until the trunk could be handled with great
ease by an ordinary porter. I could have
made it weigh nothing at all, but this, of
course, I did not wish to do. The lightness
of my baggage, however, had occasioned
some comment, and I had overheard remarks
which were not altogether complimentary
about people traveling around with empty
trunks ; but this only amused me.
Desirous that my wife should have the ad-
vantage of negative gravity while taking our
walks, I had removed the machine from the
trunk and fastened it inside of the basket,
which she could carry under her arm. This
assisted her wonderfully. When one arm was
tired she put the basket under the other,
and thus, with one hand on my arm, she
could easily keep up with the free and buoy-
ant steps my knapsack enabled me to take.
She did not object to long tramps here,
because nobody knew that she was not a
walker, and she always carried some wine or
other refreshment in the basket, not only be-
cause it was pleasant to have it with us, but
because it seemed ridiculous to go about carry-
ing an empty basket.
There were English-speaking people stop-
ping at the hotel where we were, but they
seemed more fond of driving than walking,
and none of them offered to accompany us
on our rambles, for which we were very glad.
There was one man there, however, who was
a great walker. He was an Englishman, a
member of an Alpine Club, and generally
went about dressed in a knickerbocker suit,
with gray woolen stockings covering an enor-
mous pair of calves. One evening this gentle-
man was talking to me and some others about
the ascent of the Matterhorn, and I took oc-
casion to deliver in pretty strong language
my opinion upon such ascents. I declared
them to be useless, foolhardy, and, if the
climber had any one who loved him, wicked.
" Even if the weather should permit a view,"
I said, " what is that compared to the terrible
risk to life ? Under certain circumstances," I
added (thinking of a kind of waistcoat I had
some idea of making, which, set about with
little negative gravity machines, all connected
with a conveniently handled screw, would en-
able the wearer at times to dispense with his
weight altogether), "such ascents might be di-
vested of danger, and be quite admissible; but
ordinarily they should be frowned upon by
the intelligent public."
The Alpine Club man looked at me, espe-
cially regarding my somewhat slight figure
and thinnish legs.
" It's all very well for you to talk that way,"
he said, " because it is easy to see that you
are not up to that sort of thing."
" In conversations of this kind," I replied,
" I never make personal allusions ; but since
you have chosen to do so, I feel inclined to
invite you to walk with me to-morrow to the
top of the mountain to the north of town."
" I'll do it," he said, " at any time you
choose to name." And as I left the room soon
afterward I heard him laugh.
The next afternoon, about two o'clock, the
Alpine Club man and myself set out for the
mountain.
" What have you got in your knapsack ? "
he said.
" A hammer to use if I come across geo-
logical specimens, a field-glass, a flask of wine,
and some other things."
" I wouldn't carry any weight, if I were
you," he said.
" Oh, I don't mind it," I answered, and
off we started.
The mountain to which we were bound
was about two miles from the town. Its
nearest side was steep, and in places almost
precipitous, but it sloped away more gradu-
ally toward the north, and up that side a road
led by devious windings to a village near the
summit. It was not a very high mountain,
but it would do for an afternoon's climb.
" I suppose you want to go up by the
road," said my companion.
" Oh, no," I answered, " we wont go so
far around as that. There is a path up this
side, along which I have seen men driving
their goats. I prefer to take that."
" All right, if you say so," he answered,
with a smile ; " but you'll find it pretty tough."
After a time he remarked :
" I wouldn't walk so fast, if I were you."
" Oh, I like to step along briskly," I said.
And briskly on we went.
My wife had screwed up the machine in
the knapsack more than usual, and walking
seemed scarcely any effort at all. I carried a
long alpenstock, and when we reached the
mountain and began the ascent, I found that
with the help of this and my knapsack I could
go uphill at a wonderful rate. My companion
had taken the lead, so as to show me how to
climb. Making a detour over some rocks, I
quickly passed him and went ahead. After
that it was impossible for him to keep up
with me. I ran up steep places, I cut off the
windings of the path by lightly clambering
over rocks, and even when I followed the
beaten track my step was as rapid as if I had
been walking on level ground.
" Look here ! " shouted the Alpine Club
man from below, " you'll kill yourself if you
go at that rate! That's no way to climb
mountains."
" It's my way ! " I cried. And on I skipped.
A TALE OF NEGATIVE GRAVITY.
139
Twenty minutes after I arrived at the sum-
mit, my companion joined me, puffing, and
wiping his red face with his handkerchief.
" Confound it ! " he cried, " I never came
up a mountain so fast in my life."
" You need not have hurried," I said, coolly.
" I was afraid something would happen to
you," he growled, " and I wanted to stop you.
I never saw a person climb in such an utterly
absurd way."
" I don't see why you should call it ab-
surd," I said, smiling with an air of superior-
ity. " I arrived here in a perfectly comfortable
condition, neither heated nor wearied."
He made no answer, but walked off to a
little distance, fanning himself with his hat
and growling words which I did not catch.
After a time I proposed to descend.
" You must be careful as you go down," he
said. " It is much more dangerous to go
down steep places than to climb up."
" I am always prudent," I answered, and
started in advance. I found the descent of the
mountain much more pleasant than the ascent.
It was positively exhilarating. I jumped from
rocks and bluffs eight and ten feet in height,
and touched the ground as gently as if I had
stepped down but two feet. I ran down steep
paths, and, with the aid of my alpenstock,
stopped myself in an instant. I was careful
to avoid dangerous places, but the runs and
jumps I made were such as no man had ever
made before upon that mountain-side. Once
only I heard my companion's voice.
"You'll break your neck!" he yelled.
" Never fear ! " I called back, and soon left
him far above.
When I reached the bottom I would have
waited for him, but my activity had warmed
me up, and as a cool evening breeze was be-
ginning to blow 1 thought it better not to
stop and take cold. Half an hour after my
arrival at the hotel I came down to the court,
cool, fresh, and dressed for dinner, and just
in time to meet the Alpine man as he entered,
hot, dusty, and growling.
" Excuse me for not waiting for you," I
said ; but without stopping to hear my reason,
he muttered something about waiting in a
place where no one would care to stay and
passed into the house.
There was no doubt that what I had done
gratified my pique and tickled my vanity.
" I think now," I said, when I related the
matter to my wife, " that he will scarcely say
that I am not up to that sort of thing."
"I am not sure," she answered, "that it
was exactly fair. He did not know how you
were assisted."
" It was fair enough," I said. " He is en-
abled to climb well by the inherited vigor of
his constitution and by his training. He did
not tell me what methods of exercise he used
to get those great muscles upon his legs. I am
enabled to climb by the exercise of my in-
tellect. My method is my business and his
method is his business. It is all perfectly fair. J
Still she persisted :
" He thought that you climbed with your
legs, and not with your head."
And now, after this long digression, neces-
sary to explain how a middle-aged couple of
slight pedestrian ability, and loaded with a
heavy knapsack and basket, should have
started out on a rough walk and climb, four-
teen miles in all, we will return to ourselves,
standing on the little bluff and gazing out
upon the sunset view. When the sky began
to fade a little we turned from it and prepared
to go back to the town.
" Where is the basket ? I said.
" I left it right here," answered my wife.
" I unscrewed the machine and it lay perfectly
flat."
" Did you afterward take out the bottles?"
I asked, seeing them lying on the grass.
" Yes, I believe I did. I had to take out
yours in order to get at mine."
" Then," said I, after looking all about the
grassy patch on which we stood, " I am afraid
you did not entirely unscrew the instrument,
and that when the weight of the bottles was
removed the basket gently rose into the air."
" It may be so," she said, lugubriously.
" The basket was behind me as I drank my
wine."
" I believe that is just what has happened,"
I said. " Look up there ! I vow that is our
basket ! "
I pulled out my field-glass and directed
it at a little speck high above our heads.
It was the basket floating high in the air. I
gave the glass to my wife to look, but she did
not want to use it.
"What shall I do?" she cried. "I can't
walk home without that basket. It's perfectly
dreadful ! " And she looked as if she was
going to cry.
" Do not distress yourself," I said, although
I was a good deal disturbed myself. " We
shall get home very well. You shall put your
hand on my shoulder, and I will put my arm
around you. Then you can screw up my ma-
chine a good deal higher, and it will support
us both. In this way I am sure that we shall
get on very well."
We carried out this plan, and managed to
walk on with moderate comfort. To be sure,
with the knapsack pulling me upward, and
the weight of my wife pulling me down, the
straps hurt me somewhat, which they had not
done before. We did not spring lightly over
140
A TALE OF NEGATIVE GRAVITY.
the wall into the road, but, still clinging to
each other, we clambered awkwardly over it.
The road for the most part declined gently
toward the town, and with moderate ease we
made our way along it. But we walked much
more slowly than we had done before, and it
was quite dark when we reached our hotel.
If it had not been for the light inside the court
it would have been difficult for us to find it.
A traveling-carriage was standing before the
entrance, and against the light. It was neces-
sary to pass around it, and my wife went first.
I attempted to follow her, but, strange to say,
there was nothing under my feet. I stepped
vigorously, but only wagged my legs in the
air. To my horror I found that I was rising
in the air ! I soon saw, by the light below me,
that I was some fifteen feet from the ground.
The carriage drove away, and in the darkness
I was not noticed. Of course I knew what
had happened. The instrument in my knap-
sack had been screwed up to such an intensity,
in order to support both myself and my wife,
that when her weight was removed the force
of the negative gravity was sufficient to raise
me from the ground. But I was glad to find
that when I had risen to the height I have
mentioned I did not go up any higher, but
hung in the air, about on a level with the
second tier of windows of the hotel.
I now began to try to reach the screw in
my knapsack in order to reduce the force of
the negative gravity ; but, do what I would, I
could not get my hand to it. The machine in
the knapsack had been placed so as to sup-
port me in a well-balanced and comfortable
way ; and in doing this it had been impossi-
ble to set the screw so that I could reach it.
But in a temporary arrangement of the kind
this had not been considered necessary, as
my wife always turned the screw for me until
sufficient lifting-power had been attained. I
had intended, as I have said before, to con-
struct a negative gravity waistcoat, in which
the screw should be in front, and entirely
under the wearer's control; but this was a
thing of the future.
When I found that I could not turn the
screw I began to be much alarmed. Here I
was, dangling in the air, without any means
of reaching the ground. I could not expect
mv wife to return to look for me, as she would
naturally suppose I had stopped to speak to
some one. I thought of loosening myself from
the knapsack, but this would not do, for I
should fall heavily, and either kill myself or
break some of my bones. I did not dare to
call for assistance, for if any of the simple-
minded inhabitants of the town had discov-
ered me floating in the air they would have
taken me for a demon, and would probably
have shot at me. A moderate breeze was
blowing, and it wafted me gently down the
street. If it had wafted me against a tree I
would have seized it, and have endeavored,
so to speak, to climb down it ; but there were
no trees. There was a dim street-lamp here
and there, but reflectors above them threw
their light upon the pavement, and none up
to me. On many accounts I wras glad that
the night was so dark, for, much as I desired
to get down, I wanted no one to see me in
my strange position, which, to any one but
myself and wife, would be utterly unaccount-
able. If I could rise as high as the roofs I
might get on one of them, and, tearing off an
armful of tiles, so load myself that I would
be heavy enough to descend. But I did not
rise to the eaves of any of the houses. If
there had been a telegraph-pole, or anything
of the kind that I could have clung to, I
would have taken off the knapsack, and would
have endeavored to scramble down as well
as I could. But there was nothing I could
cling to. Even the water-spouts, if I could
have reached the face of the houses, were im-
bedded in the walls. At an open window,
near which I was slowly blown, I saw two
little boys going to bed by the light of a dim
candle. I was dreadfully afraid that they
would see me and raise an alarm. I actually
came so near to the window that I threw out
one foot and pushed against the wall with
such force that I went nearly across the street.
I thought I caught sight of a frightened look
on the face of one of the boys ; but of this I
am not sure, and I heard no cries. I still
floated, dangling, down the street. What was
to be done ? Should I call out ? In that case,
if I were not shot or stoned, my strange pre-
dicament, and the secret of my invention,
would be exposed to the world. If I did not
do this, I must either let myself drop and be
killed or mangled, or hang there and die.
When, during the course of the night, the air
became more rarefied, I might rise higher and
higher, perhaps to an altitude of one or two
hundred feet. It would then be impossible
for the people to reach me and get me down,
even if they were convinced that I was not a
demon. I should then expire, and when the
birds of the air had eaten all of me that they
could devour, I should forever hang above
the unlucky town, a dangling skeleton, with
a knapsack on its back.
Such thoughts were not re-assuring, and I
determined that if I could find no means of
getting down without assistance, I would call
out and run all risks ; but so long as I could
endure the tension of the straps I would hold
out and hope for a tree or a pole. Perhaps it
might rain, and my wet clothes would then
A TALE OF NEGATIVE GRAVITY.
141
become so heavy that I would descend as low
as the top of a lamp-post.
As this thought was passing through my
mind I saw a spark of light upon the street
approaching me. I rightly imagined that it
came from a tobacco-pipe, and directly I heard
a voice. It was that of the Alpine Club man.
Of all people in the world I did not want him
to discover me, and I hung as motionless as
possible. The man was speaking to another
person who was walking with him.
" He is crazy beyond a doubt," said the
Alpine man. " Nobody but a maniac could
have gone up and down that mountain as he
did! He hasn't any muscles, and one need
only look at him to know that he couldn't do
any climbing in a natural way. It is only the
excitement of insanity that gives him strength."
The two now stopped almost under me,
and the speaker continued :
" Such things are very common with maniacs.
At times they acquire an unnatural strength
which is perfectly wonderful. I have seen a
little fellow struggle and fight so • that four
strong men could not hold him. "
Then the other person spoke :
" I am afraid what you say is too true," he
remarked. " Indeed, I have known it for some
time."
At these words my breath almost stopped.
It was the voice of Mr. Gilbert, my townsman,
and the father of Janet. It must have been
he who had arrived in the traveling-carriage.
He was acquainted with the Alpine Club man,
and they were talking of me. Proper or im-
proper, I listened with all my ears.
" It is a very sad case," Mr. Gilbert con-
tinued. " My daughter was engaged to marry
his son, but I broke off the match. I could
not have her marry the son of a lunatic, and
there could be no doubt of his condition. He
has been seen — a man of his age, and the head
of a family — to load himself up with a heavy
knapsack, which there was no earthly necessity
for him to carry, and go skipping along the
road for miles, vaulting over fences and jump-
ing over rocks and ditches like a young calf or
a colt. I myself saw a most heart-rending in-
stance of how a kindly man's nature can be
changed by the derangement of his intellect.
I was at some distance from his house, but I
plainly saw him harness a little donkey which
he owns to a large two-horse wagon loaded
with stone, and beat and lash the poor little
beast until it drew the heavy load some dis-
tance along the public road. I would have
remonstrated with him on this horrible cruelty,
but he had the wagon back in his yard before
I could reach him."
" Oh, there can be no doubt of his insan-
ity," said the Alpine Club man, " and he
oughtn't to be allowed to travel about in this
way. Some day he will pitch his wife over a
precipice just for the fun of seeing her shoot
through the air."
" I am sorry he is here," said Mr. Gilbert,
" for it would be very painful to meet him. My
daughter and I will retire very soon, and go
away as early to-morrow morning as possible,
so as to avoid seeing him."
And then they walked back to the hotel.
For a few moments I hung, utterly forgetful
of my condition, and absorbed in the consid-
eration of these revelations. One idea now
filled my mind. Everything must be explained
to Mr. Gilbert, even if it should be necessary
to have him called to me, and for me to speak
to him from the upper air.
Just then I saw something white approach-
ing me along the road. My eyes had become
accustomed to the darkness, and I perceived
that it was an upturned face. I recognized
the hurried gait, the form ; it was my wife.
As she came near me I called her name, and
in the same breath entreated her not to
scream. It must have been an effort for her
to restrain herself, but she did it.
" You must help me to get down," I said,
" without anybody seeing us."
" What shall I do ? " she whispered.
" Try to catch hold of this string."
And taking a piece of twine from my
pocket, I lowered one end to her. But it was
too short ; she could not reach it. I then tied
my handkerchief to it, but still it was not
long enough.
" I can get more string, or handkerchiefs,"
she whispered, hurriedly.
" No," I said; "you could not get them
up to me. But, leaning against the hotel wall,
on this side, in the corner, just inside of the
garden gate, are some fishing-poles. I have
seen them there every day. You can easily
find them in the dark. Go, please, and bring
me one of those."
The hotel was not far away, and in a few
minutes my wife returned with a fishing-pole.
She stood on tip-toe, and reached it high in
air; but all she could do was to strike my
feet and legs with it. My most frantic exer-
tions did not enable me to get my hands low
enough to touch it.
" Wait a minute," she said ; and the rod
was withdrawn.
I knew what she was doing. There was a
hook and line attached to the pole, and with
womanly dexterity she was fastening the hook
to the extreme end of the rod. Soon she
reached up, and gently struck at my legs.
After a few attempts the hook caught in my
trousers, a little below my right knee. Then
there was a slight pull, a long scratch down
142
A TALE OF NEGATIVE GRAVITY.
my leg, and the hook was stopped by the
top of my boot. Then came a steady down-
ward pull, and I felt myself descending.
Gently and firmly the rod was drawn down ;
carefully the lower end was kept free from
the ground ; and in a few moments my ankle
was seized with a vigorous grasp. Then some
one seemed to climb up me, my feet touched
the ground, an arm was thrown around my
neck, the hand of another arm was busy at
the back of my knapsack, and I soon stood
firmly in the road, entirely divested of nega-
tive gravity.
" Oh, that I should have forgotten," sobbed
my wife, " and that I should have dropped
your arms, and let you go up into the air!
At first I thought that you had stopped below,
and it was only a little while ago that the
truth flashed upon me. Then I rushed out
and began looking up for you. I knew that
you had wax matches in your pocket, and
hoped that you would keep on striking them,
so that you would be seen."
" But I did not wish to be seen," I said, as
we hurried to the hotel ; " and I can never
be sufficiently thankful that it was you who
found me and brought me down. Do you
know that it is Mr. Gilbert and his daughter
who have just arrived ? I must see him in-
stantly. I will explain it all to you when I
come upstairs."
I took off my knapsack and gave it to my
wife, who carried it to our room, while I went
to look for Mr. Gilbert. Fortunately 1 found
him just as he was about to go up to his
chamber. He took my offered hand, but looked
at me sadly and gravely.
" Mr. Gilbert," I said, " I must speak to you
in private. Let us step into this room. There
is no one here."
" My friend," said Mr. Gilbert, " it will be
much better to avoid discussing this subject.
It is very painful to both of us, and no good
can come from talking of it."
" You cannot now comprehend what it is
I want to say to you," I replied. " Come in
here, and in a few minutes you will be very
glad that you listened to me."
My manner was so earnest and impres-
sive that Mr. Gilbert was constrained to fol-
low me, and we went into a small room
called the smoking-room, but in which people
seldom smoked, and closed the door. I im-
mediately began my statement. I told my
old friend that I had discovered, by means
that I need not explain at present, that he had
considered me crazy, and that now the most
important object of my life was to set myself
right in his eyes. I thereupon gave him the
whole history of my invention, and explained
the reason of the actions that had appeared
to him those of a lunatic. I said nothing
about the little incident of that evening. That
was a mere accident, and I did not care now
to speak of it.
Mr. Gilbert listened to me very attentively.
" Your wife is here?" he asked, when 1
had finished.
"Yes," I said; "and she will corroborate
my story in every item, and no one could
ever suspect her of being crazy. I will go
and bring her to you."
In a few minutes my wife was in the room,
had shaken hands with Mr. Gilbert, and had
been told of my suspected madness. She
turned pale, but smiled.
" He did act like a crazy man," she said,
" but I never supposed that anybody would
think him one." And tears came into her eyes.
"And now, my dear," said I, " perhaps you
will tell Mr. Gilbert how I did all this."
And then she told him the story that I had
told.
Mr. Gilbert looked from the one to the
other of us with a troubled air.
" Of course I do not doubt either of you,
or rather I do not doubt that you believe what
you say. All would be right if I could bring
myself to credit that such a force as that you
speak of can possibly exist."
" That is a matter," said I, " which I can
easily prove to you by actual demonstration.
If you can wait a short time, until my wife
and I have had something to eat, — for I am
nearly famished, and I am sure she must be, —
I will set your mind at rest upon that point."
" I will wait here," said Mr. Gilbert, " and
smoke a cigar. Don't hurry yourselves. I
shall be glad to have some time to think about
what you have told me."
When we had finished the dinner, which
had been set aside for us, I went upstairs and
got my knapsack, and we both joined Mr.
Gilbert in the smoking-room. I snowed him
the little machine, and explained, very briefly,
the principle of its construction. I did
not give any practical demonstration of its
action, because there were people walking
about the corridor who might at any moment
come into the room; but, looking out of the
window, I saw that the night was much
clearer. The wind had dissipated the clouds,
and the stars were shining brightly.
" If you will come up the street with me,"
said I to Mr. Gilbert, " I will show you how
this thing works."
" That is just what I want to see," he an-
swered.
" I will go with you," said my wife, throw-
ing a shawl over her head. And we started
up the street.
When we were outside the little town I
A TALE OF NEGATIVE GRAVITY.
H3
found the starlight was quite sufficient for my
purpose. The white roadway, the low walls,
and objects about us, could easily be distin-
guished.
" Now," said I to Mr. Gilbert, " I want
to put this knapsack on you, and let you see
how it feels, and how it will help you to walk."
To this he assented with some eagerness, and
I strapped it firmly on him. " I will now turn
this screw," said 1, "until you shall become
lighter and lighter."
" Be very careful not to turn it too much,"
said my wife earnestly.
" Oh, you may depend on me for that," said
I, turning the screw very gradually.
Mr. Gilbert was a stout man, and I was
obliged to give the screw a good many turns.
"There seems to be considerable hoist in it,"
he said directly. And then I put my arms
around him, and found that I could raise him
from the ground. " Are you lifting me ? " he
exclaimed in surprise.
"Yes; I did it with ease," I answered.
" Upon — my — word ! " ejaculated Mr.
Gilbert.
I then gave the screw a half turn more, and
told him to walk and run. He started off, at
first slowly, then he made long strides, then
he began to run, and then to skip and jump.
It had been many years since Mr. Gilbert had
skipped and jumped. No one was in sight,
and he was free to gambol as much as he
pleased. " Could you give it another turn ? "
said he, bounding up to me. " I want to try
that wall." I put on a little more negative
gravity, and he vaulted over a five-foot
wall with great ease. In an instant he had
leaped back into the road, and in two bounds
was at my side. " I came down as light as a
cat," he said. " There was never anything
like it." And away he went up the road, tak-
ing steps at least eight feet long, leaving my
wife and me laughing heartily at the preter-
natural agility of our stout friend. In a few
minutes he was with us again. " Take it off,"
he said. " If I wear it any longer I shall want
one myself, and then I shall be taken for a crazy
man, and perhaps clapped into an asylum."
" Now," said I, as I turned back the screw
before unstrapping the knapsack, " do you
understand how I took long walks, and
leaped and jumped ; how I ran uphill and
downhill, and how the little donkey drew
the loaded wagon ? "
" I understand it all," cried he. " I take
back all I ever said or thought about you, my
friend."
" And Herbert may marry Janet ? " cried
my wife.
"May marry her!" cried Mr. Gilbert.
u Indeed he shall marry her, if I have any-
thing to say about it ! My poor girl has been
drooping ever since I told her it could not
be."
My wife rushed at him, but whether she
embraced him or only shook his hands I can-
not say ; for I had the knapsack in one hand,
and was rubbing my eyes with the other.
" But, my dear fellow," said Mr. Gilbert
directly, " if you still consider it to your in-
terest to keep your invention a secret, I wish
you had never made it. No one having a
machine like that can help using it, and it is
often quite as bad to be considered a maniac
as to be one."
" My friend," I cried, with some excite-
ment, " I have made up my mind on this
subject. The little machine in this knapsack,
which is the only one I now possess, has been
a great pleasure to me. But I now know it
has also been of the greatest injury indirectly
to me and mine, not to mention some direct
inconvenience and danger, which I will speak
of another time. The secret lies with us three,
and we will keep it. But the invention itself
is too full of temptation and danger for any
of us."
As I said this I held the knapsack with one
hand while I quickly turned the screw with
the other. In a few moments it was high
above my head, while I with difficulty held
it down by the straps. " Look ! " I cried.
And then I let go, and the knapsack shot
into the air and disappeared into the upper
gloom.
I was about to make a remark, but had no
chance, for my wife threw herself upon my
bosom, sobbing with joy.
" Oh, I am so glad — so glad ! " she said.
" And you will never make another ? "
" Never another ! " I answered.
" And now let us hurry in and see Janet,"
said my wife.
"You don't know how heavy and clumsy
I feel," said Mr. Gilbert, striving to keep up
with us as we walked back. " If I had worn
that thing much longer, I should never have
been willing to take it off! "
Janet had retired, but my wife went up to
her room.
" I think she has felt it as much as our
boy/' she said, when she rejoined me. " But
I tell you, my dear, I left a very happy girl in
that little bed-chamber over the garden."
And there were three very happy elderly
people talking together until quite late that
evening. " I shall write to Herbert to-night,"
I said, when we separated, " and tell him to
meet us all in Geneva. It will do him no harm
to interrupt his studies just now."
" You must let me add a postscript to the
letter," said Mr. Gilbert, " and I am sure it
i44 ROMANCE.
will require no knapsack with a screw in the sack, or whether they ever met in upper air,
back to bring him quickly to us." I do not know. If they but float away and
And it did not. stay away from ken of mortal man, I shall be
There is a wonderful pleasure in tripping satisfied.
over the earth like a winged Mercury, and in And whether or not the world will ever
feeling one's self relieved of much of that at- know more of the power of negative gravity
traction of gravitation which drags us down depends entirely upon the disposition of my
to earth, and gradually makes the movement son Herbert, when — after a good many
of our bodies but weariness and labor. But years, I hope — he shall open the packet my
this pleasure is not to be compared, I think, lawyers have in keeping.
to that given by the buoyancy and lightness [Note. — It would be quite useless for any
of two young and loving hearts, reunited one to interview my wife on this subject, for
after a separation which they had supposed she has entirely forgotten how my machine
would last forever. was made. And as for Mr. Gilbert, he never
What became of the basket and the knap- knew.]
Frank R. Stockton.
■^<»-
ROMANCE.
Over the land, and over the sea, and over the round world's rim,
There blooms and glooms a fair countrie where everything is dim;
Moonlit by night, by day the mist comes drifting from the sea,
And wraps in pearl and amethyst the hills of the fair countrie.
And there a gray old tower stands on a wild craig by the sea,
Advanced before the flowering lands and streams of the fair countrie.
Its Dame has eyes like bright night skies, and hair like a darkling flood,
And a voice that murmurs of mysteries like the voice of a wind-swept wood.
And over the craigs, and over the sea, and over the round world's rim,
Vague tidings come to that far countrie where everything is dim,
That her Desire has anchor weighed, and on his sails the Day
Sits burning red with wings outspread, to chase the mists away.
But from her cloudy perch she's flown, and thunders of the surge,
And to the midmost valley gone, beyond the mountain's verge,
Where green leaves grow, and waters flow, and songs that wild birds trill
Are wise and strong as any song that shakes Parnassus hill.
There every well with dead leaves paved holds stormy seas of passion ;
There not a dew-drop glistens but a star will steal its fashion •
There are the timid valorous, and humble things superb,
And wonders spring from common hap, like blood from bruised herb.
And shall the other world of noise, and heat, and dust, and glare,
Break in upon the silent joys, the swift communings rare
Of shy and generous creatures that dwell in flowers or trees,
Or chanting low their wet locks throw upon the lagging breeze ?
Oh, no! Oh, no! around they flow, deep-eyed and quivering lipped,
With all her memories and hopes, heart-beats and thoughts equipped,
It must not be; it cannot be! let furies, harpies rise,
Whose looks may fright the reckless knight that threatens her gray skies.
Roger Riordan,
TOPICS OF THE TIME.
Lawyers' Morals.
It is apparently the popular opinion that lawyers'
morals are of a different type from those of ordinary
human beings. There is evidently great difficulty in
fixing the standards of legal morality and defining its
rules. So much debate of this topic itself excites mis-
givings. Is a lawyer bound by the common laws of
conduct recognized as binding by reputable men in
other callings ? Some of the disputants would seem
to maintain that he is not, which is startling; and
some to insist that he is, which insistence would itself
seem to imply an abnormal condition of things.
Nevertheless, the discussion must be fruitful of
good. Now and then we get a clear and uncompromis-
ing utterance like that of Mr. Theodore Bacon, read at
a late meeting of the Social Science Association and
printed in its journal. Mr. Bacon recognizes the
fact that the typical lawyer is not the type of honesty.
" If," he says, " unswerving integrity, if ingenuous
simplicity are recognized by the community in the
ranks of the legal profession, they are regarded — let
us not blind ourselves to this fact — as an incongruous
interpolation in the normal type, . . . and the
friendly critic will most probably fall into the very
phrase of the ancient epitaph, 'An honest man, although
a lawyer.' The dominant feeling would still be fairly
expressed by Dr. Johnson's pungent saying, who an-
swered an inquiry as to a person who had just left
the room : ' I do not wish to be calumnious, but it is
my belief that the man is an attorney.' " When an
intelligent lawyer admits that such is the " dominant
feeling " with respect to his profession, the perennial
debate upon lawyers' ethics is explained and justified.
Mr. Bacon's treatment of this theme is trenchant
and uncompromising. His view is summed up in this
saying : " I can find no different — or rather, I will
say no lower — ethical basis of action for the advocate
than for any other member of society." This is a
wholesome maxim. It blows away a whole firmament
of fog. It brings the subject within reach of common
minds. If lawyers are amenable to the same ethical
rules that govern other men, then it is not presump-
tuous for laymen to judge their conduct.
Doubtless there is some confusion in the popular
mind as to a lawyer's rights and obligations. The
common question, whether a lawyer can rightly defend
a criminal known to be guilty, — answered so gener-
ally in the negative, — is often discussed under a fun-
damental misconception. " The fallacy involved in the
prevalent objection," as Mr. Bacon says, " is in the
notion that the interest of morality demands always
the punishment of bad men. The error is a grave
one. The interest of morality and of social order de-
mands, above all things, that a bad man shall not be
punished unless he has violated some law ; and even
that a known violator of law shall not be punished
except by the forms of law. . . . And every lawyer
who interposes against an eager prosecutor or a pas-
Vol. XXIX.— 15.
sionate jury the shield of a strictly legal defense, de-
claring, ' You shall not hang or imprison this man, be
he guilty or not guilty, until by the established course
of procedure, by competent legal evidence, you have
proved that he has offended against a definite pro-
vision of law, and that the precise provision which
you have charged him with violating,' is defending
not so much the trembling wretch at the bar as society
itself, and the innocent man who may to-morrow be
driven by clamor to crucifixion." This view of the
lawyer's duty in criminal cases is one that the layman
does not always get hold of, but it is entirely just.
The question of the lawyer's relation to iniquitous
civil actions is treated by this essayist with less per-
spicacity. He thinks that the cases are few in which
honorable lawyers know their.clients to be in the wrong.
If this be so, then there must be many dishonorable
lawyers; for, undeniably, there is a vast number of
civil cases in which one side is palpably in the wrong.
Mr. Bacon says that the honorable lawyer who knows
beforehand that the case which he is asked to under-
take is iniquitous, promptly declines it. And he ac-
counts for the relation of reputable lawyers to bad
cases by saying : " It is seldom that the incessant and
fervent assurances of the client, the proofs and argu-
ments which, all on one side, he arrays before his
counsel, have failed to keep him convinced, from be-
ginning to end, that he must be in the right." With
strictly honorable lawyers this is undoubtedly the rule ;
but it is at this point that the temptation to lower the
professional standards is strongest. This is, therefore,
precisely one of the points at which the lawyer's
morals need toning up. The advocate whose con-
science has fallen into a too easily satisfied condition
will be a little less thorough in this preliminary exam-
ination than he ought to be.
Not only has a lawyer no right to undertake a clearly
unjust cause, he has no right to continue in a cause
which he undertook, believing in its justice, if, in the
course of the trial, he becomes convinced that it is un-
righteous. His manifest duty to retire from the con-
duct of a bad cause, concerning the character of which
his client has wantonly deceived him, is clearly main-
tained by this essayist.
Out of all this discussion it is easy to draw two
or three plain maxims, obvious enough to men in
other callings, but far from being commonplaces of
legal ethics, as all who frequent the courts must know.
1. A lawyer ought to be a gentleman. His function
as an attorney gives him no dispensation to disregard
the ordinary rules of good manners, and the ordinary
principles of decency and honor. He has no right to
slander his neighbor, even if his neighbor be the de-
fendant in a cause in which he appears for the plaint-
iff. He has no right to bully or browbeat a witness
in cross-examination, or artfully to entrap that witness
into giving false testimony. Whatever the privilege
of the court may be, the lawyer who is guilty of such
practices in court is no gentleman out of court.
146
TOPICS OF THE TIME.
2. A lawyer ought not to lie. He may defend a
criminal whom he knows to be guilty, but he may not
say to the jury that he believes this criminal to be in-
nocent. He may not in any way intentionally convey to
the jury the impression that he believes the man to be
innocent. He may not, in his plea, pervert or distort
the evidence so as to weaken the force or conceal the
meaning of it. He is a sworn officer of the court, and
his oath should bind him to the strictest veracity. It
would be quixotic to expect him to assist his adversary,
but his obligation to speak the truth outranks every ob-
ligation that he owes to his client. It is notorious that
some lawyers who would think it scandalous to tell a
falsehood out of court, in any business transaction, lie
shamelessly in court in behalf of their clients, and
seem to think it part of their professional duty. That
bar of justice before which, by their professional ob-
ligations, they are bound to the most stringent truth-
fulness, is the very place where they seem to consider
themselves absolved from the common law of veracity.
So long as the legal mind is infected with this deadly
heresy, we need not wonder that our courts of justice
often become the instruments of unrighteousness."
3. A lawyer ought not to sell his services for the
promotion of injustice and knavery. Swindlers of all
types are aided by lawyers in their depredations upon
society. The mock broker who operates in Wall street,
and strips green country speculators of their hard-
earned gains by the most nefarious roguery, always
has an able lawyer as his accomplice. The gentleman
by whose agency a nest of these rascals was lately
broken up says: "The great difficulty in stopping
swindles of this class is that the rascals make enough
money to be able to employ the best of legal advice,
and are, moreover, careful to do nothing which will
render them liable to arrest." This is the testimony
of a lawyer, Mr. Ralph Oakley, of New York. " The
best of legal advice " can be had, then, in New
Yo-rk city for such purposes. It would be more
difficult to believe this if its truth were not so often
illustrated in the stupendous frauds and piracies of
great corporations, all of which are carefully en-
gineered by eminent lawyers. Our modern "buc-
caneers " — our brave railroad wreckers — are in con-
stant consultation with distinguished lawyers. They
undeniably have " the best of legal advice " in
planning and executing their bold iniquities.
In the discussion which followed the reading of Mr.
Bacon's paper at Saratoga, the suggestion was made
that a better legal education would tend to correct
disreputable practices at the bar, whereupon a clergy-
man put this troublesome question : " I desire to ask,
for information, whether it is not the case that in many
instances the most highly educated attorneys prove the
most facile and unscrupulous instruments, as the ad-
vocates of large corporations and monopolists ? " The
question was not answered. Evidently it was not for
the want of facts on which to base an intelligent answer.
So long as lawyers can engage in operations of this
nature without losing caste in their profession, it will
be needful to continue the discussion of professional
ethics. And it would seem that the legal profession
ought to lose no time in purging itself of those who
are guilty of such practices. In the words of the late
Lewis L. Delafield, Esq., of the New York bar,
spoken in the discussion to which we have referred :
"There are many lawyers — and they are not exclu-
sively confined to our large cities — who should be dis-
barred without delay for dishonest and corrupt prac-
tices ; and until some serious and successful attempt is
made in this direction, the legal profession must ex-
pect, and will deserve, to decline in popular esteem."
In all callings there are disreputable men ; the
presence of such men in the legal profession brings
no necessary discredit upon that profession if it be
evident that the professional standards of conduct are
high and that lawyers in general are disposed to
adhere to them, and to enforce them. This discussion
simply raises the question whether the lawyer's ethics
is not often confused by unnecessary casuistry, and
whether the bar in general is not greatly at fault in
neglecting to enforce its own rules against disrepu-
table members. On these points it will be observed
that the severest judgments of this article are pro-
nounced by good lawyers. It may be added that the
standard here raised is not an impossible ideal ; many
lawyers in active practice carefully conform to it.
The Bible in the Sunday-school.
The calling of the Sunday-school teacher is becom-
ing more and more difficult. It was never a sinecure
to those who rightly conceived of its duties and re-
sponsibilities ; but the progress of years, and the
movements of thought, render its problems increas-
ingly serious. Indeed, it begins to be evident that the
business of teaching, in all departments, is one re-
quiring great skill and wisdom ; that it is not well
done by those who make it the mere incident of a ca-
reer devoted to other pursuits ; that it requires the
most careful study of the human mind, and the most pa-
tient adjustment of means to ends. Pedagogy is taking
the rank that belongs to it as one of the nobler sciences.
While the work of teaching in general is receiving
so much attention, the work of Sunday-school teach-
ing has not been neglected. Sunday-school institutes
and Sunday-school assemblies in all parts of the coun-
try are discussing methods and criticising theories with
diligence and enthusiasm.
The burning question for the Sunday-school teacher
is not, however, so much a question of method as of
subject-matter. To learn how to teach is easier than
to determine what to teach. Doubtless there are thou-
sands of teachers to whom this difficulty has never pre-
sented itself; but to the most intelligent and thought-
ful among them it is a serious question.
The Unitarian Sunday-school Society has proposed
an answer to this question which is likely to awaken
discussion. A little book entitled " The Citizen and
the Neighbor " has been prepared by a clergyman of
that denomination as a manual of instruction in Sun-
day-schools. This book treats of "men's rights and
duties as they live together in the state and in society,"
and these rights and duties are classified under four
heads, as political, economical, social, and international.
Each chapter consists of a series of simple elementary
statements, followed by well-framed questions, serv-
ing not only to draw forth the doctrines taught in the
text, but to prompt independent thought. An admi-
rable little manual it is ; and in the hands of a judicious
teacher it could be made extremely useful. The pas-
tor who should organize the young people of his con-
TOPICS OF THE TIME.
H7
gregation into a class for the study of this manual on
a week-day evening might render them a great service.
But most Sunday-school teachers will, we suppose,
refuse to entertain the idea of introducing this book
into their Sunday classes. The Sunday-school is the
Bible-school. That is the name by which it is now fre-
quently called; that is the character which, in the
thoughts and sentiments of the great majority of Sun-
day-school teachers, belongs to it; and it will be a
long time before any other book than the Bible is
generally adopted as a manual of instruction in the
Sunday-school. This conservatism is not irrational.
Religion, rather than ethics or sociology, is the con-
cern of the Sunday-school ; and the Bible is the book
of religion. Even the Dutch critics insist on this ; the
new theology, as well as the old, holds fast to the
Bible as the book of religion.
It is exactly at this point, however, that the diffi-
culty of the honest and intelligent Sunday-school
teacher begins. That the Bible is the book of religion
he firmly believes ; but it is not so in the sense in
which it was once believed to be ; and the question
respecting the character of the Bible — the view that
he is to take of it in his teaching ; the manner in
which he is to use it ; the extent to which he is to rec-
ognize the clear results of the higher criticism — is a
question of great perplexity for every serious teacher.
The fact that the Bible occupies a somewhat different
place in the thoughts of well-instructed Christians
from that which it held twenty-five or fifty years ago
is a fact that cannot be denied. Such a book as that
of Professor Briggs makes this entirely plain. In the
most conservative theological circles it is conceded
that the higher criticism has some just claims upon
our attention, and that it has reached certain substan-
tial results. It may be true that many of the conclu-
sions of critics like Wellhausen and Robertson Smith
are rash and unwarranted ; but after their work has
been thoroughly sifted and their questionable theories
have been thrown out, there remains a residuum of
solid truth, in the presence of which the old ideas of
the structure, the growth, and the character of the
Sacred Scriptures must be considerably modified. A
thoroughly cautious and moderate statement was that
made not long ago by Professor Harris, of the An-
dover Theological Seminary, in which he said :
" The doctrine of Sacred Scripture is at present in a
state of flux. . . . Certain general statements may be
made concerning the inspiration and authority of the
Bible, and other statements may be rejected. . . .
We hold no theory of the Bible which would be de-
molished if an erroneous statement is found concern-
ing some matter of detail, or if we find that the writers
shared the imperfect knowledge of their times concern-
ing matters which only modern research clearly un-
derstands. No man has a right to impose a theory
of the Bible which depends for its integrity on the
scrupulous accuracy of every statement. We cannot
consent that the Holy Book shall be put in such peril."
Now, the simple fact is, that the theory of the Bible
which Professor Harris says that no man has a right
to impose, is the theory which has been imposed, until
quite recently, by almost all Protestant teachers, upon
those under their instruction. It is the theory which
underlies almost all our Sunday-school teaching.
Professor Harris asserts that the Bible is put in
peril by the promulgation of such a theory. Every
man knows that overstatements are dangerous ; that
many a precious thing has been rejected because
of the reaction produced by an exaggeration of its
value. We may well believe that the Bible is the most
precious of books, and that its value will be enhanced,
and not diminished, by the thorough criticism which
is now applied to it ; but it is necessary to learn to
speak of it with discrimination, to make no claims for
the book that it does not make for itself, and to find
out, if we can, wherein resides the authority with
which it addresses us.
The learning of this lesson is hardly begun as yet
by the average Sunday-school teacher. The traditional
theory of the absolute historical and scientific infalli-
bility of the Bible is the only one that he has ever per-
mitted himself to entertain. His maxim is, that the
extremest views on this subject are the safest; that the
admission of a historical error in the book would be
fatal to its authority. The notions that he is sedu-
lously imparting to his pupils are sure to be exploded
as soon as they become acquainted with the results of
modern scholarship. He is helping thus to train a
generation of skeptics.
Among the young men of this time there is a vast
amount of superficial skepticism. Those who come in
contact with it, and are able to estimate its causes,
soon discover that it is largely the result of a reaction
against extravagant theories of inspiration. These
young men have discovered many facts about the
Bible that cannot be reconciled with the theory of the
Bible that was imposed on them in the Sunday-school,
and they have rejected it altogether. It is high time
that the Sunday-school should cease to be an active
propagator of skepticism.
There are Sunday-school teachers, and their num-
ber is growing, who are aware of their responsibility
to present the Bible to their pupils in such a way
that it shall win and hold their confidence. That
its true character may appear as the bright record of a
revelation made in the historical progress of a people
providentially led from barbarism up to civilization, —
that the steadily brightening path of the divine pur-
pose may be followed across the centuries to its cul-
mination in Him whose Life was the Light of men.
This is the great problem which many a conscientious
teacher is trying to solve. To such teachers it may be
useful to make a few practical suggestions.
1. Endeavor to obtain some rational and consistent
theory of the Sacred Scriptures. Professor Fisher's
essay on " The Christian Religion "is one of the most
judicious statements now accessible, and it ought to
be carefully read by every Sunday-school teacher.
2. Avoid all language which involves the absolute
inerrancy of the Bible.
3. Distinctly recognize the fact that some portions
of the book are of far greater value than others.
4. Make the pupils understand that much of the
Old Testament legislation was accommodated to the
understanding and the moral condition of the people
to whom it was given, and is wholly superseded by
the law of Christ.
5. Show them that the Scriptures are the record of
a development of doctrine and of morals ; that the
successive stages of such a development must indi-
cate incompleteness of view and moral imperfection ;
I48
TOPICS OF THE TIME.
that this development culminates in Jesus Christ, who,
as Christians believe, is the Word of God, and in the
light of whose doctrine and life the whole Bible must
be studied.
Bribery in Politics.
The practice of bribing voters has reached a de-
velopment in this country that calls for thoughtful at-
tention on the part of patriotic men. It has always, no
doubt, been carried on to a certain extent, but never
on so large a scale as in recent years, and there is
reason to fear that it is on the increase. The bribery
we speak of is that by means of money, to which
the poorest and most ignorant portions of the people
are most liable. But, in addition to this, there is the
method of bribery by the promise of office, which has
been so widely commented on, but which, it is to be
hoped, will soon be largely removed by a better sys-
tem of appointment. Bribery by money, however,
cannot be thus removed, although it may be checked ;
and unless some other remedy can be found the cor-
ruption of our politics by that means will go on. The
immense number of ignorant voters in the country, the
vast interests involved in our national elections, and
the large sums now at the disposal of party managers,
render it well-nigh certain that until effectual means
are taken to counteract it, the evil will continue to grow.
Nor is the bribery of voters the only form of
the evil with which we have to contend ; some of our
legislators and other public men are quite as ready to
sell their votes as the most ignorant of the masses are.
This purchasing of legislators is notorious ; and though
it is not always effected by the payment of money, but
in some less open way, it is none the less a form of
bribery. We are all familiar with the mode of pur-
chasing legislators by means of corporation shares
and bonds, distributed by interested parties " where
they will do the most good." Even some of the judges
are not above suspicion, so that justice is liable to be
polluted at its very source ; though in most cases the
purity of the courts is in refreshing contrast to the
corruption prevailing elsewhere.
Such is the evil with which we have to contend,
and it is not easy to find a remedy. With corrupt
leaders, and corrupt followers, too, the problem of
purifying politics is by no means a simple one. The
difficulty is increased by the venality of some of the
newspapers, by whose influence the people are mis-
led as to the real character of candidates and the con-
duct of public affairs.
The punishment of both the giver and the taker of
bribes would of course remove the evil, if the criminals
could be detected and the punishment applied. But
experience proves that bribery is one of the most dif-
ficult of all crimes to prove; while at the same time the
powerful interests involved in most cases of political
bribery render it extremely difficult to secure the pun-
ishment of the criminals, even when their guilt is un-
doubted. If candidates that had been elected by pur-
chased votes could always be deprived of their seats
in consequence, an effective check would be given to
the bribing of voters ; but this remedy is rarely avail-
able in this country, owing to the partisan character
of our legislative bodies. It is notorious that contested
election cases are apt to be decided in the interest of the
dominant party, with little regard to the justice of the
case; and so long as this shameful practice continues
no effectual check to bribery can be looked for in this
quarter. The reform of the civil service will remove
the temptation of the offices, but will not affect the
other forms of bribery. It is true that when all offi-
cers are secure in their positions they will not be dis-
posed, as many are now, to swell the corruption fund
of their party ; but there will be no lack of funds for
all that. There are so many corporations and other
interested parties seeking government favor, and so
many rich men seeking office with little regard to the
way they get it, that there will never be any lack of
means for the purchase of voters and legislators.
It is evident that the only effectual remedy is the im-
provement of public sentiment and the enlightenment
of the public mind as to the evils that bribery produces.
The improvement of public sentiment on this sub-
ject must necessarily be a work of time, and it cannot
begin too soon. We may say, indeed, that it has al-
ready begun with the discussions of this year's can-
vass ; but much more must be done in order to produce
the desired effect on the public mind. It is especially
incumbent on those who profess to lead and counsel
the people on political subjects, whether in official
station, in the press, or elsewhere, to lead the public
aright in this matter. By exposing cases of bribery
that may come to their knowledge, by showing what
evils result from it, by denouncing it especially in their
awn party, by setting an example of perfect honesty in
their own public life, and, above all, by scorning to use
public station to advance their own private and pe-
cuniary interests, they may do much to check the
abuse even now, and perhaps remove it almost en-
tirely at some future day.
The trouble is that men who would not themselves
descend to bribery are criminally complaisant with
regard to the use of foul means, when these are to ad-
vance their own interests and those of their own party.
They are severe on the subject of buying votes only
when the purchases are made in the interest of the
other side. Their standard of political morality is high, as
applied to candidates whom they are trying to defeat !
False Issues.
In every political campaign large numbers of voters
are moved in their political action by a consideration
of side issues, questions not yet fully before the coun-
try, and some of which never will be. At times
these side issues are legitimate enough, and some-
times serious changes in party politics are due to them ;
they may be, indeed, the means of originating new
and influential parties, and of changing entirely the
political history of a nation.
But, in addition to these side issues, there are very
apt to be introduced into the canvass questions which
are not only aside from the main points at issue, but
which may be called absolutely false issues, — issues
which are selfish, interested, personal, — which have to
do with matters that do not concern voters purely as
citizens, — which may even lead to action opposed to
the general good of the country. At a time when
leading parties imitate each other, instead of opposing
each other, in their official declarations of principles,
such side issues and false issues especially abound,
OPEN LETTERS.
149
and seriously, sometimes disastrously, complicate the
situation.
In the present Presidential campaign these side
issues and false issues are numerous. Individual in-
dependence of political action was, perhaps, never so
common in our politics as now, for the reason that
party principles, at least as expressed in national
" platforms," seem to be well-nigh verging into
identity, and for the further reason that the present
has come to be (from circumstances only too well
known to our readers) a campaign having largely to
do with the record, character, and fitness of the principal
candidates. The leading side issue in the present
campaign is the temperance question ; a side issue, we
say, not a false issue. It is not a false issue, because,
whatever else may be said of the temperance movement
in politics, it is not a selfish, interested, and personal
movement, but a movement carried on, as its promoters
profoundly believe, for the general good of the com-
munity, and not for the good, or supposed good, of a
class.
As examples of false and illegitimate issues which
have been raised during the present campaign, we
will mention three. The first is that of religion, in
its sectarian sense. The workings of this issue in
American national politics are, in the main, subtle and
secret; for there are not many nowadays who have
the courage to acknowledge that they are moved by
such considerations in their political decisions ; and,
moreover, secrecy is absolutely necessary when there
may be danger of reaction were the religious question
openly and definitely raised. '
A second false issue has to do with the foreign
birth or affiliations of portions of our population. In
the suggestive article by Mr. Chamberlin in the Sep-
tember Century on " The Foreign Elements in our
Population," the author says : " I believe that no one
accuses any large or influential portion of the foreign
element of a set purpose to spread ideas subversive of
our political institutions." It is true that the foreign
element in our population would probably be the very
last to advocate, for instance, a return to monarchical in-
stitutions. But that there are dangers in these foreign
elements to the peace of the country, both at home and
abroad, cannot be denied. Says Mr. Chamberlin :
" No greater danger can threaten than that the popu-
lation will split into two or more castes, with caste
hatreds and conflicts. " The old class feeling as between
native and foreign-born Americans has already been
followed by class feeling between certain of the various
foreign elements themselves, and in addition to this there
are those among us who have set up as the measure of
the fitness of an American to occupy office in his own
land his devotion to the affairs of some other country !
We yield to none in sympathy for the oppressed of all
nations (including our own), be they Catholics, Jews,
Protestants, or followers of Confucius ; and we believe,
with all our hearts, in the dignity of the American
name and citizenship ; but we resent attempts of dem-
agogues in every party to mix foreign politics with
those of the United States.
A third false issue is that which concerns the soldier
element in our politics, and has to do with money, and
not with principles. We can understand the appeal
to soldiers, North or South, to " vote as they fought,"
and we can comprehend why it may be cordially re-
sponded to, — although the appeal is often a mislead-
ing and dangerous one, and is fortunately not so often
heard now as it once was. We can understand, also,
the sentiment that leads one who has been engaged
in a conflict of arms to vote with whichever party he
believes best represents the principles for which he
endangered his life. But, supposing it to be true that
the nation has already done its duty by the surviving
soldiers, and by the widows and orphans of the lost,
the pension issue in a political campaign seems to us
an insult to American manhood, a false and sordid
"issue," which every self-respecting soldier should
disown and condemn.
False issues like those we have alluded to in-
troduce into our politics distracting elements which
have no place there. They prevent the unbiased
discussion and decision of broader questions. They
are a hindrance and a nuisance, and every self-
respecting voter should see to it that he does not
become entangled in their snares. When it comes to
national elections, the true citizen should ask himself
only this one question : What is best for the whole com-
munity — for the entire country ? — not What is best for
my pocket, for my class, for my section of the country ?
'■o • »»
OPEN LETTERS.
A Rallying Point for a New Political Party.
The peculiar features of the political campaign re-
call strikingly the prediction made in The Century
on the passage of the Civil Service Reform Bill,
nearly a year and a half ago, that the adoption of
that measure would inevitably cause the disinte-
gration of the old political parties, which have ex-
isted for years solely on the possession or expecta-
tion of patronage. As the commercial world on the
passage of the Resumption Act began to adjust itself
to the only true basis of financial security, so our po-
litical world on the adoption of the Civil Service
Bill began to adjust itself to the true basis of efficient
administration. In little more than a year from the
establishment of the reform we see the spoils system,
which has been the one controlling feature of the last
four Presidential struggles, practically eliminated from
the national political contest.
Not a single principle remains which either party
unitedly advocates or opposes ; and in the absence of
any living issue of principle the contest turns on the
personal fitness or unfitness of candidates, and, as is
inevitably the case in personal discussion, gravitates
at once to the lowest level, and becomes merely an
exchange of epithets, a bandying to and fro of charges
of intellectual incapacity, moral obliquity, and even
filth. It is not the " young alumni " nor old alumni
J5°
OPEN LETTERS.
alone who are standing aloof from both political par-
ties, but a vast body of men of all classes who seek in
political action and association not mere personal ad-
vantage, but the promotion of the general welfare
and the establishment of principles which they believe
conducive thereto ; and they stand thus aloof not be-
cause they are indifferent to political results, not from
repugnance to active political work, not from fear of
the victory or defeat of any particular political princi-
ple, but from abject fear of perpetuating power in the
hands of one organization or conferring it upon another,
when both are equally and totally devoid of any polit-
ical principle whatever. What choice of evils, even,
have we in the present contest ? what encouragement
for a serious effort to redeem the country from the dis-
grace of a campaign in which all the indecencies of our
later politics have culminated ?
The only " third party " movement of note has
been captured by a " politician " who repudiates civil
service reform, upholds the present odious tariff, and
deliberately advocates the taxing of the nation to fur-
nish gratuities to a class.
We have nothing to hope for in this campaign save
that the revolt from the old standards may throw the
election into the House of Representatives ; but dur-
ing the two years which will elapse before another
general election for representatives in Congress, we
may hope to organize a party to whose platform the
independent voter may subscribe without doing vio-
lence either to his intelligence or his integrity. For
such an organization there can be no better starting-
point than that suggested by Mr. Spahr in his letter
in The Century for August : " Reform of the Civil
Service and of the Tariff."
Of the first little need be said ; the work is well be-
gun, and must simply be. kept going. The reform of
our revenue system is now, and is likely to be for
many years, the most important issue in national poli-
tics. An organization which will champion this move-
ment on lines broad enough to include all its sincere
advocates, may hope not only to inaugurate the reform,
but to permanently establish it ; for such a party may
with certainty count on being the dominant power in
the nation for the next quarter of a century. But the
work must begin with a reform in the terminology of
the tariff discussion. Writers and speakers who wish
to be read and understood of men must cease to use
the word " protection " as synonymous with " high
tariff," or as the antithesis of "free trade." The pro-
tection of its own interests is what every nation is, or
should be, aiming at ; and the problem of our current
political economy is to find out what particular adjust-
ment of our revenue system will best promote the
general welfare. Great Britain, after a long experience
of high tariff, concluded .that her interests were in
general best "protected" by the low tariff, which
economists call "free trade," joined with a rigid ex-
cise, for the primary and almost exclusive purpose of
yielding revenue to the state. It has seemed, or at
least it has been made to appear, to a majority of our
own people, that our interests as a nation are best
protected by a high tarrrf, which the greed of monopo-
lists and the zeal of their representatives have trans-
formed into a prohibitory tariff — a system as idiotic
as it is iniquitous. The organization which undertakes
the reform of our revenue system should welcome all
voters who are sincerely anxious for a rational adjust-
ment, and willing to subordinate their individual
opinions to the slight modifications of a general agree-
ment, which must be under constant revision and
steadily tending toward lower duties and greater free-
dom from commercial restrictions. The most odious
feature of the existing tariff is, of course, the enforced
tribute to monopolies which results from prohibitory
duties ; and the next worst feature is the excessive
taxation which produces an enormous annual surplus
to be prodigally and profligately expended by the
votes of log-rolling representatives. We want a sys-
tem which will give us protection without monopoly
and revenue without surplus.
The point at which our interest will be best pro-
tected lies somewhere between a prohibitory tariff
and absolute free trade. No revenue system can ever
reach the point of final adjustment ; it must at best
be in the condition which physicists call " unstable
equilibrium," but should vary as little as possible from
a line of maximum efficiency established by the great
consensus of the people acting through instructed
representatives. In no direction will the beneficent
effect of civil service reform be more marked than in
the impetus it will give to a rational discussion of
tariff and revenue questions, by creating a permanent
class of intelligent, expert treasury officials who will
rescue our industries from the empirical violence of
volunteer tariff- tinkers. When such men, armed with
the experience of long official service, shall find a wel-
come on the floor of the House, — either as members,
through the " open constituencies " reform, or as
counselors without votes, by virtue of the offices they
hold, — we may look for an end to the heresies and
abominations of our recent economic legislation.
E. B.
Johnsville, Michigan.
The "Christian League's" Practicability.
The September Century contains a criticism upon
Dr. Gladden's "Christian League of Connecticut."
As a frequent listener to Dr. Gladden's preaching and
a firm believer in his doctrines regarding the League,
I should like to say a few words in reply.
The attack which is made consists mainly in an
exposition of the evils which would result from the
consolidation of discordant elements. On this point
no line of defense need be drawn up, since Dr. Glad-
den does not hold the position which is assailed. He
would be the last man to urge any such consolidation.
Because he holds that there ought to be unity among
the churches, it does not follow that he believes in forc-
ing such unity upon them. He believes, as the readers
of The Century well know, that there ought to be
temperance ; but he believes that the laws of temper-
ance must first be written in the hearts of the people.
He realizes most thoroughly that though the truths of
natural science may be put in practice as soon as they
are discovered, the truths of social science can only
be put in practice when they are accepted by the
public consciousness. In the matter of a Christian
League, he would not urge the forcing together of
enemies, since that would increase their enmity. He
would urge the bringing together of friends, since
that would increase their friendship.
OPEN LETTERS.
IS1
The next point made against the League is, that the
destruction of denominationalism would hamper the
freedom of the pastor. It is said that " he could not
speak his honest convictions for fear of offending or
differing with a portion of his hearers." The obvious
reply to this is the fact that our most independent
thinkers are constantly hampered by denominational-
ism. They are told by their narrow-minded colleagues
that they belong to the organization, that the organiza-
tion supports them, and that they are bound to sup-
port it. The result of this is that they lose their in-
dependence, and in becoming part of an ecclesiastical
machine, they lose their individual and personal power.
Another objection which is urged is, that the exist-
ence of one union church, instead of two or three
denominational churches, would afford to every one
an excuse to shirk his duties of attendance and con-
tribution. If this would be so in a union church,
it would be so in all large churches. Do the facts
support the theory ?
Those who uphold denominationalism always claim
that it " tends to spread pure religion by calling atten-
tion to the doctrines discussed, and thereby leading to
a careful investigation of the teachings of the Bible."
There may have been a time when this was true, but
it is true no longer. The eccentricity of each denomi-
nation, instead of being a rallying point for propagan-
dism, is the rallying point for discord and schism.
Those who leave the Calvinistic churches leave them
because of their inflexible creed; those who leave the
Methodist Church leave it because of its inflexible
discipline ; those who leave the Episcopal Church
leave them because of their inflexible ritual.
Under a Christian League a larger liberty would be
permitted. Every church is a tree of life, and the iron-
clad box which protected it in its youth must be re-
moved when natural growth is cramped thereby.
In considering the practicability of the Christian
League, the most important question is, " To what
extent does the Christian public accept its doctrines ? "
A safe answer would be, " More and more fully every
year." We occasionally find bitter denominationalism
in the country, but we find very little of it in our cities.
I do not know of a single thoughtful man in any city
who does not deprecate the fact that the churches do
not cooperate. It will not be cynical to say that these
denominational churches are conducted like business
corporations, competing for " the gilt-edge trade " in-
stead of cooperating for the service of the public. In
New York city you have a notable instance of this,
when you compare the number of churches on Madison
Avenue with the number on Avenue A.
The church as an educational institution is becoming
relatively less important. The public schools and the
press have almost monopolized this function, and both
are thoroughly non-sectarian. There are, it is true,
denominational colleges and denominational papers ;
but the best denominational colleges do not teach
denominationalism, and the denominational papers
which are conducted as organs, and require their con-
tributors to keep in tune, are almost without influence.
A minister once told me that the imprint of a denomi-
national publishing house doomed a book with the
entire reading public. If this is true, and our educa-
tional institutions are all non-sectarian, it is impossible
that sectarianism shall long survive.
Our religious thought also is becoming singularly non-
sectarian. With the development of other educational
institutions there has been a growing conviction that
the work of the church is practical rather than doctri-
nal. Even where the new theology is combated, its
spirit dominates. The thoughtful public recognizes
that Christianity is neither a ritual nor a creed, but a
life lived in the spirit of Christ. The church of the
middle ages said : " Receive ye my forms, and ye
shall find the way of salvation." The churches of the
Reformation said : " Receive ye my doctrines, and
ye shall find the truth." The religious thought of to-
day says : " Receive ye the spirit of Christ into your
hearts, and ye shall find, not the way only, nor the
truth only, but 'the way, the truth, and the life.' "
The spirit of the new theology is the spirit of the
Christian League. It will not permit the details of
creed and ritual to bar the way to Christian unity, for
in Christ all contradictions are reconciled.
Columbus, O., August, i?
A Methodist Layman.
"We of the South."
A correspondent in the October number of The
Century expresses his " profound regret and disap-
pointment " that in the story of " Dr. Sevier " I should
have said to the Northern soldiers marching down
Broadway in 1861 that their cause was just, and that
even we of the South can now say it.
I wish to thank the writer for the manly courtesy
with which he takes his exception. A Southerner and
a Southern soldier myself, I have yet rarely been dealt
with in this generous manner by Southern writers dis-
senting from my utterances, and I hail this as, to me,
the initial voice of a new and better form of debate in!
that South to which I belong, not only by birth, but by-
rearing and affection.
The passage which has given pain to Mr. McKay;,
should be read in connection with what goes before-
and follows if its spirit is to be properly understood.
I do not there, and I cannot here, yield to any one in
pride in our struggle and in all the noble men
and women who bore its burdens ; and it is while
expressing such feelings as these that, turning to.
those who, once our foes, are now more than ever
before our brethren, I gave to them in turn, not a
repetition of those words of affection, too tender for
any but our own heroes, but the one word of conces-
sion which, on the plane we of the South occupy to-
day, we can speak without abating by the weight
of a hair our perfect manhood. Englishmen do<
not change their opinions so readily as Ameri-
cans ; and yet our Anglo-Saxon brethren across the
Atlantic soon conceded the justice of the infant
American nation's cause in its War of Independence •
waged against themselves. Why, then, should I with-
hold my acknowledgment when I grasp in cordial
reconciliation the hand of a brother the justice of
whose cause has become my own complete con-
viction ?
The right to do this Mr. McKay accords me, on the
single condition that I will consent to be counted out
of " the South, the best of it." He does not even as-
sert that I stand alone in this attitude. He merely
i52
OPEN LETTERS.
insists that " the South, the best of it " has arrived at
no such position. I think I can answer the objection
in a word. He and those who think with him are still
dwelling on the old question — I will not say quibble
to so courteous a critic — the old question of Consti-
tutional rights ; while " we of the South " — I must
insist upon the pronoun — have come down to the more
radical question of moral right and wrong. Allowing,
for argument's sake, that a State, not having in so
many words given away its right to secede, still held
that right beyond all dispute and at its own discretion
(a doctrine never universally believed by the South),
still we had no good reason for exercising that
prerogative. I need not remind the gentleman that it
was exercised contrary to the belief and advice of hun-
dreds of thousands of Southern men. That doubtful
doctrine was not our cause; if the gentleman is a
young man I pray him to leave the preaching of that
delusion to the venerable ex-President of the Confed-
erate States. It was only the ground upon which some
of our Southern political advisers cast up the defenses
behind which our actual cause lay fortified. Our real
cause — the motive — was no intricate question. A
president was elected lawfully by a party that be-
-lieved simply what virtually the whole intelligence
'of the South now admits, viz., that African slavery —
the existence of which was originally the fault of the
whole nation — was an error in its every aspect, and
was cursing the whole land. And we chose the risks of
•war rather than in any manner to jeopardize an insti-
tution which we have since learned to execrate.
It is but a few weeks since a personal acquaintance,
■ also an ex-Confederate soldier, asking me to explain
the utterance that has given annoyance to Mr. McKay,
presently conceded that the success of the principles
for which we fought faithfully and gallantly — so far
*as the fight was for them — would have been ruinous,
and that the best founded and profoundest cause of re-
joicing in the Southern heart to-day is that, even at such
'cost, we were saved from the ruin of secession. Now, we
:may take our choice : Was it a war for slavery ? We all
know now that slavery was wrong. Was it a war for the
right of secession ? How can a principle that is ruin-
<ous be right ? Nay, sir ; we thank no man for buffets ;
we make no pretense of humility ; but before an issue
where both sides could be brave and conscientious
and yet each be wrong in many words and acts; but
where, as to the ultimate question, both could not be
right ; with the verdict of the whole enlightened world
against us, it is surely not too much to maintain that
iin the fullest stature of human dignity we can stand
up and say to our brethren, — no longer our adver-
saries,— " Time has taught us you were right."
"And yet" — I conclude with the same words of
tender remembrance that follow the challenged pas-
sage in my story —
" 'And yet — and yet, we cannot forget '
And we would not ! "
George W. Cable.
The School of Dishonesty.
In looking for the primary cause of crime in its mul-
titude of forms, the question arises, — At what period
of life did the evil-doer first lose his sense of honesty
and integrity ? If we knew the facts, how often the
answer would be, — At the time that the offender
was first placed in contact with the world; when,
from one cause or another, he was first forced from
the care of his parents and compelled to contend alone
for his existence ; when he first entered upon his ap-
prenticeship to the merchant, the manufacturer,the pro-
fessional man, the farmer. Perhaps his choice of occu-
pation has been in a measure directed by the conspicuous
advertisement of some one in some of the above-named
branches of business. He is not long in discovering
that the advertisement which led him to ask that em-
ployment was a misrepresentation, calculated to deceive
the public and induce a patronage which a plain state-
ment of facts would not effect. That boy or young
man who has been taught to abhor a lie and a theft,
— and taught that to deceive another to that other's
injury, or to induce him to pay more or receive less for
an article than its value, is as bad as to lie or to steal, is
amazed to find that the man he thought exemplary
is no better than, if as good as, the man who steals a
loaf of bread because of his hunger, and is called a
thief. His respect for his employer is gone; he no
longer regards him as a great or an honest man, and
he learns that it is not honesty and integrity of char-
acter that gives to that man his good name and posi-
tion, but his great wealth, acquired though it be
through fraud and deceit.
The next discovery the young man makes is, that
he is expected to follow the example of his employer
in deceiving his customers as to the quality or value
of his goods or wares, in order to obtain their money.
Long and hard is the struggle he undergoes. On
one hand are certain dismissal from his situation, the
disgrace of such dismissal, the suffering it must entail
upon those dependent upon him, and the probability
that he could not secure another place without a rec-
ommendation from this employer, which, under the cir-
cumstances, he could not obtain, and would not ask or
accept. On the other hand is the loss of self-respect,
honor, manhood. He hesitates, and then looks around
among business men to learn if other men do the same
kind of work. He goes over the various branches of
trade with which he has come in contact, and finds to
his dismay that a large proportion of men practice the
same deceptions, that each day, and many times a day,
they wrong their unsuspecting customers. His faith
is almost shaken in the correctness of the teachings
of his parents ; he wonders if they were not in error,
if there has not been some great mistake in his
education; else why are all these men called honest
men, and permitted to practice with impunity that
which he has been taught was wrong and dishonest?
Still he hesitates ; but there comes to his mind those
dear ones at home, a widowed mother, perhaps, with
little brothers and sisters, already pushed to the verge
of starvation. Or, if he be a man with a wife and fam-
ily, can he return to those whom he loves better than
his life and tell them he has no bread for them, when
by doing as other men do he may provide for them
luxuriously ? All other arguments may fail, but he can-
not endure the suffering of his family. He lays down his
honor, and becomes his employer's slave. He learns
to deceive and lie, and, shall it not be said, virtually
to steal in behalf of his employer. If he becomes ex-
pert and successful in the art, he is praised and pro*
OPEN LETTERS.
153
nounced "brilliant " and " sharp." Little by little he
loses all regard for truth and even honesty, and hesitates
at no deception that will promote his master's interest
or his own, so long as it does not come within the
statute as a crime.
Once the barrier is broken that guards the path of
truth and rectitude, the successive steps are easily
taken. He has seen how his employer and others
thrive and grow rich upon the gains thus acquired ;
and how they are honored and lauded as honest and
able business men. He has seen how even those who
have been sent to the various seats of government to
enact laws and provide penalties for a violation there-
of, have grown rich without any visible reason there-
for, yet who return to the people who sent them with-
out a question as to how they have acquired their
riches while in its service ; but, as is often the case, with
respect and honor proportionate to their added wealth.
All this and more has this young man seen, and he
knows how false are the deserts upon which is be-
stowed this esteem. What wonder, then, that when
pressed with cares beyond the power of his meager
salary to provide, he begins, in his desperation, to
practice upon his employer the lessons which he has
been taught to perform upon that employer's cus-
tomers ? There is no praise for him now, as he has
changed employers and is now working for himself.
Now he is called a thief, and is hurried away to jail
for robbing his employer. That employer appears and
expresses his sorrow that so promising a youth should
be guilty of so great a crime ; but there is no pity nor
forgiveness in that man's heart. He must make an
example of this lad that others may be deterred from
daring to practice upon the rich and powerful mer-
chant the lessons he has taught them to practice upon
his customers.
There is hardly an article of manufactured merchan-
dise made or imported in the United States that has
not its adulterations or imitations ; and there are but
few articles of raw material that are not in some man-
ner adulterated. What is needed is a law that shall
compel all men to do an honest business ; a law that
shall apply alike to the rich and the poor ; a law that
shall punish the man who sells with a false balance,
the same as the man who steals a loaf of bread; a
law that shall punish the man who makes and sells a
counterfeit article of merchandise, the same as the man
who makes and circulates a counterfeit coin.
T. W. Tyrer.
Fiction and Social Science.*
It seems as if Dr. Holmes's assertion that every
man has in him the material for one novel, and Mr.
Cable's advice, in his lecture on the art of fiction, that
every one should try his hand at story-writing as his
particular contribution to the data of social science,
* "Mingo, and Other Sketches in Black and White." By Joel
Chandler Harris (Uncle Remus). Boston: James R. Osgood
& Co.
"In the Tennessee Mountains." By Charles Egbert Crad-
dock. Boston : Houghton, Mifflin & Co.
" The Crime of Henry Vane." By J. S., of Dale. New York :
Charles Scribner's Sons.
" Ben Hur : A Tale of the Christ." By Lew Wallace. New
York : Harper & Brothers.
were being taken seriously. Probably everybody who
is "in society " at all has, at least, one novelist among
his personal acquaintances; and about every other
educated person, male or female, has made an essay
in the fashionable art. The man who has not written
a novel is getting to be the exception. Prominent
physicians, like Drs. Mitchell and Hammond, are
"bitten by the dipsas," and forced to tell their experi-
ences ; and ancient mariners roam the earth in search
of wedding guests with hospitable button-holes. This
is very shocking to admirers of the inarticulate and
the eternal silences ; but it is, on the whole, a harm-
less and cheerful form of mental activity. Of course
but a small part of the product is literature ; an in-
finitesimal part of it survives the decade. But it fills
up the great social picture, it rounds out the world,
when every one tells how life has gone with him, how
the universe looks from his corner of it. We confess
to a preference for the articulate and the conscious.
Speech is human ; consciousness is a high form of
knowledge and observation. Let every one, then,
who has seen anything worth telling, raise his voice
and tell it. The world may listen or not, as it wills.
One thing is plain: we are learning to know our
America better. What has become of the old plaint
that the uniformity of social conditions, etc., de-
prived the novelist here of the necessary contrasts,
etc., etc. ? The volumes of fiction on the lists of Amer-
ican publishers to-day certainly cover enough variety
of life and character to satisfy the most exacting.
The South, to begin with, is having its turn.
Cable's episodes of New Orleans life and Harris's
"Uncle Remus " stories were both delightfully fresh
revelations of new fields for the literary artist. Turn-
ing away, for the present, from folk-lore and character
sketching, Mr. Harris has now brought together in a
volume " Mingo, and Other Sketches in Black and
White," a few narratives of a more formal kind than
he had yet attempted — stories, in fact, rather than
sketches, despite his modest title. The most impor-
tant, or at least much the longest of these, "At Teague
Poteet's : a Sketch of the Hog Mountain Range," is a
novelette familiar to the readers of The Century, and
dealing with life among the Moonshiners.
There is a striking plot, full of dramatic situations,
and having for its background the scenery of the
mountains and the habits and dialects of a peculiar
race of people. The inhabitants of the Blue Ridge
and great Cumberland ranges are a very different
class from the poor whites of the lowlands. They
are equally poor, rough, and ignorant ; but they
guard a wild independence, owned few or no ne-
groes, and look with jealousy upon the planters in
the valley as "restercrats." During the war they
were mostly Union men. They are described as slow
in manner and speech, shiftless in appearance, hospi-
table, but suspicious toward strangers, unprogressive,
toughly enduring the poor, hard conditions of their
lives, and oppressed with the melancholy silences of
the vast, shaggy mountain solitudes among which
they dwell. The women are lank, sallow, dirty.
They rub snuff, smoke pipes, — even the young girls, —
and are great at the frying-pan ; full of a complaining
patience and a sullen fidelity. These traits are relieved
by a dry humor, a fondness for gossip, and an occa-
sional dance-party, when the fiddle and the jug of
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crooked whisky, with its corn-cob stopper, produce
something faintly resembling gayety. This story is
told with great force, originality, and truth.
" Mingo : a Sketch of Middle Georgia," less
elaborate than "At Teague Poteet's," is even stronger
in execution, and has a real depth of tragic pathos.
The lovers in the last-named story are just the least
little bit conventional. But in " Mingo " Mr. Harris
is on his native heath, and we recognize the " Uncle
Remus" touch in his tender, reverent picture of the
gray-haired negro who refuses his freedom and de-
votes himself to the fallen fortunes of "de fambly";
to his little mistress, " Pud Hon" (Pudding Honey),
and to her grandma, " Miss F'raishy." The latter —
Mrs. Feratia Bivins — is an admirably drawn charac-
ter and plain of speech. This is the way she talks to
" ole miss " who had " Ferginny ways," and had dis-
owned her daughter for marrying Mrs. Bivins's son,
but now, stricken with remorse, comes to see her
grandchild when its parents are both dead.
" Ef you er come to bother airter Pud, thes* make
the trial of it. Thes so much as lay the weight ev
your little finger on 'er, an' I'll grab you by the
goozle an' far your haslet out."
" In the Tennessee Mountains," by Charles Egbert
Craddock, is another delightful contribution to the
literature of the new South. It is a collection of
eight stories, of which " Drifting down Lost Creek "
is perhaps the most ambitious, though " A-Playin' of
Old Sledge at the Settlemint" and "The 'Harnt'
that walks Chilhowee " strike a Northern reader most
freshly. The region and the people are the same as
those described in "At Teague Poteet's." It is true
that Mr. Harris's mountain is in Georgia and Mr.
Craddock's in Tennessee ; but the mountainous belt
that runs from Pennsylvania through southern Ten-
nessee and the northern parts of the Carolinas, Geor-
gia, and Alabama is one in the characteristics of its
scenery and its population. There is a wonderful
similarity between the stories of these two writers,
not merely in the lives, manners, and language de-
scribed, but in their literary spirit and style. It
would not be saying too much to affirm that if " At
Teague Poteet's " had been published in Mr. Crad-
dock's book, or if any of Mr. Craddock's tales had
been published in Mr. Harris's volume, it would
have required a sharp eye to note any difference in
the authorship. They might easily have been the
work of one man. This says much, of course, for the
fidelity of their sketches. Two independent reports
by observers so far apart, but concurring so closely
in details, give a scientific value to their work, con-
sidered as a study of society. Mr. Harris's writing
shows a rather more assured touch than Mr. Crad-
dock's. The latter devotes himself to the landscape
to a degree which, though not excessive in any single
story, becomes somewhat repetitious when they are
brought together in a volume. But his descriptions
of mountain scenery are so sympathetic and imagina-
tive that it would be ungracious to wish them shorter.
In the portraiture of character and the construction
of plot we should hesitate to give the preference to
either of these accomplished story-tellers. Both of
them deserve a hearty welcome from a public of sated
novel-readers.
* Just.
We have been getting a good deal of dialect
lately — too much of it, some will think, who have
difficulty with the polyglot dialogues of " Doctor
Sevier." The dialect of the Georgia and Tennessee
" mountings " seems to be identical. The acute
philological observer may note some minor differ-
ences. A ghost, e. g., is a "harnt" in Tennessee and
a " ha'nt " in Georgia ; but this may be merely a dis-
tinction in the spelling. In both sections the minister
is called the "rider." "Air" in Tennessee, is "er"
in Georgia — anglice, "are." Tennesseean "hev"
becomes Georgian " uv." In Georgia they say " 'sted-
der" for "instead of" ; but in Tennessee, "'stiddier."
As for such locutions as " we-uns" and "you-uns,"
"howdy," "'low" for "think," and to "hone a'ter"
for to "long for," they are too widely distributed in
the South to be at all local.
In " The Crime of Henry Vane," we get back to
civilization — to New York — and to the international
point of view occupied by Henry James. It is by the
author of" Guerndale." You remember the wonder-
ful undergraduates of " Guerndale " ? They were
unlike all the undergraduates whom we have been
privileged to meet, and our opportunities in that par-
ticular have been large. Instead of being the fresh
and wholesome, but somewhat raw, boys of our expe-
rience, they were knowing, blase young gentlemen who
had seen a great deal more life than their parents and
instructors, and had been rendered cynical thereby.
They consented to reside for a time at Cambridge,
Mass., and occasionally attended some of the exercises
of Harvard College. They had a proper contempt
for the pedantic old professors who conducted that
institution ; but though they refused to patronize
their examinations, they contrived somehow, in inter-
vals of gambling and cigarette-puffing, to get well up
on most modern literatures and quoted profusely from
Heine, Musset, etc., besides giving the faculty points on
Lucretius and other classics. Well, Henry Vane is one
of those same undergraduates, grown a few years
older ; only he has been educated in France instead of
Massachusetts. At the time the story opens he is loaf-
ing about Europe, in possession of an income of four
thousand a year — a mere bagatelle, of course, with which
a fellow " can neither yacht nor race. " He has been re-
jected by an English girl, and feels that he has no raison
d'etre. However, and all of a sudden, the hero's sister
dies ; then his father loses his money and dies, and his
mother goes mad, and has to be supported in a very
expensive French lunatic asylum — her only chance of
recovery. Under these circumstances Vane " takes a
brace. " He goes to America in the steerage, gets a six-
hundred-dollar clerkship in a New York banking-house,
sternly lives in down- town lodgings at two dollars a
week, and devotes his evenings to mediaeval history and
Italian poetry. At the end of the year the banker — as
bankers will, you know, in the " Bab Ballads," if not
in Wall street — calls him into his counting-room,
presents him with a check for four hundred dollars
additional to his salary, and raises the latter to three
thousand a year — a really paltry stipend for a man of
Vane's financial genius and acquaintance with the Italian
poets. After a while he begins to go into society, and
meets a Miss Thomas who has dead-black hair and
eyes of gentian blue. American ways and American
young women are very strange to Vane ; and if we
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J55
did not know that "J. S., of Dale," knew all about
Harvard, etc., we should think that they were
equally strange to him — so cleverly does he contrive
to shuffle off his long familiarity with this poor, dear
America, and give the fresh impressions and the little
shocks which American social queernesses make upon
his hero — educated in France.
With the appearance of Miss Thomas upon the
scene, the story begins in earnest. With her Vane
conducts a complicated flirtation, in the course of which
they read together " the familiar pages of Ariosto,
Tasso, and Dante." It is fair to say that the author
describes this very cleverly, and contrives to make his
heroine appear a most piquant and desirable young
woman. At the end Vane falls in love, and his ac-
complished adversary, after playing him skillfully
through nearly two hundred pages, finally jilts him in
the neatest fashion. Whereupon, in a fit of disgust,
he shoots himself, leaving a million and a half of
dollars. This last, however, quite by the way : the
hero of a fashionable novel makes his money with his
left hand, incidentally, as it were ; his real, serious
business is flirtation and love-making. The reader is
not called upon to waste much sympathy on Mr.
Henry Vane. Very young people in Italy and other
southern countries, and more rarely among the lower
classes in America, do sometimes kill themselves for
love. Older men are often driven to suicide by the
grim miseries of real life, by disease, dishonor, grind-
ing poverty, domestic troubles, and overwork. But
Vane, we fear, is only one of those " worldlings " of
whom Carlyle writes with fierce contempt, that " vomit
up their sick existences."
The author of this book has undeniable gifts as
a story-teller. He writes a crisp, nervous style, and
says a number of good things, approaching the
epigrammatic, such as, e. g., "A Frenchman drinks to
go to the devil ; he rarely goes to the devil because he
drinks," and " no one is a pessimist who has to work
for his living." One of the best things in the book is
the capital description of the summer hotel and its
frequenters at " Cinerea Lake," which is not less good
because watering-place life has already been described
in dozens of hotel-piazza-and-flirtation novels. If "J.
S., of Dale," will drop his affectation of cynicism, his
affectation of culture, and his little cosmopolitan airs,
and give us something genuine, his talent will find
worthier employment.
We own to a superstitious respect for a solid, old-
fashioned historical romance like General Lew Wal-
lace's " Ben Hur : a Tale of the Christ," there is so much
" information " in it. It must have taken so much
labor to write it that one is willing to bestow a great
deal in reading it; and when one has come to the last
of its five hundred and fifty-two pages he feels that he
has not been merely trifling with society nonsense, but
has stored his mind by the way with useful knowledge.
To be sure, the people are not very real to us ; even
Ivanhoe is not as credible as he was in our boyhood.
But then who expects them to be real ? The pleasure is
more like that derived from an epic poem. We can read
" Hypatia" once in three years without much fatigue.
Still the historical romance is rather of an anachro-
nism nowadays. Even Ebers's learned novels are
pronounced wax-work, and a lively lady of our ac-
quaintance, who instantly reads every book of Howells,
James, Black, Hardy, etc., as soon as it comes out,
cannot be brought, during the intervals between the
productions of these fertile narrators, even to dip into
"those horrid old B. c. novels." "Ben Hur" is not
precisely a B. C. nor yet altogether an A. D. novel. It
might better be described as a C. novel. Its
hero is a Jew of illustrious birth who has the Old
Testament idea of the Messiah, and is waiting his
coming to serve him with treasure and armies. The
story tells how this Jewish conception is changed into
the Christian one by the actual coming of the Christ.
It is a good novel of its kind, and a successful one.
The author possesses the historic imagination, the
great value of which is to assist the reader in getting
a definite concrete idea of the life which the regular
historians give only in its general aspects. The period
chosen is one rich in contrasts between races, relig-
ions, and states of society. On one side is the gor-
geous, material, sensual civilization of Rome crushing
down the eastern provinces with the brute weight of
its despotism — its legions and its tax-collectors ; on
the other, " the living death of Jerusalem among her
stony hills," inheriting a spiritual faith which with-
stands the Roman power, but is so exclusive and
ritualistic that it must have a new birth in order to
become a means of regeneration to the Gentiles. The
splendor and the inhumanity of this old classic world,
waiting for its Redeemer, are forcibly brought out in
"Ben Hur." There is a spirited description of a
chariot race, and an imaginative picture of the wonder-
ful paradise of the Ephesian Diana, the bright con-
summate flower of Greek and Syrian paganism. And
in sharp contrast with these are the vivid portrayals of
the slow tortures of the Roman galley slaves and the
horrors of leprosy in the caves about Jerusalem. A
sage from India, a princess from Egypt, the chief of
the wandering tribes of Bedouins, emphasize the
mingling of peoples that took place under the Empire ;
and a Saxon athlete, who is hired to kill the hero, hints
at the great impending destiny that hung over the
northern borders of the Roman world, whose descent
was yet to be postponed for four centuries.
There are some who like their history straight and
their fiction straight. Those who prefer them mixed
will find a notable addition to their pleasures in
"Ben Hur."
H. A. B.
Mr. Watts's Pictures in New York.
Mr. G. F. Watts, R. A., has just decided to
yield to the pressure which has been brought to bear
upon him by his friends and admirers in America, and
has promised to send a collection of his most impor-
tant pictures to New York, to the charge of the Metro-
politan Museum of Fine Arts. It is not to be denied
that a great many friends and admirers in England
will feel, and have felt, a good deal of alarm, and
almost of indignation, at this piece of news. When
Mr. Watts summoned me to his house, a day or two
ago, to announce the fact to me and to ask me to
write this " open letter," I confess that I, as the most
humble of his friends and admirers, was alarmed and
indignant. In a certain sense, there is no English
art-product of our day which can so little be permitted
to suffer the wear and tear of travel as Mr. Watts's
pictures. They are painted in such a manner, and
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with such a medium, that they cannot be reproduced
with anything like an adequate result. If we were de-
prived of the actual work of Sir Frederick Leighton
or of Mr. Millais, these masters would still live for us
in engravings and photographs. But no process repro-
duces Mr. Watts's pictures successfully. The engrav-
ings of one or two of them, published in The Century
for August, 1883, are the best that have been made,
and these are very unsatisfactory. Therefore, if the
ship that takes this argosy over to New York should
founder in mid-ocean, Mr. Watts, as one of the chief
glories of our national art, ceases to exist. There act-
ually was once a Royal Academician whose entire
works went bodily to the bottom of the sea, and now
toss with shells and dead men's bones in the surge
of the Bay of Biscay. Mr. Watts's pictures, moreover,
are, in a large measure, not the property of private
persons, but hoarded by him for a public purpose, and
many of them destined at last to be a gift to the nation.
No wonder, therefore, that friendship is alarmed and
reluctant.
Mr. Watts, however, has consented. He first pro-
posed to send a set of large photographs, painted up
in monochrome under his personal direction, so as to
give to America the scheme and sentiment of -each
picture, and everything, indeed, but just the color.
To this and other proposals short of entire concession
the Metropolitan Museum returned a steady refusal;
and now Mr. Watts is gathering together a typical
collection of the best pictures of his life-time to send
to New York this winter. In the article in The
Century to which I have just referred, Mr. Prothero
gave an enthusiastic account of the pictures as they
were seen at the Grosvenor Gallery. Most of what
he so warmly described will shortly be seen in
America — the portraits of men of genius, the "Paolo
and Francesca," the " Psyche," the " Orpheus and
Eurydice," and above all, the solemn and beautiful
" Love and Death." There will, moreover, be certain
important recent works not yet seen by the English
public — in particular, an exquisite " Love and Life,"
which is only just finished, the ambrosial god leading
the timid feminine incarnation of life up a narrow and
rugged mountain pathway — a picture than which the
artist has finished none more full of delicate imag-
ination and tender beauty.
My vocation, however, here is not to stand upon
Mount Gerizim, but upon Mount Ebal. I must not
indulge in the privilege of praising. Mr. Watts de-
sires rather, through me, to warn America of certain
qualities which run throughout his work, which are
part and parcel of its being, and which may cause dis-
appointment to those who have only read the pane-
gyric of his admirers. We understand in this country
that American amateurs take but scanty interest in the
development of our art as English art. They are in-
terested, no doubt, in certain English artists, but not
in English art. French art, on the contrary, we are
told, is almost more interesting to them than French
artists. They like the courageous training of the
Parisian schools ; the undaunted execution, the
splendid brush-power, of the young Parisian painters.
The youths that paint a piece of a street, with a ba-
rouche in it as large as life, or a pilot-boat of the natural
size breaking on a reef that seems to roar with the
surf, — these, no doubt, present us with a sort of art
which is fascinating, marvelous, and peremptory in
its demand on the attention. Any one who has been
a little behind the scenes knows how these " realists"
will pirouette upon their stools before an empty can-
vas half a year, praying for one little idea, even some-
body else's old idea, to descend upon them and give
their skillful hands something to exercise that skill
upon. We suppose, here in England, that when
America contemns our sentimental English art, and
looks to Paris, it is this skill that she admires, and
that the want of thought that underlies the skill
escapes her. Mr. Wafts, at least, believes that the
one goes with the other ; that all this excessive clever-
ness in execution, in imitation of surfaces and tex-
tures, all this wonderful chic and brio and tricks that
are pschutt, are signs of artistic decline. Without
judging Paris or any living school of art, he is anxious
to have it understood, for fear of disappointment, that
this cleverness of imitative execution, the fruit that
deceives the bird, the curtain that deceives the slave,
has never been a matter of solicitude with himself;
that in such work as he has carried through, the idea
has been preeminent ; and that in short he has always
approached art from the point of view of a poet, rather
than of a mere painter.
I do not think that it would in the least amuse Mr.
Watts to be told that any one had fancied his garlands
to be composed of real roses, or his nymphs to be
hung about with real jewels. This has not been his
aim. But if any observer should sincerely say that
the " Love and Life " possessed a Virgilian perfume
and tenderness, that the "Paolo and Francesca"
translated the real sentiment of Dante, or that the
Greek landscapes breathed the spirit of Sophocles,
that, I think, might be conceived to please him. That
Americans should be prepared to find a meaning in
the pictures which are about to cross the sea, not that
they should be looking forward to dazzling executive
effects and juggling with the brush, that seems to be
Mr. Watts's desire. That he has never neglected the
executive part, and that he might make his boast of
his skill if he chose, that is not for me, as his mouth-
piece, to insist in this place.
Edmund Gosse.
London, England.
A Word from the Organ-loft.
In our ordinary congregations, from one-fourth to
one-third of the time spent in public worship is given
to musical exercises of some kind. The management
and direction of divine service is entirely in the hands
of the minister. He either reads the prayers pre-
scribed by the Liturgy, or offers prayer ex tempore.
The selection of the Scripture read is in most cases
his own, while the subject and matter of his sermon
are left entirely to him. For these duties careful
preparation has been made during his years in divin-
ity schools, and he feels his competency to direct. But
is he competent to direct the Service of Praise ? In
most cases he is not; and realizing his insufficiency in
this respect, his want of knowledge of musical mat-
ters, he naturally turns to those who are, or ought to
be, proficient, and delegates to them the direction of
this part of the service.
Why should he delegate the management and direc
.L
BRIC-A-BRAC.
*S1
tion of his Praise Service more than prayer or ser-
mon? "A minister," says Mr. Taylor, "is one who
actually or habitually serves at the altar. The clergy-
man who delegates his functions is not a minister."
In so important a matter as that of the proper con-
ducting of this one-fourth of our service, as thorough
and complete preparation, it would seem, should be
afforded students in our seminaries as for the other
duties of the sacred calling ; but inquiry made of thir-
teen of our leading theological seminaries develops
the remarkable fact that in not one of them does music
form any part of the studies of its course. Is it to be
wondered at, in view of this startling fact, that things
even more repugnant to good taste and to the proper
conduct of the Service of Praise do not take place than
have been recorded in these columns ? I venture the
assertion that careful inquiry into all the ludicrous
cases narrated in Dr. Robinson's letters would de-
velop the fact that not one occurred in a church where
the minister was a good musician, and was in weekly
consultation with his choir director.
The want of proper musical knowledge upon the
part of the minister, the possession of which would
enable him understandingly to direct, together with
the want of consultation with the chorister, which
should be in time to arrange for the Sunday's services,
— here is where the fault with the "music in our
churches " is to be largely, if not mainly, sought and
found.
The remedy, I believe, is of easy application; let
our theological seminaries provide competent instruct-
ors in music; let there be among the students free
and full consultation and criticism in musical matters ;
let this study be not an " annex" to the course of
study, but let it take the place it deserves to occupy
among the preparations for the ministry ; let the op-
portunity be given the students for instruction in this
important part of the conduct of public worship —
whether there be musical talent or not among them ;
— let this be done, and then, with as careful prepara-
tion in musical matters as in their other studies, it will
doubtless be found after a while that the minister will
have no more trouble with the conduct of this part of
public worship than with the other parts, for all of
which he is equally responsible, and should be alike
qualified.
Diapason.
BRIC-A-BRAC.
In Arcadia.
Uncle Esek's Wisdom.
Because I choose to keep my seat,
Nor join the giddy dancers' whirl,
I pray you do not laugh, my girl,
Nor ask me why I find it sweet
In my old age to watch your glee —
I, too, have been in Arcady.
And though full well I know I seem
Quite out of place in scenes like this,
You can't imagine how much bliss
It gives me just to sit and dream,
As your fair form goes flitting by,
How I, too, dwelt in Arcady.
For, sweetheart, in your merry eyes
A vanished summer buds and blows,
And with the same bright cheeks of rose
I see your mother's image rise,
And o'er a long and weary track
My buried boyhood wanders back.
And as with tear-dimmed eyes I cast
On your sweet form my swimming glance,
I think your mother used to dance
Just as you do, in that dead past,
Long years ago, — yes, fifty-three, —
When I, too, dwelt in Arcady.
And in the music's laughing notes
I seem to hear old voices ring
That have been hushed, ah ! many a spring,
And round about me faintly floats
The echo of a melody
I used to hear in Arcady.
And yonder youth — nay, do not blush,
The boy's his father o'er again;
And hark ye, Miss, I was not plain
When at his age — what ! must I hush ?
He's coming this way? Yes, I see —
You two* yet dwell in Arcady.
R. T. W. Duke, Jr.
You can encourage the timid, restrain the bold,
punish the wicked, but for the weak there is no help.
The most reliable people we have are those whose
brains are located in their heads.
There is nothing like necessity to quicken a man, —
I once knew a man who was the laziest fellow on
earth, until he lost a leg by accident, after that no able-
bodied man could get around the village as quick as
he could on one leg and a crutch.
Don't go back, my friend, after many years, to
your old home expecting to be made happy; for, if you
ever happened to commit an indiscretion in your boy-
hood days, people will remember nothing but that, and
most of them will remind you of it.
What the world wants the most is novelty and dis-
patch. Civilization has so quickened all things, that,
before another hundred years rolls around, we shall
require a quicker kind of lightning than we have now
to do our telegraph business with.
There are those so pure that they are continually
repenting of sins they haven't the pluck to commit.
Learning seems to be rapidly driving all the com-
mon sense out of the world.
Uncle Esek.
Love Passes By.
(FROM THE SPANISH.)
The pure invisible atoms of air
Palpitate, break into warmth and glory ;
The Heavens descend in rays of light.
Earth trembles with silent, unspeakable bliss,
A pang of delight, too dear !
Strange shocks and tumults of harmony
Swell on the winds, and fall and die !
In broken music I seem to hear
Confused, half-told, an exquisite story,
A murmur of kisses and rustling wings.
My eyelids close. What can it be
This marvelous presence so far, so near,
This unseen vision, I dare not see?
Love passes by !
Mary Ainge De Vere.
15*
BRIC-A-BRAC.
Not Too Early, Pretty Doves.
How is it, little lady mine,
That you in silence sit and pine?
Well in your teens, and have not heard
How worthless is a youngster's word !
Why, if he'd meant it, kept it true,
It had been worse for both of you.
Boyish vows are better broken,
Misses' secrets never spoken :
Sing well-a-day,
If lasses would say nay
The lads would stay away.
Aha, my stripling, sighing there,
And staring into empty air,
The rustle of a rustic gown
Will trap a fellow fresh from town !
Up, sir, for shame ! let folly go,
And thank your stars she served you so.
Shallow brains are better parted,
Soon are cured such broken-hearted :
Sing well-a-day,
If lads would stay away
No lassie could say nay.
Coo not too early, pretty doves ;
Pin-feather fancies, callow loves,
My little birdlings, they remain
No more than rainbows after rain.
A girl's a girl, a boy's a fool,
And life it proves a sorry school ;
When the chickens fix the feather,
Know there will be change of weather:
Sing well-a-day —
Lo, yonder hies away
Gaius to Tabitha !
John Vance Cheney.
Amy.
Amy, of old a bold knight,
Naming his lady-love true
Ere he went forth to the fight,
Conquered a foeman or two ;
Victory surely I might
Claim for my love, for I, too,
Whisper your name in my plight,
Amy aimee, m'amtez-vous ?
Amy, je t-aime ; that is trite,
Tell me how better to wooj
Shall I an Iliad write
Or a perfumed billet-doux?
No — are you satisfied quite,
Tell me, my sweetest, are you ?
Answer me, mischievous sprite,
Amy aimee, nC aimez-vous ?
Amy, why turn from my sight
Eyes of" such lovable blue ?
Is it for fear that I might
Guess what is hidden from view ?
Do your fair cheeks, that were white,
Blush a soft "yes" when I sue;
Do your eyes fill with love-light,
Amy aimee, ni1 aimez-vous ?
l'envoi.
Amy, my arms hold you tight,
Captive you are until you
Answer, and answer aright,
Amy aimee, m ] aimez-vous ?
H. C. Faulkner.
My Mural Chum.
That queer old pattern on the papered wall
Has been my boon companion, so to speak,
From tick to tack of clock, by night and day,
Through many a morbid, melancholy week.
The quaint old pattern, with its tawny blots,
With crack, and scratch, and countless colored stain,
Has furnished me with numerous wondrous scenes,
To please my fancy on this bed of pain.
I've grown familiar with its grim old face ;
I've learned to love its blue and yellow chart ;
Its meaningless and odd contorted forms
Have won their way into a sick man's heart.
Here is a butterfly, and there a face;
And here, where last year's snow has trickled through,
Blending in one the red and yellow scrolls,
I have a most enchanting mountain view.
Here is a ruined castle on the Rhine,
With distant hills and knights in grand array ;
There is the river, flecked with blue and white,
Reflecting boats at anchor in the bay.
There, where a bureau has abrased the wall,
Behold the prairie, with a caravan :
Long sinuous teams of snowy, covered carts ;
And in the foreground a Red Indian.
A smear of ink, — a boy and dog at play ;
Some fruit-stains, with the pattern mingled, make
A sunset glow on sheet of water fair :
Lucerne, Loch Lomond, or sweet Como's lake.
And there's a goblin glaring with round eyes,
With pointed beard, and ears, and curling nose;
Who taunts me while awake in pain I writhe,
And haunts my dreams when I wrould seek repose.
It even seems to me, some objects move,
Wagging their heads or smiling back my smiles,
The people in that patterned paper queer,
Are filled with quips, and quirks, and elfish wiles.
Yet still I love it, that old, stained, absurd,
Preposterous, prismatic, rheumy thing,
For it has been a solace in my pain,
And robbed grim loneliness of half its sting.
Frank Bellew.
Could She Have Guessed ?
Could she have guessed my coward care?
I knew her foot upon the stair,
Her figure chained my inmost eye;
I only looked a lover's lie, —
I feigned indifference, felt despair.
My very blood leaped up, aware
Of her free step and morning air ;
She raised her head, she caught my eye-
Could she have guessed ?
I faced her with a chilly stare,
With words so common and so bare \
Her whispering skirts, as she went by,
Swept every sense — a thrilling sigh !
Ah, would her heart have heard my prayer,
Could she have guessed?
Elaine Goodale*
i6o
BRIC-A-BRAC.
To Modjeska as Rosalind.
When from the poet's brain fair Arden's glades
Were peopled with the lightsome folk we know,
A shade of discontent was seen to grow
Upon his brow, as he through long decades
In vision saw this loveliest of his maids
By beardless boys enacted, and her show
Of maiden grace obscured and hidden so
In guise of youths half won from boyish trades.
Soon changed the vision and through centuries far
A group of women fair he then did see,
Whose hearts, one after other, were beguiled
By some Orlando's youth and bravery,
And in the throng, and radiant as a star,
On thee, the mighty master, looking, smiled !
Oscar Fay Adams.
A Cigar.
Alone I puff soft wreaths of blue
That frame a most delightful view; —
A little library with two
Together sitting :
A youth and girl. Upon her knees
A novel with a hero, he's
A ghostly circumstance to these
Quaint wraps she's knitting.
The lover holds the worsted, and
Just touches one fair pinky hand :
How well her bright eyes understand !
For soon, unbidden,
Two scarlet lips begin to move
A conversation in that groove
Where chosen words quite clearly prove
The subject hidden.
And then the knitting's laid aside ;
The needle's dropped ; and some sweet guide
Leads both his hands to haply hide
Two others whiter.
I listen, and a mellow note
Slips through the rosy, rounded throat :
I hear the happy lover quote
The novel's writer.
The writer, — ah, what kind fates come
To keep harsh criticism from
His little book : perhaps 'tis some
Such situation ; —
A picture similar to this,
Portraying a brief spell of bliss,
And punctuated with a kiss-
Interrogation.
I see the faces slowly meet,
And shy, uncertain glances greet:
The knitting's fallen to her feet ;
And on his shoulder
Her head in golden glory lies,
While, fathoming her lovely eyes,
He reads the tenderest replies, —
Love growing bolder.
But, while I dream in idleness,
And wonder whether she will bless
His hearing with a whispered "yes," —
With drooping lashes;
The picture fades from sight afar
As pales at morn a silver star ;
I seek the light of my cigar,
And find but ashes.
Frank Dempster Shemnan.
Grandfather's Rose.
Does yo' see dem yaller roses clingin' to de cabin wall,
Whar de bright sunshine twinkle all de day ?
I's got a yaller rose dat's sweeter dan dem all,
An' I's gwine to gib my yaller rose away —
Dat pesky dandy Jim, wid his button-hole bouquet,
He knows I's gwine to gib my rose, my yaller rose,
away.
Oh, my yaller rose, it growed close to de cabin flo';
And its mammy lef it 'fore it 'gun to climb,
But it run kind o' wild in an' out de cottage do',
An' it got roun' de ole man ebery time —
I's mighty loth to do it, but I hasn't long to stay —
So I's gwine to gib my wild rose, my yaller rose, away.
Now, dandy Jim's de parson's son — dey growed up
side by side,
My yaller rose an' dat ar harnsome boy,
Sense she's a leetle creepsy ting, dat Jim has been
her pride;
But now an' den she grows a leetle coy —
But I spec's it's 'cause I tole her — 'twas on'y t'other
day —
Dat Jim had got his cabin done, an' I was gwine away.
She put dem little han's in mine, her head upon my
breas',
An' dar she seemed to sort o' sob an' sigh.
I couldn't tell de matter, but it wasn't hard to guess
Dat she moaning 'cause de ole man gwine to die ;
So I coax my pretty wild rose wid kisses, and I say,
"De ole man gwine to lib, perhaps, dese many an'
many a day."
Oh ! boys, I didn't hab a t'ought dat bressed head
would lay
On any oder breas' but Jim's an' mine ;
I t'ought dat I could hold her, to keep or gib away,
But she gone to make some oder garding shine ;
Her ma got tired o' waitin' may be, lonesome so to say,
So she axed de king ob de garding to take my rose
away.
Dear lamb ! she sleeping sof 'ly, widout a tear or
sigh,
Wid de wild flowers on her little cabin bed,
An' we's a-settin' side ob her, poor dandy Jim an' I,
An' a-wailin', an' a-wishin' we was dead.
I'd a-g'in my life for her an' Jim, why couldn't He
let her stay ?
I's old an' withered, de Marster knows, but He took
my rose away.
I's bery lonesome an' so is Jim — he's often ober, now,
An' dem honeysuckle faded long ago ;
When de sun shines in de cabin, or it's time to milk
de cow,
I kin seem to hear her foot upon de flo' ;
Oh, my wild rose ! my yaller rose ! it's mighty hard
to stay ; —
It seems as if de Lord forgit when He took my Rose
away.
Mary A. Denison.
The New Play.
The play was dull from end to end.
The dramatist address'd his friend :
" If not a hit, 'twas not a miss ;
I did not hear a single hiss."
" True," said his friend, " but tell me whether
A man can hiss and gape together ? "
• George Birdseye.
The Century Magazine.
Vol. XXIX.
DECEMBER, 1884.
No. 2.
DUBLIN CITY.
Dublin is not a provincial city ; it is the
decayed capital of the English in Ireland.
We visit Manchester or Birmingham, and are
borne along by a far fuller and fresher tide
of life than that which flows in our Dublin
streets; noble buildings, dedicated to public
uses, have sprung up in those great cities during
recent years ; the citizens are full of zeal for
industry, science, art, even though high in air
a solid firmament of mammon and mammon-
worship may overarch these, and shut out the
spaces and upper gales of heaven ; every one is
awake and stirring with a lithe activity; no one
(unless it be the author of " John Inglesant " at
Edgebaston) dreams of the past; and yet all
this life is distinctively life in the provinces. We
return to Dublin, and move among the tradi-
tions of a capital, but of a capital that has
fallen into decay. Not that our numbers have
declined since the Union ; on the contrary,
Ptolemy's tribe of Eblani has largely multi-
plied; but other cities have robbed us of
preeminence in point of numbers, and our
dignities, which were unique, have disap-
peared. Seventy years ago Dublin was the
second city of the British Empire, and only
half a dozen capitals in Europe exceeded it in
population and extent. A century since one
hundred lords and two or three hundred great
commoners brought wealth, and influence,
and splendor, and gayety to the chief city of
their native land. The Viceroy's court, if he
were a liberal and pleasure-loving nobleman,
exceeded in brilliance that of George III. The
great nobles of Ireland had each his town man-
sion, many of these as spacious and proud as
the palaces of the magnificoes of Florence
or Venice. The stone-cutter's chisel, the ma-
son's trowel, rang by the river-side, and in the
central thoroughfares; public buildings, — the
custom-house, the Four Courts, and others, —
conceived on a great scale and with a certain
majestic unity of design, were climbing aloft ;
on one was spent ^200,000, on another twice
that sum. Now they dominate the streets
and quays, noble but inanimate examples
of exotic architecture, neo-classical fabrics
of the eighteenth century, impressive at a
single view, stupid in details ; there they
stand, and we have little need to build.
Wealthy benefactors keep our cathedrals from
crumbling and endeavor to renew their beauty,
and that is all. If we want a city hall, we
move into the deserted Exchange ; if we need
offices for this public service or that, we bor-
row an acre of empty rooms from the Cus-
tom-house ; if we wish to set up a library, a
" mendicity institution," or a bank, we can
easily acquire possession of the deserted
palazzo of some absentee Irish nobleman,
turning it to better uses possibly than those
of its gaudy days.
The capital of Ireland was never an Irish
city. " Dubhlinn of Ath Cliath," the " dark
waters of the ford of hurdles," was at first
only the dusky river flowing from bog and
turf, with some few huts, and a wicker bridge
by which the great road from Tara — home of
kings — was continued across the Liffey. In
later years it was the fortress of the Scandi-
navians, of the Anglo-Normans, or of the
English in Ireland ; never the center of the
native race. At one time His Majesty of Eng-
land graciously made a present of Dublin to
his faithful subjects of Bristol ; five hundred
of these faithful subjects, on Easter Monday,
went forth to disport themselves in the fields,
almost on the spot where these lines are
written. The Irish on the hills and in the
woods were on the watch for them, and
swept down suddenly on the luckless Bristo-
lians. The names " Black Monday " and the
[Copyright, 1884, by The Century Co. All rights reserved.]
164
DUBLIN CITY.
" Bloody Fields " commemorate what hap-
pened on that day. It was a custom with the
citizens, in later years, to march on each an-
niversary of the dismal Monday to the scene
of slaughter and display their banner in token
of contempt for their Irish foes " The cit-
izens," said Holinshed, " have, from time to
time, in sundry conflicts, so galled the Irish,
that even to this day the Irish fear a ragged
and jagged black standard that the citizens
have almost, through tract of time, worn to
the hard stumps." These are not the rela-
tions which ought to subsist between the cap-
ital of a country and the country-folk living
around it. When Thackeray visited Ireland
in 1842, the first sight that greeted him on
landing was a hideous obelisk stuck upon
four fat balls, and surmounted with a crown
on a cushion, commemorating the sacred
spot touched by the foot of George IV. In
the Exchange was a pert statue of George
III. in a Roman toga, simpering and turn-
ing out his toes. Two nursery-maids were
keeping company with the statue of George
I., who rides on horseback in the center of
Stephen's Green. George II. was visible
peering over a paling in Dawson street.
" How absurd," Thackeray breaks out, " these
pompous images look of defunct majesties,
for whom no breathing soul cares a half-
penny ! " Absurd enough ; but only a petty
fragment of the huge absurdity that Ireland
might do honor to anything, provided only it
was not Irish. Even so late as 1856 a writer
complains that no public statue of an illus-
trious Irishman has ever graced the Irish
capital. " Dublin," he says, " is connected
with Irish patriotism only by the scaffold
and the gallows." This complaint of thirty
years ago can no longer be uttered. Perhaps
at present there is an inclination to brandish
the green banner a little too vehemently in
the faces of all men ; to thrust a pasteboard
" sun-burst " high in air and gaze in rapture
upon the glorious apparition ; to view all
things through an emerald mist. " Not Greece
of old in her palmiest days," — thus opens a
popular life of Lord Edward Fitzgerald, —
"the Greece of Homer and Demosthenes, of
JEschylus, Euripides, and Sophocles, of Per-
icles, Leonidas, and Alcibiades, of Socrates,
Plato, and Aristotle, of Solon and Lycurgus,
of Apelles and Praxiteles, — not even this
Greece, prolific as she was in sages and he-
roes, can boast such a lengthy bead-roll as
Ireland can of names worthy of the immor-
tality of history." With self-criticism comes
respect ; such a rhodomontade as this means
THE CUSTOM-HOUSE.
DUBLIN CITY.
'65
DUBLIN CASTLE, THE RESIDENCE OF THE LORD-LIEUTENANT.
at to render life tolerable we have long had
lap ourselves in dear delusions, and that
e habit still clings.
When Dublin broke forth beyond the nar-
■w bounds of the city walls (of which some
igments still remain), its growth was deter-
ined by the river with its bridges. Each
idge serving to connect the south side of
e city with the north required an outlet for
> stream of passengers to north and south,
id these avenues were crossed by streets
nning east and west, parallel with the river,
round all lay a kind of rural boulevard, nine
iles in circuit, but this has long been in-
osed by suburbs drawn farther and farther
vay by the fresh air of the hills and of the
a. The charm of Dublin is that it never
iprisons you; it lays no intolerable night-
are on the spirit ; from its decayed grand-
lrs, its living squalors, you can escape in half
1 hour to unspoiled country, where no man-
:actory chimney belches smoke, no mountain
: ash and slag rises hideous ; to hills where
te furze and heather make a glow in autumn;
> sea-buttresses overrun by the daintiest flow-
's of spring, where the gull floats far below
3u in mid-air, or descends with his delicate
:ream to touch the waves where the por-
3ise tumbles; where in summer, if you scram-
le down the cliff, you may perchance watch
>r an hour the seal thrusting ever and anon
above green water his grotesque head, lit by
two amiable, almost human little eyes. Over
some of these spots, now accessible in a brief
space of time by tram-car or train from the
midst of the city, romantic memories hover.
Here in Howth Park stands a cromlech, under
which lies Aideen of Ben-Edar, who pined
away and died when her husband Oscar, son
of Ossian the bard, fell at the battle of Gavra;
around her grave the Fenian heroes stood
sorrowing :
" They heaved the stone ; they heap'd the cairn ;
Said Ossian, ' In a queenly grave
We leave her, 'mong her fields of fern,
Between the cliff and wave.
" 'The cliff behind stands clear and bare,
And bare, above, the heathery steep
Scales the clear heaven's expanse, to where
The Danaan Druids sleep.'"
Here, by the sea-shore at Clontarf, King
Brian in hoariest old age rode, his golden-
hilted sword in one hand, a crucifix in the
other, animating his warriors to meet the
Norsemen ; and here he flung back the in-
vaders, and fell beneath the battle-axe of the
sorcerer and apostate Brodar. On that day
there were strange presages of death ; the god
Odin descended on his gray charger, halbert
in hand, before the battle ; swords leaped at
night from their scabbards ; a man of Caith-
j 66
DUBLIN CITY.
ifSf^g
GOLDSMITH S
STATUE,
COLLEGE YARD.
ness caught sight of twelve
strange folk riding as the wind,
and entering a hill-side; he pur-
sued them and gazed in — they
were the Fatal Sisters, Choosers
of the Slain ; and there they
wove the crimson web, with hu-
man heads for the weights of
their loom, men's entrails for
the warp and woof, a sword for
shuttle, and arrows for the reels ;
and as they wove they chaunted
that dreadful song which Gray
translated from the Norwegian
for English readers. Elsewhere,
but still on the skirts of Dublin,
is a spot fatal, not in the annals
of war, but of love — Chapel-
izod, a village from which rises
a gray church tower. Here Sir
Tristram of the Round Table, disguised as a
harper, and calling himself Tramtrist, was put
to the keeping of the beautiful Iseult to be heal-
ed of the wound received from her brother's
envenomed spear ; here, when restored, he was
arrayed by Iseult's hand in harness, and sent
forth to the jousts — " and right so she put
him out at a privy postern, and so he came
into the field as it had been a bright angel."
More potent than any love-philter with a
woman's heart it is to have saved a noble
champion from despair and death, and have
sent him forth arrayed by her hands to do
deeds of high emprise. Iseult's Tower, near
Dublin Castle, has disappeared, and Iseult's
Fount no longer murmurs and gleams ; but
Chapelizod, the Chapel of Iseult, is at least a
living name. If any one in our nineteenth
century should follow Dante to that " second
circle of sad hell" where he beheld Tristram,
it will be a momentary solace to the afflicted
lover to learn that his story is still sung on
earth by high poets, and that pilgrims now
and again visit the spot where Iseult of Ireland
shed tears at his leave-taking.
The traveler from Holyhead to Kingstown
must put back his watch five and twenty
minutes on touching Irish soil. Evidently
the English people get through the twenty-
four hours of the day faster than we do. We
lounge and loiter through life, knowing that
we shall come to the end soon enough. When
things around us get a little out of gear, we
do not hurry to set them to rights; the peas-
ant stuffs an old stocking into the gap of his
window-pane; my Lord Mayor and the Town
Councilors watch the Liffey swirl past, a
steaming sewer, and proceed to elect a Public
Health Committee. We are not oppressed
with riches or business. We are a pleasant,
gossiping, story-telling, scandal-mongering
tribe. We cannot avoid seeing the same faces
day after day, and so we watch one another
closely, or we should have nothing to gossip
about, and should die of ennui. We cannot
afford to quarrel with friends whom we meet
at every dinner-table; so we make amends
by giving our opinion of these friends behind
their backs with touching candor. We have
no plutocracy among us, and no Bohemians.
If a man makes a vast number of hogsheads
of beer or barrels of whisky, he becomes a
kind of spiritual peer and builds synod-houses
or restores cathedrals, and is respected almost
as much as if he belonged to the shabby-gen-
teel class ; but here we draw the line, — at this
point our sense of gentility becomes inexora-
ble. We are equally intolerant of any approach
toward the literary or artistic gypsy life, or
any wandering propensities in matters of
opinion. Revolters are too few among us to
have a good time of it together ; each must
needs be his own center of spiritual activity,
and his circumference as well as center ; each
must warm himself at his internal fires. Even
from the University no wave of thought has
ever spread abroad and ruffled the blue
inane; individual thinkers — we need but
name Berkeley — have produced a profound
impression, but no general movement of
thought and feeling has ever startled society
out of the trance of custom.
I am bound in loyalty to look on Trinity
College as the central point of our metropoli-
tan city, and as the eye of Ireland. It is an
eye which long squinted in the direction of
the dominant religion (and yet squinted with
a less villainous obliquity than most other
Irish institutions), but on the threat of a pain-
ful operation it righted itself with miraculous
celerity. I have loyally tried to admire the
TRINITY COLLEGE, FROM THE GREEN.
BUB LIN CITY.
THE COLLEGE GREEN.
college front, with its classic pavilions, stony
festoons, pilasters, and deadly rows — three
hundred feet long — of barrack windows, and
my failure has been signal ; but Foley's statues
of Burke and Goldsmith make one proud or
pensive, and the classical desolation of abom-
ination is for a moment forgotten. Burke,
indeed, might be any one else — the philoso-
pher is submerged by the orator ; but Gold-
smith can be no other than the most beloved,
jfoolish, wise, playful, serious, mirthful, tender
of the sons of Ireland. His grave cannot be
[identified in the burial-ground of the Temple ;
doubtless he grew weary of lying in English
earth, with the perpetual roar of Fleet street
jin his ears ; his heart untraveled turned
jfondly homeward. I cannot but think that
dead or alive he would, in the end, set his
face toward Lissoy, bringing back to Ireland
his brogue and his blunders ; and how gladly
the land that gave him birth would catch to
her breast the wayward child! One other
statue the University should possess — not
Swift's, for he has a sufficient monument in
Dublin, but that of Berkeley ; it should be of
marble, and his silent face appear as the
index of a mind forever
"Voyaging through strange seas of Thought, alone."
In consideration of his studies on Rhode
jlsland and his fine dream of a college in the
jremote Bermoothes, the sculptor (and sub-
scription) might be American ; and we should
167
inscribe on the pedestal Berke-
ley's magnificent prophecy :
" Westward the course of Empire
takes its way,
The first four Acts already past ;
A fifth shall close the drama and the
day;
Time's noblest offspring is the last."
Goldsmith's brutal tutor,
Wilder, and Berkeley, possess-
ing every virtue under heaven,
represent the fine varieties that
have exhibited themselves
among the fellows of our col-
lege. The Wilders, if any exist,
have moved upward, " working
out the beast"; the Berkeleys,
it is to be feared, have dropped
something of the angel. Hav-
ing after an arduous examina-
tion won his fellowship at the
age of twenty-three or twenty-
four, the successful candidate, on
condition of performing a mod-
erate amount of daily drudgery,
is assured a fair competency for
life, and may, if he pleases,
grow daily more ignorant during
sixty years ; thus an almost incredible attain-
ment in ignorance becomes possible. Or he
may choose to grow daily more learned dur-
ing the same period, and the result is equally
appalling. Between the two types stands a
literary roi faineant who lives upon the rep-
utation of a great unwritten book ; the ma-
terials have been accumulating during half a
century. The author's vast range and abys-
mal profundity necessarily delay the enter-
prise ; but favored friends have beheld his
manuscript — " a sight to dream of, not to
tell." Suddenly one morning the
college bell booms with a muf-
fled monotone. The great scholar
has died of fatty degeneration
of the heart. The great treatise
seems to have perished by the
same disease and to have van-
ished from existence with its
author. Of late the roi faineant
has been largely replaced by the
genuine scholar. We are proving
our right to exist, and trust that
the good axe which hewed down
cumberers of the ground in Ire-
land may spare the most useful
and flourishing of its institutions.
We could brandish brilliant names in the face
of the world, but Irishmen are modest. There
is among us a Mezzofanti, who, having mas-
tered all tongues, weeps for a new language to
conquer; it has been suggested that he might
BURKE S STATUE.
1 68
DUBLIN CITY.
:" "'^^.>V.i;:
j. yUM"
AN ALLEYWAY.
try to forget Japanese. Our library, where once
the erudite Jacky Barrett — afterward Vice-
Provost — ruled, is, as the guide-books say, "an
extensive stone building" — so extensive, in-
deed, that on a foggy winter morning, look-
ing from the entrance of the great room, you
see no end, and believe that it may be pos-
sible to advance forever through an intermi-
nable vista of folios. Here Dr. Barrett's ghost
must surely wander — a dwarfish figure with
parrot's nose, locks radiating from his head
like a bunch of radishes, the curls that had
fallen off being attached by hair-pins to the
back of his head, and with voice, if ghosts
can speak, of a gritty, angular quality, and
rapid yet emphatic articulation. Jacky wore
breeches brown in reality, but called in cour-
tesy black, a shirt black in reality, but called
in courtesy white, hose, and no cravat. He
washed his face and hands on the occasion
of a fellowship examination, — once, perhaps,
in two years, — and was, in consequence,
hardly recognizable by his friends. He was
a severe misogynist. " What other mainin'
(meaning) has rosh beside caput ? " he asked
at a Hebrew examination. " Why, it manes
p'ison (poison) ; and there's a passage in
Scripture which is translated, What head's
above the head of a woman ? — but it ought
to be, What prison's above the prison of a
woman ? " Him I have never seen in ghostly
or bodily form. But once in the innermost
recesses of the Fagel Library I beheld the
apparition of a man perched on the top of a
ladder. It was an unearthly and ghostly fig-
ure in a brown garment, the blanched hair
totally unkempt, the corpse-like features still
as marble ; a large book was in his arms, and
all his soul was in the book. I remembered
that this was the luckless poet, Clarence
Mangan, dead since 1849 5 tnat Jonn Mitchel
had seen him in bodily form, yet a spectral
creature in this same attitude, and that the
very words which came to my mind to de-
scribe him withal were Mitchel's words.
In College Green, facing the college, and
in front of the sometime Houses of Parlia-
ment— his old domain — stands the admira-
ble statue of Grattan, by Foley. His hand is
flung in air by the passion of his thought ; he
has just liberated his mind by some noble
utterance. Which, I wonder, of many noble
utterances ? Ranting extravagances in his
own plays were styled by Dryden " the Deli-
lahs of the theater." Delilahs of the senate-
house found numerous admirers in the Irish
BANK OF IRELAND.
DUBLIN CITY.
169
OLD HOUSES ON THE LIFFEY.
House of Commons ; but Grattan's eloquent
explosions meant not merely smoke and fire,
but solid grape-shot. Perhaps Foley had in
his mind the invocation, mouthed since 1782
a thousand times by every blatant, unfledged
Demosthenes : " Spirit of Swift ! Spirit of
Molyneux ! Your genius has prevailed ! Ire-
land is now a nation ! In that new character
I hail her ! and bowing in her august presence
I say, lEsto perpetua / ' " But I like better
to think that he has just flung out his defiant
words of two years earlier, when he moved in
the House the Declaration of Rights : " 1 wish
for nothing but to breathe, in this our island,
in common with my fellow-subjects, the air
of liberty. I have no ambition, unless it be
the ambition to break your chain and con-
template your glory. I never will be satisfied
so long as the meanest cottager in Ireland
has a link of the British chain clanging to
his rags; he maybe naked — he shall not be
in iron ; and I do see the time is at hand, the
spirit is gone forth, the declaration is planted ;
Vol. XXIX.— 17.
and though great men should apostatize, yet
the cause will live ; and though the public
speaker should die, yet the immortal fire shall
outlast the organ which conveyed it, and the
breath of liberty, like the word of the holy
man, will not die with the prophet, but survive
him." Foley's man of bronze was in reality a
man of fine and fragile nerves. Perhaps a
more heroic but more difficult memorial of
Grattan might have been executed, had he
been represented as he appeared in the House
on the night when Ireland lost her independ-
ence— risen from a bed of illness, and dressed
hastily in the uniform of the Volunteers, so
feeble that he could not stand alone, his head
drooped upon his chest, his eye sparkling
with unwonted fire, the flush of passion on
his cheek. " There was a moment's pause,"
writes our historian, Lecky, " an electric thrill
passed through the House, and then a long,
wild cheer burst from the galleries. Then
was witnessed that spectacle, among the
grandest in the whole range of mental phe-
I7°
DUBLIN CITY.
nomena, of mind asserting its supremacy over
matter, of the power of enthusiasm, and the
power of genius nerving a feeble and emaci-
ated frame. As the fire of oratory kindled, —
as the angel of enthusiasm touched those
pallid lips with the living coal, — as the old
scenes crowded on the speaker's mind, and
the old plaudits broke upon his ear, it seemed
as though the force of disease was neutralized
TOM MOORE S STATUE.
and the buoyancy of youth restored. For
more than two hours he poured forth a stream
of epigram, of argument, and of appeal," —
poured forth such life as was in him, but in
vain. By permission of the Speaker, Grattan
kept his seat while addressing the House, yet
his action had a commanding energy. Here
is a novel and romantic subject for some future
sculptor to present. The Houses of Parlia-
ment are now put to substantial, if not very
sentimental, uses. The satirist can easily raise
a smile :
" Here where old Freedom once was used to wait
Her darling Grattan nightly at the gate,
Now little clerks in hall and colonnade
Tot the poor items of provincial trade ;
Lo, round the walls that Bushe and Plunket shook
The teller's desk, the runner's pocket-book."
Yet it is highly agreeable (even poets feel
this) to have an account to your credit at the
bank ; and the clerk who cashes a check for
you is, after all, a much more interesting and
admirable person than many of the fine gentle-
men who sold their votes and pocketed their
bribes in the days of Lord Castlereagh.
Thackeray could have gladly seen our gen-
erations of royal Georges in effigy abolished,
but would have spared William III. in Col-
lege Green. He was right, for a portion of
the history and life of Dublin has gathered
around his leaden majesty. Each year from
1 70 1 onward for more than a century, on the
anniversary of William's birthday, the Lord
Lieutenant, the Lord Mayor and aldermen,
the Lord Chancellor and judges, the Provost
of Trinity College, and other notabilities
paraded thrice around the statue, trying to
look grave, so to do honor to the " pious,
glorious, and immortal memory." Many of
the college lads were Jacobites, and some-
times the gray of morning would discover two
figures astride of the leaden horse — one the
hero of the Boyne, dressed up with hay, the
other a man of straw, leaning limp against
the hero's shoulders. The volunteers would
muster, and bang off their cannons and blaze
their feu de joie around the statue. King
William survived the insults and defied the
assaults of his enemies until a fatal night
of April, 1836; a mysterious light was ob-
served that night in his neighborhood, and
presently there followed a deafening explosion;
the king flew high in air as if through some
violent apotheosis, then fell, a shattered bulk
of royalty, and lay flat, ignominiously indif-
ferent to popery, prelacy, brass money, and
wooden shoes. In the morning they carted
the body to a police office, and held an
inquest; physicians discovered an envious
puncture between hip and saddle-skirt. Irish
criminals have been restored to life after their
execution by judicious blood-letting from the
jugular vein. The grand monarch, by this or
some other device, was revivified; his mangled
limbs were made straight, his Roman nose
was set, and when Thackeray pleaded in his
behalf, my Lord Mayor, Daniel O'Connell,
had the king under a canvas, and was paint-
ing him of a bright green picked out with yel-
low— his lordship's own livery.
Turning Liffeyward, we observe some one
else beckoning to us from his pedestal —
probably some patriot chimney-sweep, he
looks so black and grimy; or, this lumpish
nigritude, can it indeed be meant for Tom
Moore ?
" This were a popet in an arm to embrace
For any womman smal and fair of face."
Our western bulbul, half Cupid and half tom-
tit, was the most dapper little gentleman,
compact of sentiment and sense; this is a
shapeless blot upon the face of day. And so
charming a subject has been lost. The sculp-
tor might have shown us the grave Muse
laying Master Tommy across her knee and
inflicting motherly chastisement for his early
indiscretions; or the melodist might have
appeared in the dainty trim assumed for an
evening at Carlton House, smilingly taking
his harp down from the willows when the
titled folk of Babylon begged him to sing them
one of the songs of Erin ; or, better still, why
not let us see him, unspoiled at heart, in his
modest home, resting for a moment amid the
industrious hours, while a gteam passes across
his lips and brow, and he pens in his diary such
words as these: "A strange life mine; but
DUBLIN CITY.
171
the best as well as the pleasantest part of it
lies at home. I told my dear Bessy, this
morning, that while I stood at my study win-
dow, looking out at her, as she crossed the
field, I sent a blessing after her. ' Thank you,
bird,' she replied, ' that's better than money' ;
and so it is. ' Bird' was a pet name she gave
me in our younger days." But Bessy, when she
gave the pretty pet name, did not think of
such a fossil bird as this upon the pedestal —
slow-waddling, web-footed ornithorhynchus.
Still statues and statues ! Smith O'Brien, with
a pert, pugnacious aspect, little characteristic
of that indiscreet and gallant gentleman, folds
his arms and projects his toe in air; the back
of the statue is the best of it, for the three
wrinkles in the marble frock-coat are admira-
bly realistic, and, indeed, it is only an artist
in frock-coats that can adequately appreciate
them. From across the bridge the Liberator
gazes forth sublime, and dwarfs the petty race
of mortals creeping past. He needs a sea of
faces around and beneath him to set him off;
then, for certain, he would open his lips and
give tongue, like the huge watch-dog whose
place Cuchullin took in Celtic legend, or like
the hounds that uttered "sweet thunder" in
Theseus' hearing, for he seems one of their
race, whose
" Heads are hung
With ears that sweep away the morning dew;
Crook-knee'd and dewlapp'd like Thessalian bulls."
Lacking his oceanic democracy, O'Connell's
occupation is gone ; the burly tribune hardly
knows what to do so high above earth, in
solitude, commercing with the skies. It was
well for him that, when unveiled, the wide
avenue beneath was surging and alive. An
Irish procession, numbering tens of thousands,
is full of animation, yet admirable for order
if only it is intrusted with the guardianship
of the peace, possesses a sense of responsibil-
ity, and is marshaled by its chosen leaders.
It is, however, lamentably deficient in the
artistic instinct; with much brightness or
glooms of temper, its strong side is not com-
mon sense, and it has little or none of that
feeling for the ludicrous which accompanies
common sense. The emblematic banners flung
forth on these gala days, on which consider-
able sums of money are spent, and which are
displayed with extraordinary pride, are too
often absurd in design an4 of mingled color
that sets your teeth on edge. A vast throng,
however, animated by a single sentiment, is
always impressive. " Which stilleth the voice
of the seas, the noise of their waves, and the
tumult of the people." The sea and the people
— these two vast powers are only less sublime
than the light of some lonely star, or the soli-
tary thought of a mind which, in its musings,
has outsoared the shadow of our night.
Sackville street is wide — the guide-books
tell how many leagues in width. Byron is
said to have swum the Hellespont, but it is
not stated that he ever adventured across
Sackville street ; tram-cars, like ocean steam-
ers, ply bravely up and down the midst, and
a thin stream of pedestrians straggles along
the side-walks. If you happen to be on the
western footway, you must set forth boldly on
a cruise to the eastern, in order to lay your
hand upon a stone of the house in which
Shelley lodged when, in 181 2, he came over
from Southey and Keswick (a little indignant
with Southey for his altered politics), to re-
generate Ireland by founding an association
of philanthropists pledged to secure by peace-
able means the Repeal of the Union and the
Emancipation of Catholics. The house is No.
7, and, happier than the house in Aungier
street in which Moore was born, it is not des-
ecrated by bar or tap-room, but gracefully
employed as a print-seller's place of business.
As these lines are written, the inevitable re-
storer is at work; scaffolding obscures the
front of the house, and when the scaffolding
disappears no longer will be seen the old
balcony from which Percy and Harriet Shel-
ley threw down the young evangelist's Irish
pamphlets. " I stand at the balcony of our
window," he wrote, " and watch till I see a
man who looks likely. I throw a book to
him." And Harriet adds in a postscript : " I
am sure you would laugh were you to see us
give the pamphlets. We throw them out of
window, and give them to men that we pass
in the streets. For myself, I am ready to die
of laughter when it is done, and Percy looks
so grave. Yesterday he put one into a woman's
hood of a cloak. She knew nothing of it, and
we passed her; I could hardly get on, my
muscles were so irritated." In Fishamble
street, not far from Dublin Castle, was a the-
ater in 181 2, where seventy years previously
Handel had presided over renderings of his
own oratorios and cantatas, when the goddess
of Dullness, alarmed for her British sover-
eignty, " drove him to th' Hibernian shore."
In this Fishamble street theater Shelley, a
youth of nineteen, addressed an Irish audience
for the space of an hour. A reporter, sent by
the police authorities to furnish an account of
the Catholic meeting, describes him as " a
young boy," whose speech, he adds, was
" replete with much elegant language."
A few years before Shelley's visit to Ireland,
his Keswick entertainer, Robert Southey, had
been blown across the channel in a gale, and
found himself in Dublin, as private secretary
to Mr. Corry, Commissioner of the Treasury,
172
DUBLIN CITY.
SACKVILLE STREET AND NELSON S COLUMN.
with a salary of ^400 a year, and seemingly
nothing to do. A letter written to his wife in
October, 1801, lies before me, showing, in ink
now embrowned with age, the delicate hand-
writing which changed so sadly in his latest
years, when the weary brain refused to direct
those indefatigable fingers. " About our quar-
ters here," he writes, " when we remove hither
in June, John Prickman will look out. The
filth of the houses is intolerable ; floors and
furniture offending you with Portuguese nasti-
ness ; but it is a very fine city, a magnificent
city — such public buildings, and the streets
so wide. For these advantages Dublin is in-
debted to the prodigal corruption of its own
government ; every member who asked money
to make improvements got it, and, if he got
^"20,000, in decency spent five for the public
and pocketed the rest. These gentlemen are
now being hauled a little over the coals, and
they have grace enough to thank God the
Union did not take place sooner." Southey
and his wife did not settle in Dublin ; he re-
signed a foolish office, as he styled it, and a
good salary, and soon was toiling among his
folios in Bristol, the delighted possessor, after
seven childless years, of a little gray-eyed girl.
During his brief visit to Dublin Nelson's bi-
ographer did not see the column — a later
erection — on which the one-armed hero is
mastheaded. How Nelson ever ascended the
dark, narrow, cobwebbed stairs to his present
position is difficult to imagine ; it shows the
effect of early practice in climbing to impos-
sible crow's-nests. The visitor is advised not
to follow Nelson's example. Ireland expects
every man to do his duty, but does not regard
it as his duty to pay a fee and wind through
dirt and darkness in order to attain the " pil-
lar-punishment" of St. Simeon Stylites. Rather
become one of the loungers and loafers at its
base, who sit and smoke, shunning ambition
with its dangerous ascents, gossiping one to
another or dropping off to sleep in the sun-
shine.
Below our new bridge, new-named after
O'Connell, the sea-gulls hover, and bring a
savor of freshness and freedom, a vision of
drenched rock-ridges and blown sea-spaces,
into the heart of the town. Looking up the
river, as day declines, sometimes a far-reach-
ing and mystic sunset will liberate the spirit
by its strange and infinite beauty seen above
and athwart the irregular elevations and de-
DUBLIN CITY.
173
caying frontage of old houses that line the watchmen sufficiently strong was at length
river-sides, and above and beyond the fan- collected by the authorities, and they pro-
tastic wreathings of city smoke. There are no ceeded to Ormond Market; there they saw
houses of great antiquity in Dublin, such as a frightful spectacle — a number of college
may be seen in Chester or in Edinburgh ; but lads in their caps and gowns hanging to
as hard usage and starvation may turn a girl the hooks." They hastened to the rescue,
into a hag at twenty-five, so neglect and when suddenly laughter succeeded horror;
grime and squalor have made comparatively the learned youths had been granted the
modern tenements hag-like houses, with an benefit of clergy, and hung in air suspended
evil look, in door and window and roof, of by the waistbands of their breeches,
famine, pest, ill-living, despair. Some look Along the quays and in narrow ways and
gaunt and fierce, and seem to pluck their alleys adjoining them, side by side with shab-
eaves over their brows ; others have shrunk by bric-a-brac shops or pawn-offices, may be
and grown wizened and piteously lean and discovered the second-hand book-shops of
ragged, like the woman who shuffles past in Dublin, and here the collector prowls. The
draggled shawl, and pauses to rest against a four-storied houses of former days, crammed
doorway while she coughs. These quays were with well-bound rows of works which no
in former days the scene of fierce and pro- gentleman's library can be without, have dis-
longed conflict between the Liberty boys, or appeared. America has helped largely to
tailors and weavers of the Coombe, and the drain the country of its literary treasures. On
Ormond boys, or butchers who lived in Or- the whole, we are not a reading people, and
mond Market. Bridges were stormed, were there are at present few great collectors
taken and retaken; and day after day the among us. It is long since Dr. Murphy, the
garboils might be renewed ; above a thousand former Roman Catholic Bishop of Cork,
combatants were sometimes at once engaged, whose staircases, hall, garrets, kitchen, must
On one occasion the victorious Liberty boys each and all have been shelved to hold his pos-
proceeded to hook a number of Ormond boys sessions, has been seen upon the quays, with
by the jaws to their own flesh-hooks, and
retired, leaving the butchers hanging for
meat on their own stalls. When the di-
vine rage of battle would come upon
the Trinity College students they sided
with the weavers, the keys of their
chambers, slung in the sleeve or tail
of a gown or in a pocket-handkerchief,
becoming a favorite and a formidable
weapon. " On one occasion," writes
the author of " Ireland Sixty Years
Ago," "several of them were seized by
the butchers, and to the great terror
of their friends it was reported that
they were hanged up
in the stalls in re-
taliation for the
cruelty of the
weavers. A
party of
FOOT OF NELSON S MONUMENT.
i74
DUBLIN CITY.
for a volume not included in O'Daly's
bibliopolic stores were an imperti-
nence which it required some mag-
nanimity to forgive. Patrick Ken-
nedy, who had told with delightful
humor the legendary fictions of the
Irish Celts, would appear, a few
doors higher up, with round, bald
head, grizzled beard, and a smile
and twinkle over all his face, sun-
ning himself in the rare beams which
struggled down to his window ; while
on the opposite side might be seen
the Shakspere's Head, where Mr.
Rooney — enrolled by virtue of his
pamphlet among the authors of
Shaksperiana — obtained for one
shilling that copy of the first quarto
of Hamlet, afterward purchased by
Mr. Halliwell-Phillipps for ^120
and sold by him to the British Mu-
seum. All are gone — all from An-
glesea street, some from earth. But
T. remains (rival collectors shall not
hear his name from me), — T., the
sweet reasonableness of whose prices
has cemented a friendship between
him and the writer of this article.
He knows all your weaknesses and
gently humors them ; introduces you
in a casual way to his favorite tom-
cat, an erudite creature, but of roving
propensities ; slides a book into your
hand, with some innocent inquiry
about its title-page which engages
his gold-headed cane, silk stockings, buckled your vanity on his behalf; tickles his trout so
shoes, and snuff-besprinkled waistcoat. "Ah ! " gently that it is a pleasure to be tickled ; is
he would exclaim, when the vender added on never eager, or grasping, or unfair ; and makes
a venturesome half-crown — " Ah ! you think you free of a learned litter rising from the floor,
to impose on the poor Connaught man ; " but which you may spend a blissful hour in shifting
on effecting a fortunate purchase, he had al- and sifting, washing the auriferous drifts for
ways an episcopal blessing to bestow on the grains of gold. As wreckers visit the coast on
bookseller's wife or children. It was among stormy days, so you should time your book-
the coffins of Cook street, where the Libitina hunting aright ; after an auction has taken
of the poor crouches veiled, that Bunting's place, at which many uncatalogued bundles
famous collection of old Irish music disap- have been dispersed, then visit the second-
peared, to be recovered after further trans- hand shop, and esteem yourself fortunate if
migrations in fragments from the soap and you arrive just as an unopened sack, showing
candle sellers, and reverently pieced together by its square protrusions the outlines of
by the pious zeal of an enthusiast. Anglesea octavo and duodecimo, is hauled from the
street, where Moore dropped the manuscript doorway or flung from the bearer's back,
of his first printed poem in the box of the Watch with glittering, avaricious eyes as the
editor of " Anthologia Hibernica," boasted of contents are drawn forth ; among the Valpy's
authors among those dim recesses in which Grammars and Mangnall's Questions without
ragged rarities — Irish history and poetry, number may gleam some fiery opal of litera-
Elizabethan plays and pamphlets, or better ture, "jacinth, hard topaz, grass-green emer-
preserved Aldines and Elzevirs — lay lurking, aid" — a first edition of Alastor or Epipsy-
From an inner apartment, where he read, the chidion, or a little volume published at Paris
learned John O'Daly would glance over his by Augustin Courbe in 1637, containing Cor-
spectacles at a stray customer, or startle him neille's Le Cid. These you may secure in all
with an abrupt, impatient answer, as if to ask probability for a slender sum ; but in their
ST. PATRICK S CLOSE AND CATHEDRAL.
DUBLIN CITY.
175
IN PHCENIX PARK.
own department — Irish history and litera-
ture— our booksellers are learned; without
their friendly aid this slight sketch of Dublin
might never have been written.
Turning from the quays northward and
climbing a short ascent, you find yourself in
presence of Christ Church Cathedral. On
the way you may, if you please, peep into
" Hell." The story of Death and Dr. Horn-
book, declares Burns,
" Is just as true as the Deil's in Hell
Or Dublin city."
The Devil, majestic with horns and tail, but
long since worked up into snuff boxes and
other relics, stood over the arched entrance
to Hell, where toys were sold, and lodgings
let, as the advertisement in an old journal
bears witness : " To be let, furnished apart-
ments in Hell. N. B. — They are well suited to
a lawyer." Christ Church, as it now stands, is
a monument to the genius of the great archi-
tect, Mr. G. E. Street, and to the munificence
of Mr. Roe, a Dublin merchant. A fossil
reptile can be reconstructed by Owen from a
single bone; Mr. Street, from fragments of
Strongbow's church of the twelfth century,
with certain indications afforded by the crypt,
has recreated the structure ruined or lost
under an unsightly choir of two hundred years
later and stucco ornaments in spurious Gothic
of 1 83 1. It is a veritable revival of the past;
and yet not absolutely complete. For when
I visited Christ Church, having heard of these
rare achievements, I looked to see the tall
figure of St. Lawrence O'Toole, in his habit
of a canon regular, bowing before the crucifix,
or going forth to chant prayers in the ceme-
tery for the souls of the faithful dead ; but he
was not there. I purposed to seek some
benefit for a wandering nineteenth-century
spirit from the " Baculus Jesu " — the staff
of Jesus — presented to St. Patrick by a hermit
dwelling on an island in the Tuscan sea ; but
I was told that it had been publicly burnt
by some reforming bishop in the strifes of
Henry VIII. I thought at least to live again
in the hardy memories of Strongbow's days,
while I stood above the effigy of his tomb ;
176
DUBLIN CITY.
MONUMENT IN PHCENIX PARK, FROM THE RIVER.
but it seems that in the church, where the
impostor Lambert Simnel was crowned, a
fictitious Strongbow does duty for the real, — a
mere pretender, who has been stretching his
legs and raising pious hands upon his breast
for three hundred years, in order to receive
the rents and dues payable under old deeds
" at Strongbow's Tomb." There is always
some signal oversight in the cleverness of a
knave, and this rogue in stone, when he stole
into Strongbow's resting-place, forgot to cover
the Fitz Osbert arms upon his shield. He lay,
not inappropriately I thought, in that anom-
alous structure, a Protestant cathedral of the
thirteenth century amid the crowded lanes of
Catholic Dublin, where, when I visited the
church, no poor and pious wayfarers passed
in to kneel in dim oratory or before secret
shrine, with muttered ejaculation, and went
forth into the street refreshed in spirit; but
the gaslights flared, and a surpliced choir were
chaunting faint amens to faint prayers for the
high court of Parliament and the Lord Lieu-
tenant, in the presence of three languid ladies,
possibly sight-seers like myself. No : even
Mr. Street's genius has not quite revived the
age of faith.
Perhaps the least savory and most pictur-
esque thoroughfare in Dublin is Patrick street
with Nicholas street, which runs to meet it,
the two conducting you from our first to our
second Protestant cathedral, — for we cannot
properly assert ourselves as a dominant mi-
nority without a pair of them. Patrick street
is to be seen and smelt to most advantage on
Saturday evenings in winter. Narrower than
the Jews' street at Frankfort, it winds down
a short incline to St. Patrick's Close; the
wooden roofs of windowless stalls or booths
project on either side, the unshaded gas-jets
flicker in the wind, while on a carpeting of
sacks, spread to save the merchandise from
the mire, there rises in mid-street a far-ex-
tending pile of cheap clothing, tin kettles
and cans, crockery, cabbages, carrots, onions,
behind which the seller loudly commends her
wares, before which the buyer critically ap-
praises and higgles. Here you can purchase
to the utmost advantage, on Saturday night, a
pound of tripe, a liver, a pig's cheek, a second-
hand petticoat, a string of onions, a shining
candlestick or resplendent slop-bowl; or if
it is your wish to hear to perfection the dialect
of the Coombe, you have but to pause and
listen to the chaffering and cheapening which
go on around you to right and left.
Of St. Patrick's Cathedral there is only one
word to say, and that was said sixty years
DUBLIN CITY.
177
ago by Walter Scott (or by Lockhart for him)
when he visited Dublin and was feted and
followed like a king : " One thinks of nothing
but Swift there ; the whole cathedral is
merely his tomb." Macaulay, indeed, took
notice, like a dutiful historian, of Schomberg's
tablet and the spurs of St. Ruth ; Thackeray,
censor of shams, was afflicted by the tawdry
old rags and gimcracks of the most illustrious
order of St. Patrick, the pasteboard helmets
and calico banners and lath swords; Scott
swept all these out of sight with one touch of
imagination, which lays bare the truth, and
he beheld only the tomb of Swift. But the
tomb of Swift must needs be Stella's tomb,
and there she lies, her bones now mingled
with his. While we stand beneath Roubiliac's
bust, and read that terrible inscription, " Ubi
salva indignatio ulterius cor lacerare nequii"
we think before all else of the mournful night
when, by the flare of torches under the high
roof, the faithful heart of Esther Johnson was
laid in the dust, and the torch-lights gleamed
across to the old deanery windows, where
Swift, ill in body and tortured in mind, sat in
gloom. " This is the night of the funeral," he
wrote, in a paper perhaps meant for no eye
save his own, " the funeral, which my sickness
will not suffer me to attend. It is now nine at
night, and I am removed into another apart-
ment, that I may not see the light in the
modesty, her learning, her gentle voice, her
wit and judgment, and vivacity of heart and
brain. " Night, dearest little M. D.," he had
so often added as the farewell word of the
diary to Stella ; now with her it was night,
and a cloudier night with him. And so the
darkness deepened, indignation giving place
to rage, and rage to imbecility, with no star
aloft, but murk and despair rising thick from
the unwholesome earth and throttling him in
their shadowy coils.
After visiting the tomb of Swift we are in no
mood to admire the brick magnificence of
Dublin Castle. To tell of the persons and
events connected with the Castle in elder days,
when it was an Anglo-Norman or Anglo-Irish
fortress, we should need a volume> and the vol-
ume would contain strange and tragic records,
splendors and gloom, secrets dark and cruel,
with touches of comedy enlivening the long his-
torical drama. Now and again an outcry is
raised by hard-headed persons against our sham
sovereign, with his sham aristocracy, and we
hear talk of the epauletted languor and idle-
ness of the Castle hangers-on. And when
Lady Bolus, the great physician's wife, 01
Mrs. Sergeant Bigwig, the eminent lawyer's,
details, with all the accessories, the triumph
of her presentation to second-hand royalty,
we may allow ourselves the indulgence of an
amiable smile. But there are times when the
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DONNYBROOK FAIR-GROUND.
church, which is just over against the window Lord Lieutenant of Ireland is far more of a
of my bed-chamber." And there, fingering true king — wielding personal power — than
perhaps that precious relic, "only a woman's our Sovereign Lady is a queen; times when
hair," he went on to write of her softness of the strain and pressure of desperate hard
temper and heroic personal courage, her work is felt in every department of the Irish
Vol. XXIX.— 18.
178
DUBLIN CITY.
UP THE RIVER.
government, and most of all by its chiefs.
To a rightly constituted mind no part of Dub-
lin Castle is quite so awful to contemplate as
a room in the Bermingham Tower, which con-
tains, in vast folio volumes, the pedigrees, de-
duced from Adam, of all persons capable of
being regarded as sons of somebody. Amid
these wizard tomes sits the enchanter king-
at-arms, guarded by his wyverns, gryphons,
unicorns, cockatrices, and other " animals
phantasticall," terrible creatures to the rabble
rout, but which couch or rise, turn the head
regardant or extend the paw, display or in-
dorse their wings, at Merlin's beck, tamer
than villatic fowl. A Saracen and a wild man
answer his bell, and fetch the tinctures em-
ployed in his necromantic art.
To gossip through all the streets and squares
of Dublin is impossible here. A learned and
entertaining guide may be found in Mr. Gilbert's
History, to which the reader of this article is al-
ready largely indebted. We have prudently
passed by the famous clubs and old coffee-
houses— Lucas's, Daly's, the Cock and Punch-
bowl, Jacob's Ladder, the Sot's Hole; for if we
entered them we might never get out. We have
left unrecorded the history of the old theaters —
a brilliant history it was — with their famous
actors, and rival managers, and triumphs and
disasters. It is too late now to seek for the
house where Lord Edward Fitzgerald was
betrayed, or the spot where Sarah Curran
waved her last adieu to Robert Emmet ; we
cannot visit the hall of the Four Courts, in
which all the jokes and good stories flying
about the world are supposed to have had
their origin ; nor count the doctors' hall-door
plates in Merrion Square, the Valhalla of
physicians, to which heroes who have slain
their thousands are exalted, and where they
drink mead of Epernay or Sillery "ex con-
cavis craniorum poculis." To the " Phaynix "
Park a jarvey will be the best cicerone ; one
is glad not to blot one's brain with the night-
mare of the Wellington monument, and we
more earnestly avert our thoughts from a
DUBLIN CITY,
179
deadlier horror of blood on the great avenue
of the Park.
But to write of Dublin and omit to tell of
Donnybrook Fair and its humors would be
as if a traveler were to describe Rome and
forget to mention the Carnival, or as if a
critic were to write of Burns and leave out
his Jolly Beggars. The fair has long ceased
to glorify the month of June, and Donnybrook
is only an uncomely village on the skirts of
Dublin ; but the fields of revelry and riot, near
which the Dodder ripples past, reflecting giant
burdock leaves, may still be seen. Through
the mirthful eyes of Jonah Barrington we can
see the fair itself unshorn of its splendors.
Here are tents formed of long wattles in two
rows, inclined together at the top ; over which
for covering are spread patchwork quilts,
winnowing-sheets, rugs, blankets, old petti-
coats, secured by ropes of hay. A broom-head
or well-worn brush, a watchman's discarded
lantern, surmounted by variegated rags torn
to ribbons, serve the purpose of the tavern's
ivy-bush ; a rusty saucepan or old pot signi-
fies that eating as well as drinking may be
had. Down the middle what a day since had
been doors and now are tables rest on
mounds of clay, and benches, swaying under
the sitters when their equilibrium becomes
uncertain, run along supported in like man-
ner. " When the liquor got the mastery of
one convivial fellow," says Sir Jonah, " he
would fall off, and the whole row generally
followed his example ; perhaps ten or even
twenty shillelagh boys were seen on their
backs, kicking up their heels, some able to
get up again, some lying quiet and easy,
singing, roaring, laughing, or cursing; while
others still on their legs were drinking and
dancing and setting the whole tent in motion,
till all began to long for open air, and a little
wrestling, leaping, cudgeling, or fighting upon
the green grass. The tent was then cleared
out and prepared for a new company." A
delightful aroma, in itself nourishing, filled
the June air — mingled turf, whisky, steam-
ing potatoes, Dublin Bay herrings, salt beef,
and cabbage. At dusk a dozen fiddlers and
pipers would strike up and a row of per-
haps a hundred couple work away at their
jig-steps, " till they actually fell off breath-
less." Matrons would bring the " childer " to
this paradise of cakes and simple toys, and
these infantine revelers would assist the musi-
cians with pop-gun and drum and whistle.
Under the summer moon young men and
maidens would utter their vows and fix the
day for going before Father Kearny, who
declared that " more marriages were cele-
brated in Dublin the week after Donnybrook
Fair than in any two months during the rest
of the year." As to the fighting at the fair, it
was for the most part void of malice and
good-humored. Horses cannot be bought
and sold without differences of opinion be-
tween buyer and seller; the shillelagh was
at hand as a graceful arbiter of disputes. It
is a vulgar error to suppose that practice with
the national weapon is a brutal brandishing
and whacking ; it is rather a game of skill ;
and if a head was now and again laid open,
this was quite in a friendly way, and what
are heads for if not occasionally to be cracked
in a worthy cause ? Do not, however, honest
John Bull, excellent Brother Jonathan, run
away with the notion that Donnybrook Fair
represents in miniature the whole of Irish
life. Believe that ours is the same human
nature as your own, with a difference. Per-
haps you are not always sane and sober any
more than we. Placed as we are between
you, we want to hold hands with both, and
dream of the day — far distant still — when we
shall be as a link to bind together the kindred
democracies of England and America.
Edward Dowden.
i
ffiiffl WSTSfl HIP :
THE KNIGHT OF THE BLACK FOREST.*
BY GRACE DENIO LITCHFIELD,
Author of " Only an Incident," " One Chapter," etc.
BETTY AND LOIS.
CHAPTER I.
" This way, ladees, this way. Stick close
to the man what speaks ; always stick close
to the men." And the large, gray-haired, red-
faced, eminently respectable German courier
made a dash at the farthest off of his party
of three, pulling her back in front of a crowd
of strangers who were following a droning old
monk around the Cologne Cathedral.
" What's the use ? I can't understand a
word," said the young lady with a pout. " He
speaks such queer German. Let's go."
" My dear Betty, Kreuzner says we must
go through the choir first."
" But I'm tired, Aunt Sarah. I'll sit down
and wait."
" May she, Kreuzner ? She's so tired, you
see. We've been at it so long," said the lady,
turning deprecatingly to the courier.
" Yes, yes, we'll go," the amiable old man
responded with alacrity. " There's nothing
more here but windows. You don't need see
those. Every church has windows. It's all the
same. This way, ladees, this way."
And, putting a silver piece in the guide's
hand, Kreuzner hustled off his party to an-
other door, paid something again, feed another
monk, and pushed Aunt Sarah inside.
" Now quick, ladees. Ten minutes to the
Copyright, 1884, by Grace Denio Litchfield. All rights reserved.
THE KNIGHT OF THE BLACK FOREST.
ISI
skulls, then twenty minutes to St. Ursula, one
half-hour for the city, and I have order
dinner for six o'clock at the hotel."
" What a treasure he is ! " murmured Aunt
Sarah, straightening the mantilla which he had
somewhat displaced in his zeal to shove her
in ahead of another party. " How could we
ever get along without him ? Whose skulls
did you say these were, Lois ? "
" The three wise men who went to sea in a
bowl," put in Betty, impatiently. " Nasty
things. Let's go."
" My dear," rejoined the elder lady, "what
is the use of being abroad if you can't bear
fatigue ? That's what we came for. I'm sure
I'm ready to drop, but Kreuzner said we
must come in here, and certainly the skulls
are very remarkable, very remarkable indeed ;
only I should think they would have been
larger for wise men, to have held more brains,
you know."
" Come, ladees, come," warned Kreuzner
without. "The time shortens. The dinner
will be cold."
"Excellent man ! so attentive — so thought-
ful ! " sighed the lady, and followed obediently
as he rapidly led the way, her two young
nieces lagging along after her.
" I would like never to see another church,
or another gallery, or another anything so
long as I live," pouted Betty, springing into
the carriage. " Lois, for heaven's sake say
you're sick of it all too, at last. Haven't you
had enough yet, you insatiable creature ? "
" Zum Teufel ! " growled Kreuzner to a
small lame boy who limped up to shut the
carriage-door. " I never allow nobody to
wait on my ladees except myself. The beg-
gars, they make great show to be polite, all to
get the pennies. But I never allow my parties
to be swindled. No, never. I know too
much. Now, ladees, St. Ursula. Vorwarts ! "
He shut the carriage-door. Aunt Sarah wrin-
kled her high, pale forehead in a vain effort
to remember who St. Ursula was ; Lois leaned
forward to catch a last glimpse of the cathe-
dral, and Betty shut her bright eyes almost
with a snap.
" I would give up the eleven thousand vir-
gins and the whole of Europe to boot," she
said, " for one single moonlight night on our
piazza at home, and one decent-looking young
man to talk with."
" My love, my love ! " expostulated Aunt
Sarah in spinsterly horror.
" Never mind, Betty dear," laughed Lois
sofriy. " Wait just till we get to the Black For-
est, and there surely we'll find you a knight."
" Halt ! " shouted Kreuzner. He jumped
down, darted into a shop, and in a moment
darted back again, and thrust a great wooden
Vol. XXIX.— 19.
box into the carriage. " Eau de C#/<?£7z<?, ladees,
the veritable ; one dozen bottle. I know what
the ladees like, and I always get the best.
Vorwarts ! The dinner will be cold."
And the carriage rolled noisily along.
CHAPTER 11.
" Which way ? How far ? Where's my um-
brella ? Who's got my bag ? "
Aunt Sarah was flustered and bewildered to
the last degree.
" This way, ladees, this way. Never give
yourself no care for the luggage. I attend
everything. I never lose nothing. I have all
the bags."
And the disencumbered courier waved
grandly toward the porter shuffling on ahead
with the hand-baggage, like a living truck.
" I have everything."
" Where do we get out ? Where do we
change ? How far do we go to-day ? " panted
the poor lady, hurrying after him in terror
lest she miss the train.
" Leave everything to me, ladee. I tell you
all what's right. I never make no mistakes.
I come for you when the train stops. The
guard will keep the carriage for you. Nobody
shall come in to bother you."
Bang went the carriage- door, click the out-
side bolt, the guard pocketed his bribe, touched
his cap, and briskly walked off two ^oung
gentlemen who were about entering the same
compartment.
Betty sprang to the window to look after
them.
" Oh, Lois, isn't it a shame 1 What fun it
would have been to have them in here! I
wish Kreuzner were dead. I haven't seen
such good-looking men since we landed.
Look at him, — no, the outside one, I mean.
See how his clothes fit ! "
The whistle shrieked and the train started.
Betty drew in her pretty head with a sigh.
" Such a fool as Kreuzner is. He might
know enough to shut old women out and let
young men in, particularly the handsome ones.
Yes, yes, Lois. I'm seeing all there is to see.
If you point out another thing for me to look
at, I shall go raving mad."
"My dear child, what an improper spirit
for travel," said Aunt Sarah, just beginning to
recover from her general bewilderment. " You
must remember people come abroad to see
things, not to enjoy themselves. What will
your father say when I take you back to him ?
You don't realize your advantages at all. You
should make the most of your opportunities."
" So I would but for old Kreuzner,"
retorted Betty.
l82
THE KNIGHT OF THE BLACK FOREST.
Lois glanced up with faint disapproval
on her sweet face, Betty shrugged her shoul-
ders, and Aunt Sarah set herself to looking
over some papers.
" I don't understand," she said, helplessly.
" Traveling is much more expensive than
Judge Estabrook said it would be. There
were seven in his party besides the baby, and
he didn't make out to spend near so much
as we do. And Kreuzner says I should be
swindled at every turn but for him. Dear me,
how foolish women are ever to travel alone."
" Why didn't he take us to the Hotel du
Nord at Cologne the other night ? " asked
Betty, sulkily. " You told him to, and we might
have met the Wilsons there. They were to
pass through this week."
" Kreuzner said the other was his hotel, so
of course we had to go there. But we cer-
tainly were very comfortable, though the bills
were high, and I don't think we needed bou-
quets in all the rooms. But Kreuzner says we
couldn't spend a cent less, and you know what
a fuss he made over that extra candle they
charged for. He called the waiter a liar, and
a cheat, and a thief, and a great many names
I never heard before, and stormed so I was
obliged to stop him, though I really don't think
the waiter had anything to do with it, or un-
derstood English, and that probably was why
it wasn't taken off the bill after all. But
Kreuzner's an invaluable creature, and, I'm
persuaded, saves us a mint of money. How
can women travel without a courier ! "
It must be acknowledged, whatever were
or were not his other excellences, Kreuzner
saw after his party thoroughly. He appeared
faithfully at every station, bringing with him,
now " The Queen " for Aunt Sarah, a picto-
rial paper for Betty, and for Lois a haphazard
novel or a map of the town they were passing
through ; now a basket of railroady fruit, and
now a glass of beer, which, as nobody wanted
it, he was reluctantly obliged to drink himself
to save it, though he much preferred water,
he said. Aunt Sarah was delighted with him.
" Such an honest, sober, faithful fellow !
How he does forestall our wants ! Though,
to be sure, we mustn't read in the cars. It is
bad for the eyes. But what a blessing that we
have stumbled on such a treasure."
Shriek, shriek, from the engine.
" Heidelberg ! " called Lois, excitedly. " O
Betty, do see if the castle isn't on your side!"
" Ye-es, I think so — I don't know," re-
plied Betty, absently. " There's something
mussy and queer-looking up on the hill.
Perhaps that's it. Oh, there are those young
men walking up and down. Let's get out
too. Guard, guard, open the door! "
" How I should like to see the castle ! "
sighed Lois. " Why can't we stop here over-
night ? "
" Isn't there a college here too ? " cried
Betty, visions of innumerable students float-
ing through her airy brain. " A great big col-
lege ? Oh, auntie, there's a dear, do let's stay
over here, mayn't we ? "
The two young gentlemen passing cast
openly admiring glances at the two pretty
American faces, and Betty slightly tilted back
her little jaunty traveling-hat, so as to bring
into sight the becoming rings of dark hair
across her forehead, and pleaded the more ar-
dently. Aunt Sarah was quite ready to stay..
She always wanted to oblige everybody. Be-
sides, she was tired. But Kreuzner would not
allow it. It would be less trouble to go on,
he assured them ; he always did what was the
least trouble for his parties. " His ladees should
never have no trouble at all. They should
stop at Carlsruhe." And he marshaled them
straight back into their carriage and shut them
in with the most gracious affability, and bought
them all bouquets from the little dwarf flower-
woman, who is an old-time landmark of the
Heidelberg station, though not mentioned in
Baedeker. He also got them a bag of sau-
sages, thinking they might be hungry, and had
just time left to dash across the lines to a
stand and fly back with three pairs of blue-
glass spectacles, which he flung into their laps.
" Goot for the eyes. You must have them.
I always know what's goot for everybody.
Only five marks apiece. I always gets things
sheap. That's my duty."
" Horrid things ! " exclaimed Betty, as he
withdrew, pushing them scornfully away. " I
wouldn't wear them for a thousand marks ! "
Lois's pair was broken. She held them up
with a laugh.
" That's too bad," said Aunt Sarah. " Poor
Kreuzner will feel dreadfully to think he was
cheated in them. We mustn't tell him. And
how nice of him to think of them. I never
should have known I wanted them."
And she put her own pair contentedly on
her nose, and wore them there all the day
long, leaning back with closed eyes in her
shady corner, and musing alternately over
the amazing costliness of foreign travel and
the immense advantages of having so ines-
timable a courier.
CHAPTER III.
It was a lovely summer afternoon in the
Black Forest. Betty and Lois sat on a bal-
cony opening out from their pretty parlor in
the one hotel which constitutes the whole of
Rippolds Au. Betty was scowling. Lois sat
looking dreamily off into the dark pine-
THE KNIGHT OF THE BLACK FOREST
183
woods that stood up so straight and dense
against the bright blue of the heavens, while
the air, laden with resinous odors, swept over
her, cool, delicious, and life-giving, as only
mountain breezes can be.
" Isn't it all exquisite ! " she said, almost
beneath her breath, lifting a little bunch of
bluebells lovingly to her face. " The skies,
the woods, the flowers ! I never dreamed of
such a place as Rippolds Au."
" No/ I," said Betty shortly, pulling down
her broad shade-hat with a sulky jerk. " I've
had lots of nightmares, but this is the biggest
one yet. I hate it."
" Oh, Betty ! " said Lois. " Oh, Betty ! "
" I do," continued Betty, defiantly. " It's
dull, it's slow, it's tiresome beyond endurance.
I hate it all. I don't see how girls rave so
over coming to Europe. But probably those
are the ones who travel in jolly parties, with
lots of men mixed in, you know. They
haven't been shipped over here with just an
aunt and one girl cousin rabid on sight-
seeing."
" But, Betty, you so wanted to come, too,
when Dr. Ford suggested these baths, and
you heard that Aunt Sarah had decided to
bring me, — dear, kind Aunt Sarah ! Don't
you remember how you said orphans were
always in luck, and how you teased and
teased Uncle Ben to let you join us ? "
" Then I was a fool, that's all. I thought
it would be like Saratoga, or Newport, or
Sharon, perhaps, or anything but this. All the
sight-seeing on the way here was bad enough,
you were so bent on going everywhere ; but
this little horrid out-of-the-way hole is too
much. It would take a freshly graduated
saint to put up with it."
Lois looked at her cousin with gentle blue
eyes, full of dismayed wonder.
" But it is so beautiful here, Betty. Irf all
my dreams of the Black Forest, I never con-
ceived quite this. I could stay here months
and not tire of it."
" Oh, you / " said Betty, with a fine mingling
of scorn and pity in her voice. " But I'm
different, and my patience is about used up.
I haven't seen a man to speak to since we left
the steamer. To be sure, I had a jolly enough
time there, hadn't I ? George Wilson was no
end of fun, and Mr. Harper and Mr. Ather-
ton weren't bad at all; and even the purser
did quite well when there was nobody else."
And Betty brightened and dimpled at the
bare recollection of those halcyon days.
" But here ! why, there's not a young man in
the place, not one. You can't count that awful
jager as anybody, and that rather nice-look-
ing young man in the gray suit went away
this morning; besides, we didn't know him
anyway. How we are to get through six
weeks of it I don't see. We've been here nine
days to-morrow, nine awful days, and nine
more will kill me out and out. Your getting
strong is being the death of me."
There was something very comical in the
vehemence of the young girl's ennui, but Lois
did not see its ludicrousness.
" Betty, dear," she said penitently, as if all
the blame were hers, " I'm so sorry. But per-
haps something will happen to make it nice
for you. Somebody may come."
" Yes, of course, somebody will. These
wrinkled old horrors will shuffle off, and an-
other ugly old set will step into their shoes. I
never imagined the Black Forest was like
this. I fancied it was full of hunters and
students and princes traveling incognito, and
that one ran into a good-looking man at every
other step. I had an idea it was girls that were
scarce here. I never would have come a step
if I had known. I wish I could go back."
" I almost wish I wanted to go home, too,"
said Lois with a sigh. " But it all affects me
so differently. It seems as if my dreams of
coming to Europe had been so much more
than realized everywhere. And now, perhaps
it is wicked, but I feel as if I couldn't ever go
back, as if I could never bear to live in hum-
drum, commonplace Troy, and take up the
old life there again. I would like to live all
my life over here, every bit of it, wandering
through these cathedrals and galleries and
wonders that bore you so, or living in some
one of these weird castles on the Rhine, or
just staying here, right here, forever, in this
very h6art of Fairy-land."
" Rather rough on Ned Prentiss, isn't it ? "
asked Betty shortly.
A quick" blush overspread Lois's delicate
blonde face.
"That is worst of all, Betty. I don't
think I could do it now, — marry him."
Her voice was very low and ashamed. " He's
ever so good, I know, but — he's not a
knight to dream about, Betty. I don't mean
I want a prince in disguise to come galloping
through these woods to woo me with sword
and with song as they do in the story-books.
But to marry just a manufacturer, the head
of a cotton-mill ! — how it does sound, Betty! "
" It sounds rich. And so he is. I wish we
were too, — don't you? Not just comfortably
off, you know, but really rich. And what
earthly thing has a man's business to do with
it, anyway ? You don't marry the business,
but the man. You didn't complain of it in
Troy when he began to be so attentive.
What makes you now? Besides, may be he'll
forget you. He hasn't offered himself by let-
ter since we left, has he ? "
1 84
THE KNIGHT OF THE BLACK FOREST
Lois flushed again.
" No, oh no ! Perhaps he never will. Only
he said he might come over this summer ; and
it's strange, but I don't want to see him now.
I've grown miles away from him in these few
months. I couldn't see anything in him any
more, but just his commonplaceness, and his
homeliness, and his blunt ways and words. I
didn't mind that much before. He was like
everybody else, and fitted very well into my
old life. But — oh, think of him in one of
these aristocratic old castles, Betty, think of
him over here in this world of polish and
finish and exquisite refinement ! "
" Exquisite refinement ! " echoed Betty.
" We don't see much of that just here, it
strikes me. Did you take in your neighbor at
table to-day ? Good gracious, how she hacked
away at her mouth with her knife ! "
" I wasn't thinking of these people here,"
answered Lois hastily. " What have they to
do with us ? We don't know them. But I
mean, if he were here now after I have learned
to know better, after I have seen so much, he
would grate on me horribly, and every time
he laughed that hearty laugh of his I should
feel as if I wanted to run away and hide my-
self deep in the forest."
" Well, Ned never was handsome, Lois, if
you care for that. And, to be sure, he wouldn't
show up well as a knight in armor. He would
look stubby in it, most likely, and how his
sword would trip him up ! I think I see him
falling flat on that amiable little short nose of
his, and then begging your pardon with all
his good kind heart for having annoyed you
by falling. But a man's a man, Lois; and
after all, what can you ask of any one more
than that, just to be a man and not a woman ?
If he were only here now, he would be worth
all the rest of Europe to me, — and to you, too,
which would be more to the point in his case."
" No, never, never ! " cried Lois, with un-
wonted energy. " I fancied I liked him be-
fore I left home ; but, thank Heaven, I am not
engaged to him, for I know now that I never
could be — never."
Betty yawned openly. Why -should she put
up her hand to hide it ? There were only two
old men strolling by below in company with
the doctor (an old man too), and a knot of
stupid women beyond doing everlasting knit-
ting-work ; it did not matter if they saw the
unbecoming grimace.
But as she glanced down, suddenly her
whole appearance changed. She leaned eager-
ly forward. New light came into her eyes ;
new life into her voice.
" Lois, Lois," she whispered, " oh, do look !
A young man ! absolutely ! And a handsome
one — an aristocratic one. The prince in dis-
guise, I do believe. Actually the knight at
last, the knight of the Black Forest! "
Lois bent forward too, interested at once.
" Why, Betty, who can it be ? Where do
you suppose he comes from ? "
" He's walked here from somewhere ; don't
you see his knapsack ? Oh, perhaps he's only
passing through ; perhaps he isn't going to
stay ! Lois, what shall we do if he goes off! "
" He's going to stay awhile, anyhow; he's
taking off his knapsack. He's sitting down
at one of those little tables and calling a
waiter. What is he going to order ? — beer ? "
" Dinner."
" No, coffee."
" Oh, Lois, I do hope it'll be dinner. That'll
keep him here so much longer."
" There, Betty, I was right. It's only
coffee."
" See him look round. I wish he would look
up here. Move your chair a little further along,
Lois. Pshaw ! why couldn't you drag it and
make a noise ? Say, don't you believe he's
somebody ? "
" I wonder if he lives in a castle ? " mut-
tered Lois.
" I wonder if he speaks English ? that's
vastly more important. Doesn't he look swell
among all those dowdies ? How the women
glare at him. There's Kreuzner lounging by
and staring at him, too. He's too stylish to
pass unnoticed in this crowd. He's calling up
the waiter again. See, he's given him a card ;
he's sent him off somewhere — to the post-
office. Oh, look! I've a mind to run down my-
self with a letter and try to get a peep at
the card. Shall I ? "
" Oh, no, Betty ! don't ! "
" Well, perhaps I couldn't see it. If only he
would look up here ! "
Betty had risen, and had pushed back her
hat, and smoothed her long gloves, and as-
sumed her prettiest pose in preparation for
any possible upward glance. But the stran-
ger was absorbed in a map which he had
spread out on the table and seemed to be
comparing with a letter. Betty coughed ; in-
deed, was seized with quite a bad coughing
spell. But how was he to know one cough
from another ? It might just as well have been
a dame of sixty wheezing in the too chill air,
as a distractingly pretty girl of twenty. He
did not move.
" There's the waiter coming back," said
Lois, getting up too, and standing by Betty's
side with undisguised interest. " He's got a
telegram. I wonder if it's bad news ? "
" How respectful the waiter is," said Betty,
as with a sudden inspiration she glanced at a
bunch of wild flowers at her belt. No, they
looked too pretty where they were. She could
THE KNIGHT OF THE BLACK FOREST.
18s
not take those. But Lois still held her little
bouquet of bluebells and ferns. Betty put out
her hand for it, apparently unconsciously, and
absently twirled it round and round.
" See, Lois, he's called up Herr Goeringer ;
he must be asking for a room. Yes, yes — there,
see ; the waiter has his knapsack. How Herr
Goeringer scrapes and bows. He's going off
with him. Lois, he must look up first ! One
must do something to help forward fate.
There goes. Oh, my flowers, my flowers ! "
— this last in a piteous wail of distress.
" Herr Goeringer, please ! would you —
wont you — "
Of course she did not once see the young
man or anybody but just the corpulent, good-
natured, crimson-faced landlord ambling to-
ward the spot where lay her pretty bouquet,
which had so unfortunately dropped from her
hands to the street. And, of course, at sound
of the raised voice — a young, sweet, foreign
voice — the young man looked up to the bal-
cony, where he saw a pretty enough picture
to excuse the open stare which followed. Two
very pretty, very daintily dressed young ladies
standing in the becoming glow of the after-
noon sun — one leaning down over the railing,
not seeing him at all, and all excitement to
recover her lost flowers, which Herr Goerin-
ger, in horrible English, was promising to
send up at once ; the other, no less pretty,
standing erect with clasped hands, and look-
ing right at him with a direct yet soft and
modest gaze that seemed to say she had seen
him all along, and saw no harm in looking.
It was only a moment's glance, of course;
then he passed by, slightly lifting his hat in
courteous addition to Herr Goeringer's sweep-
ing salutation.
uJa, Amerikanerinen i," they overheard the
landlord saying. " Bleiben noch einige Zeit"
And the pair disappeared.
" Lois, Lois ! " said Betty, flushed witrTsuc-
cess and pleasure. " What a gallant, handsome
fellow ! Lois, he'll do for the knight, wont he ?
Whose shall he be, yours or mine ? I saw
him first."
Lois smiled back, with a pretty, soft rose on
her cheeks.
" He is just one's idea of a knight, Betty,
isn't he, so far as looks go ? "
And at this juncture Aunt Sarah appeared,
dazed and pink-nosed from her afternoon nap,
and told the girls Kreuzner said they should
take a drive, and they must get ready at once,
for they could not be out after seven, as Kreuz-
ner wished to be back for his supper, though it
was not much of anything they provided for
him here, he said, and she had promised him
five marks a day more, so that he might not
be really starved, poor fellow.
CHAPTER IV.
" He's not here," whispered Betty to her
cousin, as by eight o'clock the next morning
they descended to the sloppy and not particu-
larly attractive spot where the two iron springs
conveniently bubbled up together. " Perhaps
he's outside. Let's hurry. Here's your glass,
Aunt Sarah."
And she reached impatiently down in front
of a number of outstretched hands to grab a
tumbler held up dexterously by one of the
boys below, on the upside-down end of a long
wooden dipper.
" I don't think that's my spring," said Aunt
Sarah, dubiously. " Boy "
" Oh, it'll do just as well," said Betty. " Do
drink it and be done with it. There can't be
any difference in springs so close together.
Here, I'll hold it for you. Don't wait to take
offyour glove."
And, almost choking her aunt with the
water, Betty marched off her charges at last
to join the promenaders in front of the music-
stand, where the band, according to the cus-
tom at all German springs, was just beginning
with the choral. It was a glorious morning.
Everybody was out walking up and down
the road, while the doctor, standing at the top
of the promenade, spotted his hapless victims
from afar with a falcon's eye, and attaching
himself burr-like, first to one patient, then to
another, went through the stereotyped ques-
tions with the same deep attention and ab-
sorbing interest in the answers.
" Have you slept well ? Do you walk far ?
How is your appetite ? How do you like the
bath? Achy so. Dass ist gut. Ja."
Yes, everybody was there, including the
younger black-haired proprietor, who was
walking radiantly by to show off the equally
radiant young woman clinging to his arm
with the blushing fervor of a Teutonic braut;
and including Kreuzner, who (when in Rome
always going a little ahead of the Romans)
had just taken his fourteenth glass when he
stopped the ladies to present each with a
rose-bud, fresh from the porter's garden.
" So attentive," murmured Aunt Sarah as
they walked on. " He must always be getting
something for us. Remarkable, how expensive
roses are in Germany."
Betty fastened the flower in her dress, well
satisfied. Her fresh toilette needed only that
finishing touch, she knew. But, alas, he whom
it was meant to captivate was the only absen-
tee that bright August morning. She looked
up the road and down the road, and faithfully
scrutinized each of the inviting little mountain
paths that ran down into it from the woods so
close above ; but the tall, graceful figure,
i86
THE KNIGHT OF THE BLACK FOREST.
with the erectness imparted by early martial
training alone, was nowhere to be run to
earth. Surely he would appear soon. It was
nine o'clock now. Must they go in to break-
fast and miss him so ? Never. It would be
tempting Providence.
Necessity is the mother of invention.
" Aunt Sarah," said Betty, " do let's break-
fast out here for once on the terrace, as every
one else does. I really think we ought to.
It's a shame to go in out of this fine air."
It had rained the night before, and the ter-
race was damp as a sponge ; but Betty over-
ruled any objections, and having with difficulty
wrung consent from Kreuzner, who " couldn't
think his ladees would want to breakfast in
that sheap way outdoors," their coffee and
rolls were brought out to a very nicely chosen
spot that commanded all the doors of all the
different houses at once.
" Isn't it lovely and fresh out here ? " said
Betty, with excellently made-up enthusiasm.
" What's the use of being so exclusive and
not doing like everybody else ? Lois, there's
an ant making straight for the butter. Knock
it off, that's a dear. Don't you like it here,
Aunt Sarah ? "
Aunt Sarah was not sure that she did. It
did not seem exactly homelike to take one's
coffee out in the street, and this proximity to
things that crawled with legs was uncomfort-
able at breakfast time, while a drop of water
trickling down from the trees upon her neck
gave her a momentary shiver, it felt so like a
beetle. Still she had come abroad with a grave
understanding that that meant she was to
do everything differently from what she did
at home ; and if it was the custom of the
country she was in to be uncomfortable, it
was manifestly her duty to be uncomfortable
too, else she might as well have stayed at
home. So, though she would never have
dreamed of breakfasting neuralgically after a
rain on the damp ground of their back yard in
Troy, in full view of all their neighbors' win-
dows, she said it was very nice indeed here,
and smiled the pale little watery smile where-
with she faced her brightest pleasures as well
as her sorest woes.
But the young man had not appeared even
by the time breakfast was over. Betty's pa-
tience gave out all of a sudden.
" I wont breakfast outdoors again," she
cried, jumping up. " It's too stupid for belief.
I wonder anybody can want to. I'm positive
they only furnish stale zwieback out here.
Anyway, I've had enough, and I'm going in."
But by eleven o'clock, when it was again
time to go for a glass of mineral water, her
hopes had revived, and she tied on her be-
coming hat without her usual protest at the
hardship of being asked to walk when she
was not taking the cure. It would be sinful
to neglect any possible chance, and of course
the unknown knight might turn up even yet.
And, oh luck ! there he was at the springs,
looking handsomer and more aristocratic than
ever. But few people were there at this hour,
so of course he noticed the party at once,
staring at them with continental freedom as
they descended the steps. Lois flushed a deli-
cate pink. Betty only bloomed the more, like
a flower under a passing sunbeam.
" So near and yet so far," she murmured.
"Why couldn't he have been standing at this
side ? I must help fate on again. Hush up
Aunt Sarah if she says anything. I'm going
over there."
" Betty ! " gasped Lois.
" Hush," warned Betty ; and then, calmly
saying aloud, " I believe the Josephsquelle
is my spring," she deliberately walked around
to the other side, so intent upon catching the
eye of the boy below to sign for a glass, that
she did not observe where she was going till
brought to a standstill by suddenly brushing
against some one.
" Oh, I beg your pardon ! " she exclaimed
with the utmost surprise and annoyance in
her soft, pretty voice, and drew so far back
in her dismay that she did not see the glass
when it was reached up from below, so that
the young gentleman could scarcely do less
than hand it to her with a slight bow ; and
then she turned from him just sufficiently to
present the very prettiest outline of her face
to his eyes as she drank, and finished the glass
demurely, giving him a little grateful smile as
he took it back from her to set it down.
" Oh, how dared you do it ? " said Lois "as
Betty rejoined her and her conveniently near-
sighted aunt, and gave her a wicked look of
triumph.
" Nothing venture, nothing have," Betty re-
plied saucily. " He was very nice. I only
hope the water won't kill me. Ugh, what
nasty stuff ! Do you suppose he'll be at table-
d'hote to-day ? "
" I shouldn't think he could possibly want
dinner at one o'clock, if he's only up now,"
said Lois.
Nevertheless she changed her dress that
day for dinner, while the wily Betty, feeling
sure nothing could be more becoming than
her dainty pink cambric, merely added a
bunch of fresh daisies and ferns, and carefully
pulled her curls about into the loose rings
that looked as unstudied and guileless as if
they were the outgrowth of nature rather
than wholly of grace.
" What are you going to do next ? " asked
Lois curiously and a little anxiously. Betty's
THE KNIGHT OF THE BLACK FOREST.
187
vagaries were taking an alarming shape.
*' You wont speak to him, will you ? "
" Well, no, not exactly. But I'll bow, of
course, just slightly. That will do as a pre-
liminary. Shall you bow too ? "
" Oh, no, Betty ; how could I ! "
" Why not, if I do ? Over here, if one bows,
all bow, you know."
" Betty, Betty, you'll get yourself into a
dreadful scrape some day! "
Betty laughed lightly, giving a little finish-
ing pat to her curls to flatten them against her
forehead, and a satisfied glance at the tout
ensemble in the mirror. After all, there are cer-
tain advantages, personal and accredited, in
being an American girl, lacking to other
nationalities.
" Oh, I'm able to take care of myself any
time I fancy. Come along, Lois. It's ten
minutes since the bell rang. He must be there
by this time."
He was not, however. Betty gave a rueful
glance across at her cousin as they took their
places dutifully on either side of Aunt Sarah,
who sat erect and stiff between them like a
sprig of broom between two roses.
" We needn't have hurried, Lois. The three
hundred guests aren't all here yet."
" Why, it's very full to-day, Betty, my dear,
isn't it ? " asked Aunt Sarah, looking round
the big room with that peculiar depression
stealing over her which some people always
experience in large assemblies, as if so much
crowding humanity suffocated their own iden-
tity as individuals.
" May be, but it's not full enough yet by
one," answered Betty. " But what a racket, isn't
there ? No, no soup, please. Oh — Lois ! "
The portly head-waiter was showing some
stranger his place, a tall, thoroughly self-
possessed young man who, noways abashed
by the number of eyes directed toward him,
pulled his waxed mustache and stared calmly
around as he followed. His eyes reaching
those of Betty and Lois as he proceeded
along the tables, a gleam of recognition shot
into them. Betty slightly inclined her head
in a way that might do for a bow if he took
it as such, or, if not, for a casual glance at
her plate. He did not know which she meant
it for, so slightly inclined his head too; it
might be a bow, or only that he was looking
down to rearrange the flower in his button-
hole. Betty watched eagerly to see where he
would sit. There was a confabulation between
the waiters ; then he was deferentially escorted
back and placed at one end of their own long
table, between a woman who ate like a beast
and a man who handled his knife and fork as
if they were severally a plow and a dredg-
ing-machine. Opposite him a young girl sat
absently rubbing her plate with the palms of
her hands, while waiting for the boiled beef
and carrots to reach her.
" Pretty safe," said Betty across to Lois
with a roguish look. " No possible rivals
there."
Lois glanced down too, but suddenly turned
back with a suspicious glow on her face. The
young man, catching her eye as he raised his
glass, had made a faint gesture to indicate
that he was drinking her health.
" This room is dreadfully warm," she said,
to account for her bright cheeks.
Aunt Sarah was slightly shivering. The
room had felt chilly to her ever since she had
discovered that it was built out over the Wolf-
bach, the little Rippolds Au stream.
" My dear child, I think not. But you cer-
tainly do look warm and uncomfortable, very.
I wish I had my fan. Would you like my
smelling-salts ? "
Betty turned to the rescue.
" She'll cool off, Aunt Sarah, if you only
leave her alone. What are we to have after
the pancakes and omelette ? "
Aunt Sarah adjusted her glasses and took
up the menu. She was so cunningly contrived*
by nature for a chaperon as to be not more
perfect of hearing than of sight, and was as
good as deaf any time if one only spoke rapidly
enough to coiffuse the syllables.
" What was it ? " said Betty quickly, lean-
ing boldly behind her.
" He drank my health," whispered Lois
cautiously back.
" What fun ! " „
" It was very impertinent."
" Never mind. He's a duck."
" Oies, oies, — that's French for goose, isn't
it ? " asked Aunt Sarah, struggling with the
menu.
" No, German for it in this case," answered
Betty, with a look in her turn down to the
end of their table. " And some kind of a mess
with the goose, I suppose ? "
" Compote," read Aunt Sarah. " Pears, I
dare say."
" Possibly," assented Betty gravely. " Or
we might have a sweet pickle."
" My dear, if we do," said Aunt Sarah
earnestly, " remember to let it go. All such
things are forbidden with the waters, and
Lois says you drank a glass this morning."
" I'll remember," answered her niece se-
dately. " You had better warn Lois too."
" Oh, no fear of Lois," said Aunt Sarah
affectionately. " She always keeps to rules."
" Yes, good little Lois," laughed Betty.
" She'll never get herself into any scrape, and
she shall have some of my pudding all the
same. You don't want any of these horrid
THE KNIGHT OF THE BLACK FOREST.
little cakes and candies and things, do you,
Aunt Sarah ? I'm sure they're bad with the
waters. Don't let's wait for them to-day.
Let's hurry out before the crowd."
She had her especial reason for wishing to
leave before the rest, as Lois comprehended ;
for in going out they had to pass by the end
of the table where the young man sat between
the beast and the monster. Betty, who was
first, gave a little sidelong glance at his inter-
esting neighbors, which naturally included
him too. He was watching the party as it
drew near, and instantly pushed back his
chair, rose to his full height, and made the
lowest kind of salutation, which included the
three ladies, remaining standing until they
had all passed, and looking after them with a
queer little smile before he resumed his seat.
" My dears, my dears ! " said Aunt Sarah
in a surprise that almost robbed her of speech.
" Who is he ? What did he mean ? He doesn't
know us ! "
" Yes, yes, he does, intimately," answered
Betty quickly, hurrying her along, alarmed
lest any one notice her consternation.
" I don't understand," said Aunt Sarah.
" It's all very remarkable. Everything is
remarkable over here, of course, everything,
and nothing is at all like home. But a young
man I never saw before getting up to bow to
me at table when I go out ,*is the most re-
markable of all. Perhaps it's a foreign custom
to bow to elderly ladies even when you don't
know them, but I never saw it mentioned.
It's certainly very remarkable."
" Oh, Betty, how coulq! you look at him ! "
whispered Lois reproachfully.
" Oh, come now, you like it well enough.
Don't you put on the prude," laughed Betty.
" I generally am the one to play cat's-paw, but
you needn't pretend you don't like your share
of such a jolly big chestnut as this."
And Lois could not say that she did not.
chapter v.
Two days followed during which matters
progressed little with their new acquaintance.
They saw him constantly — at the spring, on
the promenade, at the table-d'h6te ; and he
bowed always profoundly and solemnly, as if
performing an act of graceful worship. It
seemed, indeed, as if he must watch their
movements and direct his own accordingly,
these meetings were so astonishingly frequent ;
and whenever they thus met he would stand
still and gaze after them in the most marked
manner, though never addressing them a
word.
" Really," said Betty at last, " it is getting
ridiculous, our bowing to him in this speech-
less way a hundred times in the twenty-four
hours when we don't so much as know his
name. I mean to find out that, at least."
" You wont stop him and ask for his card,
I hope," said Lois, looking up from the low
chair where she was knitting, and watching
Betty with quiet amusement and expectancy.
" I certainly will if I can't find out in any
other way," said Betty, with a determined
nod of her little Hebe-like head. " The thing
is getting too absurd. He ought to step boldly
up and speak to us. That's what an American
would do, — Ned Prentiss, for instance ; but
I suppose German proprieties, or improprieties,
are different. Lois, we'll send for the Frem-
den Liste and guess him out. He'll be sure
to have a title for us to know him by. He
certainly is superior to all these creatures
here ; the bare look of him shows that, be-
sides his table manners. He doesn't eat with
his knife, or handle his fork and spoon like
unaccustomed and inconvenient articles, or
make his tooth-pick the prominent feature of
the repast. He's an educated and eminently
attractive being. I must know who he is.
Here's Kreuzner, just in time " (as that per-
son bustled in with a great show of useful-
ness, bearing two colossal bouquets which he
had the waiter pick for them daily in the
woods, and which figured nobly in his ac-
counts). " Kreuzner, can you get me a
Fremden Liste ? "
" Certainly, mees," he responded, with that
confident alacrity which was his chief and
cheapest virtue. " If there is only one in all
Rippolds Au, yet you shall have it. I shall
get it for you. My ladees shall always have
all."
And in a trice he was back with quite a
little book-stall in his hand.
" There," he said, giving each lady a sepa-
rate pile of papers, consisting not only of the
last published list of strangers, but of all the
back numbers from the beginning of the sea-
son. " There."
Aunt Sarah looked at him approvingly. It
was delightful to see a creature so devoted,
body and soul, to their interests.
Lois and Betty bent together over the sheets.
" How often are these printed, Kreuzner ? "
" Once every week, mees. Every Saturday
night, mees. Oh, I can tell you everthing."
Lois laughed her low, musical laugh.
" Foiled, Betty ! To-day is Thursday. The
name can't be in the list yet. We must wait
two more days. Here, Kreuzner, take these
dirty things away and burn them up."
" Burn them ! " cried Kreuzner, in virtuous
horror. " These excellent papers that I did
give three very goot marks for ? Oh, no ; not
THE KNIGHT OF THE BLACK FOREST.
189
burn them. I keep them till they get useful.
I never waste nothing. You shall see how
economic I am."
Betty stood with her hands behind her
back, thinking hard. She could not submit to
be foiled.
" Kreuzner," she said suddenly, " I sup-
pose you find out who everybody is. You
haven't much else to do here. Do you hap-
pen to know the name of that young gentle-
man who came last Monday afternoon, and
who looks as if he might be somebody nice,
somebody in particular ? "
" Yes, mees, I have notice' him/' replied
Kreuzner, promptly. " I always see every-
body. Very nice young shentleman, mees,
and has his boots made from Paris. I see
them outside his door. His room is next at
mine. He sings, too, very goot while he is
dressing. Gets up late, achja, but sings very
fine songs out operas."
" What is his name ? " asked Betty, disre-
garding the admonitory tugs given her dress
by Lois, who could not endure to have the
courier thus appealed to.
" Yes, certainly, he has some very goot
name, but I don't just know it," said Kreuz-
ner, reluctant to admit ignorance upon any
point. " His boots is very fine. No such boots
in Shermany. But his name — oh, I ask it out;
I tell you directly." And he vanished at once.
" In for it now," said Betty. " Barber,
escaped lunatic, or prince, we shall know it
irrevocably in ten minutes." And, true enough,
within ten minutes Kreuzner reappeared and
triumphantly laid down a scrap of paper be-
fore them, whereon was a name written out in
huge and severely legible characters, " Herr
Graf von Lindenfels."
Betty gave a little cry of delight.
" Oh, a live count, as I live and breathe !
What fun ! How did you find out, Kreuzner? "
" Trust me to find you out everything in
the betterest way, mees. I go to Herr Goe-
ringer self, who I find talking just with that
shentleman, and I say to him, ' So soon you
are at liberty, mein herr, I have one very im-
portant question to ask for my young ladees.'
And the young shentleman he hear, and he
move off a leetle, and I point at him and say,
\ What that shentleman's name, mein herr ?
My young ladees they desire to know it.' "
"O Kreuzner! Oh, this is too much!"
cried Lois, in despair. Even Betty flushed
unpleasantly and bit her lips.
" Go on, Kreuzner," she said.
" And Herr Goeringer he say out very
plain, ' That is the Herr Graf von Linden-
fels.' And I say, ' No, Herr Goeringer. That
may do for others, but it not enough for
Ludwig Kreuzner. I must have it here writ-
ten out, so I show it my ladees, and then
there is no mistake.' And I took my pencil
and paper out, and he did write it very care-
ful, and ask the Herr Graf, ' Is that right ? '
And the Herr Graf he laugh too, and did not
look displease', not at all, no. Ach, that's
him, mees, now ; look ! " And catching Betty
unceremoniously by the arm, he would have
turned her to the window, but she drew away
indignantly, saying :
" Let me alone, Kreuzner."
Lois said nothing until the courier had left
the room ; then she turned to her cousin in
distress.
" Betty, what must he think of us ? Isn't
it dreadful ? "
" Nonsense," said Betty, trying to laugh it
off. " Here, Aunt Sarah, see his name. Isn't
it a beauty ? It's the first count you ever saw
in your life, I'll be bound; and here he's been
bowing his lordly back almost in two to you all
these days. Don't you feel set up about it ? "
" Well, I suppose he must be something of
a count if Kreuzner says so," said Aunt Sarah,
who had not by any means taken it all in.
" But if he really is, I don't think I shall
quite like to bow to him any more. It would
look presumptuous, perhaps, in a poor old wo-
man like me, who hasn't any kind of a handle
to her name, not so much as a Madam even."
" Oh, never you mind that. You are just
the dearest old thing out," cried Betty, with a
hug. " You always let me have my own way.
Come, Lois, let's have a waltz to dance off
your dejection."
" I sha'n't dare look him in the face again,"
said poor Lois. " Think of his hearing that
we sent to find out his name ! "
" Well, and didn't we ? " said Betty, stoutly.
" He only heard the truth, anyway. Don't be
such an awful prude. We'll just keep on bow-
ing to him, I suppose, till he goes, and there'll
have to be the end of it."
But the end had not come yet. The next
morning, as they were at breakfast, Kreuzner
appeared with his customary salutation.
" Goot morning, ladees. I hope you sleep
well."
" Not a wink. Never do," said Betty
crossly, tired of the eternal greeting. Kreuz-
ner looked at her with the immediate sym-
pathy of one prepared for all emergencies.
" Ach ! that not goot. But I have some
drops. I always carry medicine for ever'thing
in my bag. These very goot. You take ten
drops before you go to bed, and you sleep like
angels."
" Stuff! " laughed Betty. " Keep your old
drops for yourself. I sleep solidly every night
through."
Kreuzner sighed over the lost opportunity.
190
THE KNIGHT OF THE BLACK FOREST.
" They're very goot, very goot, and only
six marks the bottle. But no matter. I keep
them. Some day you be so lucky as to need
them. Mees," he continued, turning to Aunt
Sarah, " that shentleman who the young ladies
ask the name for yesterday, the Herr Graf
von Lindenfels, he desire his compliments,
and ask permission if he may have the honor
to call upon the ladees to-day."
Instant consternation fell upon the little
party. Lois paled. Betty pushed back her
chair and fled to the window to hide a burst
of unseemly laughter. Aunt Sarah sat staring
blankly at the courier.
u What must I do ? " she said helplessly.
" I don't understand. What does he want ?
What am I to say ? "
" Leave it all me," said Kreuzner, encour-
agingly. " I do it right. I tell him come, cer-
tainly. Very nice young shentleman. Goot
famine. I tell him yes, the ladees delighted."
And he disappeared immediately.
" Great heavens ! " said Betty, recovering
her breath. " This is an advance that puts
my poor progressive powers quite to the blush.
He has taken the initiative out of my hands.
Llowever, the result is beyond my wildest
hopes. Lois, let's toss up for him. He must
be your knight or mine, you know."
"It's very remarkable," said Aunt Sarah ;
" very — very."
CHAPTER VI.
It was about a week after the memorable
day upon which Emil Hermann Ruprecht,
Graf von Lindenfels, had made his first call
upon the ladies. The cousins had retired for
the night ; which means that they had gone to
their room to launch upon an exhaustive con-
versation. Lois, attracted by the beauty of
the night, sat in the open window, where,
with a sigh of content, she presently threw
wide the blinds to obtain a broader view,
which thoughtless proceeding forced Betty,
who was prosaically putting up her curls be-
fore the glass, to blow out the candles and
retire precipitately to the farthest end of the
room.
" Bless me, Lois ! I wonder will you never
be through star-gazing ? Now I would rather
have one jolly flirtation with Graf Ruprecht
to think over than all the stars of this side and
the other side of the world, too, to stare at."
" But I don't flirt, you know, Betty."
" The worse luck for you. It's no end of
fun."
" It wouldn't be fun to me to pretend I
cared for somebody when I didn't."
" Oh, but one always does a little just at
the time. That's what gives it its flavor,"
said Betty from her corner, proceeding indus-
triously to disrobe.
" I like things real all the way through,"
said Lois.
" Then you ought to like Ned Prentiss,"
said Betty, sitting on the floor and tugging
away at her stockings. " He's solidly real.
He wouldn't flirt, not for a million down and
you thrown in. He just couldn't. Now Ru-
precht— there's a name for your gentle, sen-
timental ears, my dear — Ruprecht can. He
can flirt well — very well indeed. In fact,
I don't think I need give him any lessons at
all. He's a master at it. He smiles at me and
lowers his voice to you ; or he looks at you
and gives a flower to me ; or he presses my
hand faintly in returning me my handkerchief,
and never fails to see at the same instant that
your shawl is falling and must be wrapped
closer. I don't believe I could manage a
dozen men at once any better than he is
managing us girls now. Upon my word, I
don't know which of us he likes better and
which he's only flirting with."
" He likes you better, of course," answered
Lois, with a little smile. " I believe men gen-
erally like flirts best."
" Yes — to flirt with," said Betty, rising up
white and spectral in the distance, but yawn-
ing in a most unghostly fashion. " Somehow,
men never seem as if they were flirting with
you. It doesn't have the same look it has
with me. They say all sorts of soft things to
me, and they sound soft. But when they say
them to you there's a different ring to them 1
it seems as if they meant it."
" Perhaps they do a little, just at the time,
as you said of yourself a moment ago."
Betty advanced a few steps out of the
screening darkness of her corner.
" I wonder which he really does like bet-
ter?" she said. " 1 like him anyhow, and I give
you fair warning I mean to flirt with him to the
very tip end of my powers. One doesn't get
hold of a bona fide count every day. And then
he's so tall and handsome, and has such a love-
ly voice, and such white, gentlemanly hands."
" Yes," assented Lois dreamily.
" And he dresses in such taste. And all
his little ways are so courteous and graceful
and perfect."
" Yes," said Lois again.
" It really makes one feel distingue just to
be seen with him," Betty continued. " He's
not a bit commonplace, is he, Lois ? "
" No," said Lois.
" Do, for heaven's sake, say something more
than eternally yes and no ! " cried Betty, ener-
getically. " Come, what do you think of him ? "
She drew nearer, keeping carefully out of
range of the window, unbraiding her glossy
THE KNIGHT OF THE BLACK FOREST.
191
hair and tossing it behind her in a soft, wavy
shower as she came. Lois sat very still in the
window with folded hands.
" I think," she said at last, slowly, " I think
he is not commonplace at all. Not at all.
He is courtly and gracious and noble, I think ;
at least, he seems so ; as if he could only do
knightly deeds and chivalrous acts ; as if he
had inherited his manners with his title, not
as if he had made himself superior by his own
effort, like — like Mr. Prentiss, but as if he
had been born so ; as if his ancestors for long
generations back had all been great and pow-
erful and grand ;* the men all valiant and yet
tender and refined and cultured, fit for the
princely homes they live in ; and the women
all beautiful and good, though proud and
haughty too, scorning the common folk a lit-
tle, because so high above them."
Betty gathered her hair back from her face
in her two hands and stood looking at her cous-
in, a little surprised and considerably amused.
" How you do go in for a thing when you
go in for it at all ! " she said presently, with her
light, pretty laugh. Everything was so pretty
about Betty.
Lois turned her face away.
" I can't like surface things only, as you do,
Betty."
" You like polish, and what in the world is
that but a surface thing ? " retorted Betty. " You
say you must have depth and sincerity and real-
ity, and all the rest of the tremendous things I
am supposed not to care for ; but I observe
you like a little outside gloss as well as I do."
" Yes, if only the other is not wanting."
" Well, the depth you have to guess at,
anyway, so for my part give me the tangible
shine," said Betty. " And, above all, give me
Ruprecht to flirt with."
" Do you mean never to do anything but
flirt, Betty ? " asked Lois, a little sadly. " Do
you mean never to care seriously for any dne ? "
" No," said Betty, giving a spring into her
bed, and curling herself up in a round heap.
" I wouldn't be in love for anything. I would
rather flirt. It's more fun."
" Isn't it rather hard fun on the men ? "
" No — not a bit. It doesn't hurt them as
much to be in love with me as with such a dead-
in-earnest thing as you. Besides, I just keep
encouraging them all a little bit straight along,
and don't drop a big ' No ! ' plump down on
them, slap-bang, like an ice-water shower, as
you would ; and so they get over it by de-
grees, and it doesn't come hard on them at
any one time, you see. Deep in their hearts
they really suspect all the time that I don't
mean anything by the flowers I give them,
and the little sighs I sigh, and all the spooney
ways and looks I can't help treating them to.
They know I'm shallow and frivolous and
selfish, and all the other bad things that a flirt
always is ; but they like the fun just as well as
I do, while it lasts."
" And when it stops ? "
" Then they go to some other girl and try
it over with her, and I take up the next man
and count one more lover off."
" And they count one more deceitful wo-
man in the world ; one more fickle, heartless
creature, in whose light all others, even the
truest, show false and faithless too ! " cried
Lois impulsively, leaving her seat, and com-
ing over where Betty sat rocking gently back
and forth with a mischievous smile on her
lips. " Betty, do think a little of the real
harm you do under all the seeming harmless-
ness. You make a mere mockery of love;
you turn the real thing into a shadow; you
make every one who comes near you nothing
but a flirt too ; you would take all the truth out
of the world if only your influence were wide
enough, and you could live long enough."
" But I sha'n't," said Betty, jumping off the
bed and hunting for the matches. " What's
more, I'm going to light the candles, and if
you have any affection whatever left for so
disreputable a creature, you'll instantly shut
those blinds, instead of standing there talking
poetry and bosh at me."
But Lois was too much in earnest to be put
off. She followed Betty and folded her arms
closely about her. " Betty, dear Betty," she
said pleadingly, " don't flirt any more. You'll
get yourself into trouble some day. You'll
find your flirting is turning into loving, per-
haps, while he may be only flirting still ; and,
Betty, I don't believe all the fun of it now
would pay you for the sorrow of it then.
Don't flirt so, Betty. You are pretty enough,
and sweet enough, and bright enough to at-
tract, even if you are true besides. Please
don't flirt any more ! "
" I will," said Betty, struggling and laugh-
ing in her cousin's arms. " And I'll strike this
match on your shoulder if you don't let me
strike it on the box. I've got to flirt. I was
made so, and that's all there is of it. Lois, if
you don't shut those blinds I will, and people
will think it's you appearing there in your
night-dress. I never stand at the window at
midnight, blinking up at the stupid old stars.
Oh, Lois, I am sorry for you, you miss so
much fun ! It is such fun, such jolly fun, to
be a flirt!"
(To be continued.)
THE POET'S ADVENT.
When comes the Poet, shall he not be strong?
Shall it not satisfy him
That he can soar the heavens on his song,
Although the earth deny him ?
Shall not his great heart carol and be glad ?
Shall he need recognition ♦
Of mortals plodding in their country sad,
Far 'neath his fields elysian ?
To his high calling shall he not be true?
Shall he not smile benignly
Though he have scorn and sackcloth for his due,
Content to pipe divinely ?
Shall Brobdingnagian Swift his heart consume
With foul, ferocious humor,
Though Stella pour her love's light on his gloom
Till sadly they entomb her ?
Shall there be need to veil melodious Poe ?
Shall Byron sink his trumpet —
With puling hawk his blighted heart, and show
His muse a strumpet ?
Aye, at the deadly peril of his soul,
To heart-break, comes the poet:
No galling cross, pang, hunger, forfeit goal,
But he shall know it!
Shall feel each weight and sting a thousand-fold,
All human need and pining;
Be pierced by doubting of his kind, and cold
As sky-peak lonely shining;
The strong shall bear with buffeting and mock,
And blaze of fiery trial ;
The sweet and fragile ground upon the rock
Of pitiless denial :
Shelley shall break in protest wild, undue,
And Keats wring out his spirit
For love of one unmeet to latch his shoe,
His common speech to hear it;
Milton go blind in strife of shattered land;
For lack die Spenser faery ;
Lamb cross the fields to bedlam, hand-in-hand
Weeping with his mad Mary !
James T. McKay.
HUNTING THE ROCKY MOUNTAIN GOAT.
Our knowledge of the various sub-de-
partments of natural history has, with few
exceptions, kept on a line with the wonderful
progress made in the pictorial art, that is so
important to it. One of these exceptions,
an instance in which our knowledge has re-
mained somewhat behind the time, relates to
the animal which forms the subject of this
sketch — the Aplocerus montanus, known to
the frontiersman and to the fur-trader of the
extreme North-west as the white goat of the
Rocky Mountains. So much myth is inter-
woven with the history of this animal, so little
that is authentic is known of it, that an ac-
count of its habitus and appearance, and also
a description of its chase, — it being to-day,
without exception, the rarest game animal on
the North American continent,— ■ may perhaps
be not without interest.
Before we proceed, let it be recorded that
its popular name is an incorrect one. It is no
goat, and strictly speaking it does not inhabit
the Rocky Mountains, for its home is entirely
confined to the more or less detached moun-
tain chains that occupy the Pacific slopes of
the main system of the Rocky Mountains. It
is only found in western Montana, the north-
ernmost portions of Idaho and Oregon, in
Washington Territory, and especially in Brit-
ish Columbia. No authentic instance is
known to me of its appearing south of 45 °
north latitude, while its range in the op-
posite direction seems to extend to the in-
hospitable Arctic regions. The exterior of
this grotesque member of the Cavicornia, or
hollow-horned family, is not very unlike that
of the domestic goat, much magnified in
size; but a closer examination of its struc-
ture, of the singularly heavy and deep body,
of the skull and horns, of the curved nose,
of the soft, silky under-hairs of its coat, and
other not less characteristic features, shows, it
would seem, very clearly that the affinities of
our animal are more with the antelope than
with the goat or sheep.
Its history is one of peculiar interest. So
far as I know, specimens of the Aplocerus
montanus are to be found only in three cities :
in London, where a very undersized and
wretchedly stuffed specimen does not re-
dound to the honor of the British Museum
or of English taxidermists ; a better one in
the Leyden Museum ; and two fair represen-
tatives (one male and one female) in the
National Museum at Washington.
Fathers Piccolo and de Savatiera first dis-
covered the animal on the Pacific slope. Van-
couver some ninety years ago brought home a
mutilated skin of one as a great prize. The
first scientific account of it was published in
the year 1816 by the well-known naturalist
de Blainville ; while the Philadelphia natural-
ist Ord, a few years later, published a long
account of this mysterious animal, basing
his theories upon materials of a somewhat
scanty description, consisting, as we are in-
formed, of " the scalp with one of the horns
attached to it and the skin without head or
legs, it having served an Indian for a cloak."
It is not surprising, therefore, to find that, not
even excepting the famous OvisPolii of central
Asia, an animal which no European has as
yet killed, there is to-day probably no game
animal existing regarding which our informa-
tion is so vague> or which is known to the
naturalist under so many different generic
names. Of the twenty-three scientific authori-
ties who have, so far as I have been able to
follow the subject, written on this animal,
none had ever seen one alive, and only four
had ever examined a stuffed specimen ; but
they nevertheless have bestowed thirteen
different generic names upon it, some making
of it a sheep, others classing it as a goat,
while others, again, ranked it as a chamois.
As a singular coincidence, it is to be remarked
that the first really scientific classification,
that of de Blainville, has, after all, obtained
the confirmation of our great living author-
ities, such as Professor Spencer F. Baird, who
places this animal among the antelopes with
the distinctive generic name of Aplocerus
montanus, though the two specimens in the
National Museum at Washington are still on
exhibition under the patronymic given to
it more than half a century ago by Ord, i. <?.,
Majama montana.
As a popular name mountain antelope
or antelope- goat might be suggested. For-
tunately the animal is so little known to the
general public that few except Hudson Bay
Company trappers will have to unlearn its
old name, and even among them there are
not very many who have ever seen a live one.
Since the days of Lewis and Clarke, who, by
the way, brought home with them the old
Indian cloak specimen, on the strength of
which Mr. Ord built up such profound specu-
lations, the traveler in those far-off mountain
regions, if he does not make their chase his
194
HUNTING THE ROCKY MOUNTAIN GOAT.
special object and has not a goodly meed of
patience to stick to his purpose, has but little
chance of " glimpsing" this rare inhabitant of
the very highest altitudes of the inaccessible
peaks. It lives exclusively above timber-line,
and is not only in this peculiarity an ex-
ception to all other game on the North
American continent, but also because it re-
mains all the year round in the same place,
which no other wild animals do, their summer
and winter range being either in entirely dif-
ferent zones, as in the case of the bison or
buffalo, elk, and mule-deer, or rendered distinct
by a considerable difference in the altitude,
as in the case of the bighorn. Both these
features remove the antelope-goat from the
ken of the ordinary traveler, and make it diffi-
cult even for the ardent sportsman to dis-
cover its real home.
For three consecutive years I hunted on
the breezy mountain ranges of Wyoming,
Colorado, Idaho, and eastern Montana, liv-
ing for months at altitudes over ten thou-
sand feet; but I failed utterly to find this
mysterious game elsewhere than in the con-
versation of romancing trappers and guides,
a circumstance that created in my mind a
decided tendency to look upon all " goat "
stories with a good deal of suspicious reserve.
I heard a great number of such tales. Men
told me that they had shot, knifed, lassoed,
stalked, staked in pitfall, and otherwise "gone
for " the prized game, and that in their turn
they had been gored, spitted, " treed," butted,
trampled on, and generally roughly handled
by redoubtable old rams; and though the
Britisher in this instance declined to be
" filled up boots and all " with these hoary old
myths of the ultra Western type, they yet
generated in me an irrepressible desire to get
at the bottom of these wonderful natural-his-
tory revelations. I determined that my next
annual visit to the Far West was to be ex-
clusively devoted to goat-hunting ; and a letter
I received in May, 1882, from a reliable friend
and countryman residing in western Mon-
tana, declaring that he had actually seen, not
a live, but, what was next best, a dead moun-
tain goat, made me pack my trunks and
engage passage in hot haste.
Two or three weeks later I was in Butte City,
that mostpromising of mining towns, the future
" Leadville " of Montana Territory. Here I
" outfitted," and, joined by my aforementioned
English friend, we were in a few days on our
way to the Bitter Root Mountains. Our party
had a business-like look about it ; the men and
the seven or eight horses were old friends of
former seasons, when their hardy endurance
had been put to very severe tests in expedi-
tions of five or six months' duration to the
few then remaining wild corners in the moun-
tainous West. Our minds were of equally
business-like bent. We wanted goat, and goat
we would get or perish in the attempt. As the
country we were about to visit was strange
to us, we decided, on reaching the last outpost
of civilization, to hire a local guide acquainted
with the trails that led up to the foot of the
chain on which we had reliable information
the animals had been seen and even killed.
It was an isolated little mining camp, and
the dozen or so of inhabitants, all " old-time "
frontiersmen, were one and all willing to take
their oath that they had slaughtered goats
since they could handle shooting-irons. We
picked out three from which the man was to
be selected. The choice was not the easiest.
The first was known as the fellow " who could
stand more rest than any other man in the terri-
tory," or, in other words, was supposed to be
the laziest man in Montana. The second was
reputed to be decidedly a " bad " man,
an old-time Virginia City vigilante, known
throughout the country as "Judge Never-
sweat," on account of the equanimity of mind
exhibited by him at a certain most critical
moment of his life, when he held at bay, with
an unloaded revolver, four doomed and des-
perate men, thirsting for his life and their
liberty. Judge Neversweat evinced much
anxiety to act as our guide across the Bitter
Root Mountains, every foot of which he
professed to know from his " prospecting "
days. " We'll have a blank good time, —
you bet your bedrock flume on that" he said,
adding, sotto voce, " anyhow, as long as the
whisky don't peter out." His indignation
when informed that this was not likely to
occur, for the good reason that on principle
we never took whisky on our shooting-trips,
was at first rather amusing, then startling, to
behold. The mere idea of a good time with-
out unlimited whisky was a dire imposition,
an insult to frontier manhood. He was too
angry to give vent to the usual unbridled flow
of bad language ; his otherwise loud voice
toned down to an angry snarl, his eyes glit-
tered, his form grew erect, his whole being
assumed an austerely dignified air; in one
word, Judge Neversweat became polite. It
was a mood the half-dozen mountaineers,
silent witnesses of this scene, seemed to un-
derstand and to fear, for they all suddenly
discovered they had business elsewhere, leav-
ing us, as I heard one mutter, " to our own
funeral." Then spoke up the Judge : " Gentle-
men, let Judge Neversweat /<?-litely inform
you, on the first call of his hand, that this yar
camp aint lost no goat ; and if this yar
straddle aint going to find your approve-
ment, Judge Neversweat's record aint one
HUNTING THE ROCKY MOUNTAIN GOAT.
95
that'll stand a second call." Our egregious
exhibition of insular prejudice cost us some
odd dollars. Judge Neversweat had not, we
found, included a call to the nearest saloon
among those incompatible with his " record."
Of the three men from whom we decided to
pick our guide, the third man enjoyed a more
harmless reputation — none else than that he
was " the biggest liar this side of the Rocky
Mountains." Him we chose, for his idiosyn-
crasy was decidedly the most harmless. Aside
from the fact that his qualification to act as our
guide was about the biggest of all big lies he
had ever fabricated, he proved a willing fel-
low and a good cook; so while we did his
guiding he did our cooking, a combination
satisfactory to both parties.
A peculiarity of the several great moun-
tain-chains of the Northern Pacific slope,
such as the Cascade, Bitter Root, Cceur
d'Alene, and Selkirk ranges, which are the
principal homes of the antelope-goat, are
the vast stretches of exceedingly dense for-
ests which clothe their precipitous slopes up
to an altitude of nine or ten thousand feet
in unbroken and perfectly trailless masses.
The Bitter Root peaks make no exception, and
this we saw when, after two days' travel
through a partly open country, we reached
the foot of the chain and camped on one of
the last open grassy spaces. At an early hour
the following morning we entered the forest,
hoping by a long day's scramble to reach
timber-line ; for the country looked compara-
tively easy to cross, and we could not imagine
that, with our pack animals trained to such
work, we possibly could fail to penetrate the
dark-green maze that mantled the slopes in a
primeval luxuriance of growth. But the for-
ests of the Pacific slope are awkward to
deal with, and as our guide had begun his
duties by telling us, just as a sample of ^his
powers in the way of yarning, that he knew a
trail which would lead us in six or seven hours
up to timber-line, we spent more than three
days in getting through the woods, inter-
sected as they were by bits of burnt forests
and numerous extensive " dead-falls " of trees
thrown pell-mell over, under, and astraddle
of each other by gales or avalanches. There
are few more temper-trying moments than
when you find yourself " stalled " in such a
"dead-fall." After an hour's hard and in-
cessant work with two of the heavy axes,
you have managed to penetrate one or two
hundred yards into the labyrinth of fallen
trunks ; now creeping under an uprooted tree
slanting against a frail support, a slight push
liable to send it crashing down on you ; then
" stomaching " a prostrate log three or four
feet in height, and by angry tugs and strong
language coaxing your horse to follow you,
which he does by a grotesque buck-like leap,
putting to a sore test the knots of the lash-
ropes that fasten his pack ; here clearing away
with your " barked " hands a tangle of
" snags," as the sharp clumps of branches are
called, which protrude like daggers from the
fallen giant trees ; then cautiously testing the
miry ground in spots of a most dangerous
character, liable to engulf the traveler and his
horse. After perhaps an hour's work, you
have reached the center of the strip of "dead-
fall," when suddenly you find yourself brought
up by a formidable barrier of trunks higher
than your head and garnished with a nasty
chevaux de /rise of snags of more than ordi-
nary density. It is impossible to penetrate it,
and you turn to your right and then to your
left vainly seeking an outlet, but there is none
visible. Nothing remains but to turn back
and retrace your steps ; but, lo ! a similarly
desperate state of things faces you, and for
some minutes you fail to find the exact place
where you crossed those huge logs or piles
of pole timber; for, as you happen to be on
ground sloping downward, the side of the
barrier which you now face is much higher
and therefore more impassable than the one
you breasted on your way into the snare. You
are " corralled," and without the aid of the
axe, wielded by sturdy arms, you cannot
possibly escape. In burnt timber the difficul-
ties are much the same, if not greater ; for the
conflagration, caused by elementary disasters
and fanned by fierce gales, has swept the forests
so fast that many of the burnt trees are left
standing upright, requiring but a slight push
to send them to the ground. Here the pack-
horses, with their unwieldy packs, become a
source of imminent danger. You cannot lead
them, for there are not enough men ; they
refuse to be driven, and so you have to let
them pick their way at their own sweet will,
bumping against fragilely poised trees, which
come down with such a crash as to spread
dismay among men and beasts.
Notwithstanding all these difficulties that
hamper traveling, these upland forests are
very beautiful, and they grow more beautiful
the further north-west you penetrate. The
trees are grand old silver firs, larch, and white
pine, clothed as you approach timber-line
with the fantastic " beard of the Alps," pen-
dent tresses of grizzly moss, often more than
a yard in length, that festoon the gnarled
branches of the larger trees. When the fierce
winter storms sweep through these elevated
forests, these tresses wave to and fro in a weirdly
fantastic manner. The flora, too, is more
varied than on the eastern ranges ; the beau-
tiful, inimitable blue of the modest Alpine
196
HUNTING THE ROCKY MOUNTAIN GOAT.
gentians, sunk in their mossy cushions, the
delicate perfume of the wood orchids, and
the trailing creepers of the clematis, all re-
mind one of the Alpine uplands of the Old
World. On approaching timber-line, where
the dense forest scatters out, patches of snow,
the last shreds of the deep solemn pall that
had covered living nature for the past seven
months, began to show in the gullies and
ravines. Toward the evening of the fourth
day we at last stood on the breezy slopes of
the great chain, at least ten thousand feet
over the broiling Atlantic and Pacific coasts.
One or two avalanches, where the snow was
still piled up thirty feet high, had to be crossed
before we reached a small rock-embowered
lake, where further progress with the pack-
train became impossible. It was a lovely sheet
of water, on three sides inclosed by huge
walls of rock that rise sheer from the water's
edge to an altitude of twelve or fifteen hun-
dred feet. Thrice beautiful it appeared that
day to the parched men and animals of our
party, and it needed not the usual call to
camp to strew an inviting bit of smooth
emerald-green meadow, lapped by the water
of the lake, with the loads of the horses;
and the next minute the jaded animals were
rolling on the refreshingly cool turf, and the
" bosses " were throwing aside their scant gar-
ments to dive from a great protruding bowlder
into the limpid depth of the lake.
But where are the goats ? the reader will ex-
claim. They are nearer than we think, for pres-
ently there is a hushed cry of amazement,
and all eyes are turned to the top of the
great walls that inclose the farther end of
the tarn. There, on the knife-back edge of
these singularly bold cliffs, we see, clearly out-
lined against the blue horizon, some five or
six snow-white apparitions, which, examined
through powerful glasses, prove to be the long-
looked-for, much-doubted mountain antelope.
We have come, we have seen, but we have
yet to conquer.
In the waning light of the afternoon and
evening an unsuccessful stalk was tried, for
the wind was unfavorable, and the game had
probably seen us. So no wonder that long
before we had climbed the knife-back ridge,
which on reaching it was found to be broader
than it appeared from below, our quarry had
vanished. The whole ground, however, was
tracked up by the sharp and unmistakable im-
pressions of their hoofs, while long, tangled
masses of the woolly hair of their winter coat,
which they evidently were just then shedding,
festooned the rocks, against which the animals
were apparently in the habit of rubbing them-
selves. From these and other signs we con-
jectured that the giddy ridge we were standing
on, with tremendously deep, sheer precipices
falling off on both sides, was a favorite resort
of our game. And so it proved to be, for
nowhere else were they so frequently to be
seen as on precisely such ridges, the very
highest point of the whole chain.
To me this mysterious animal was partic-
ularly attractive as being the North Amer-
ican representative of my favorite game . in
the Old World, the chamois, on the tracks
of which I have spent a goodly portion of my
leisure for the last fifteen years; and much as
the two animals, belonging as they do to per-
fectly distinct species, differ from each other,
there is yet about their chase a striking resem-
blance, while many of the most memorable de-
tails of their surroundings are almost identical.
For the next few days my comrades saw little
of me ; and when after dusk I did return to
camp, hungry and fagged by twelve or four-
teen hours' rock-climbing of the stiffest
nature, the morrow's early stalk made me
seek my cozy sleeping-bag at an early hour.
Our party got, all told, fifteen of these rare
animals, of which nine fell to my rifle.
In the Bitter Root Mountains stalking, or
still-hunting, is about as difficult as it can be ;
for the slopes, where they are not actual
precipices, are covered with masses of debris,
loose slabs, and bowlders, with the sharpest
corners and edges imaginable. On this
ground it is nearly impossible to approach
game noiselessly. Let you be never so careful
and circumspect, using knees, toes, and fin-
gers in the most approved fashion, you can-
not proceed very far before a slab, poised in
a secure-looking position, will rattle away
from under you, and in nine cases out of
ten start a miniature avalanche of stones,
awakening the echoes among the impend-
ing cliffs. I have found, however, that so
used do the denizens of these rocky wastes
get to such noises, from their own in-
ability of moving over these slopes without
starting rocks, that, so long as they do not
see or wind you, they will not be alarmed.
The antelope-goat is a singularly fearless
animal, while its innate curiosity will lead it
to brave dangers from which most other wild
animals will flee.
Let me relate one incident that will prove
this. I had sighted a solitary ram grazing
on one of the frequent amphitheater-shaped
steep slopes, but well down about the middle
of the declivity, while I was on the top
of the knife -backed ridge. Unfortunately
the goat had seen me, and had taken to
his hoofs, but in a very leisurely manner,
keeping in his flight a course parallel to mine,
i. e., approaching neither the top nor the bot-
tom of the slope. I judged it to be some
HUNTING THE ROCKY MOUNTAIN GOAT
197
CROSSING THE TIMBER-LINE.
five hundred and fifty yards down to him, and
my trial shot, taken very steadily while he
was making one of his frequent stands, and
which missed him a little to the left, proved
my estimation to be fairly correct. I hoped
to get nearer, so I reserved my fire, and for
the next three-quarters of an hour a most; ex-
citing steeple-chase took place, I following the
ridge, which was of the usual impossible char-
acter, while the ram pursued, as I have said,
a parallel course, keeping half-way up the
slope. The chamois would have put himself
beyond distance in a few minutes. True, the
path was not a smooth one; indeed, it was as
rough as it well could be, huge bowlders, piled
over each other or separated by dark yawn-
ing chasms, generally too broad even for a
goat's muscles, making progress very slow.
But no doubt there was a good deal of fooling
about the old ram's proceedings ; for from
time to time he would squat down and take
a rest, much amused, no doubt, by the frantic
scrambles of his breathless pursuer above him,
clearly outlined against the horizon, and feel-
ing very sure that the shaking aim would be
anything but dangerous to him. In this he
Vol. XXIX.-
was right ; for eleven times in the course of
that singular race did I throw myself flat on
some handy rock, and take as deliberate aim
as my shaking hands, trembling from the ex-
ertion in the trying atmosphere of these high
altitudes, would allow. Eleven times the
bullet whizzed past him, once detaching a
fragment of rock, which must have hit him,
for I could distinctly perceive him make a
side jump. I was very nearly at " my wind's
end," completely fagged out by my run, which,
as I looked back, I saw covered very nearly
the whole vast semicircle of the ridge, and
which, as I afterward found, was keenly
watched with glasses by my friend and some
of the men from their camp, far down the
mountain-side. By this time I had one car-
tridge left. Hunter and hunted were ap-
proaching the end of the semicircular ridge,
where it fell off in one enormous precipice, a
configuration of the ground that, of course,
would shortly terminate the chase, a contin-
uation being only feasible to winged creatures.
The ram, still about four hundred yards off,
was steering for a tooth-like crag, separated
from the main ridge by a profound abyss.
■ 20.
198
HUNTING THE ROCKY MOUNTAIN GOAT
STALKING.
Here evidently he felt himself secure, and as
I watched him sit down very leisurely to take
in all the fun of my defeat, I felt very un-
charitable sentiments escaping my parched
and breathless lips. A quarter of an hour's
much-needed breathing-spell allowed me at
this juncture to survey the ground. The dis-
tance separating us was about four hundred
yards. It would have been folly to risk my
last cartridge at this long range. The ram
was evidently feeling very much at home, and
(as I could easily see with my glasses) kept
his gaze steadfastly fixed upon me.
The formation of the ground, as I presently
discovered, favored the employment of the
following ruse — which, as the sequel will
show, proved successful. Retiring behind the
top of the ridge, I took off my canvas jumper
and hat, dressed up a handy stone with these
garments, and, slowly lifting it on the top of
the ridge, deposited it there, in plain sight
of the watchful ram. Then I disappeared,
and made a long detour, including a dis-
agreeable creep along a ledge, where my
progress was tantalizingly slow, — for the
precarious nature of the shelving rock, in
places only a foot or two in width, with a deep
precipice at my side, obliged me to take off
my boots and stockings so as to gain a surer
footing, while the wind, unpleasantly cold,
pierced my single upper garment (a flannel
shirt), saturated with perspiration, making me
shiver and shake. I finally managed to
weather the great buttress of rock at a con-
siderably lower level, and to approach the ram
from a direction he little expected, to within
one hundred and fifty yards or so. It was an
anxious minute as I lifted my head inch by
inch over a projecting ledge, and there, in
plain view, saw my game, his gaze still fixed
upward at my dummy. For full five minutes
I lay there ; what with the excitement and my
breathlessness, I instinctively felt that every
minute thus gained would bring my bullet an
inch nearer to my quarry. When finally my
Express pealed forth its sharp crack, the ram
was my meat.
A most singular, not to say fantastic, habit
of the antelope-goat is worthy of special notice.
It is the practice of sitting up on his haunches
like a dog, and when anything startles him to
squat back and raise his front legs from the
ground, much in the position of a " begging "
ppodle. The hide and hair on the rump of old
HUNTING THE ROCKY MOUNTAIN GOAT.
199
animals are quite worn and much thicker than
elsewhere. On one occasion I approached
such squatting goats to within sixty yards.
The antelope-goat attains now and again a
very formidable size. An old ram, killed by a
horns, frequently inflicting ghastly wounds.
On such occasions they are most dangerous
to approach, for they are perfectly reckless,
and have fierce courage, great muscular
activity, and wonderful tenacity of life.
AN OLD RAM ON THE LOOKOUT.
friend of mine, had a girth around the body of
seven feet three and a half inches, while the
length from the tip of the nose to the root of
the tail was five feet ten and a half inches.
It was impossible to ascertain his weight, but
from the fact that two powerful men could
not lift him it must have been between
three and four hundred pounds. About twelve
or fifteen years ago some enterprising Cali-
fornians, desiring to try an experimental
crossing of the antelope-goat with the Angora
goat of Asia, visited Montana and offered
large rewards, in some instances as much as
eight hundred dollars, for a live adult goat.
In the course of a year they succeeded in
getting several, but I believe only one reached
California alive. Four hardy mountaineers
devoted a full year to the task of catching the
wary animals, necessarily living all the time,
even in winter, in the inhospitable regions
above timber-line. They succeeded in doing
so by bringing them to bay with trained
hounds, on some rocky ledge, and then ap-
proaching from above and lassoingthe cornered
victims, which were busily engaged keeping
the dogs off by vicious thrusts of their sharp
I have only had occasion to watch the ante-
lope-goat on rocks. It appears that on ice
they develop greater fleetness, and are equally
sure-footed. My friend, Mr. S. F. Emmons,
of the United States Geological Survey, re-
cently sent me a paper read by him before
the American Geographical Society, in which
he describes his ascent (I believe the sec-
ond one ever achieved) of Mount Tacoma
(Rainier), the highest peak of the Cascade
Range, on Puget Sound ; during which ascent
the party came across a band of these ani-
mals, " who fled with most remarkable rapidity
up the ice-slopes, crossing crevices and as-
cending impossible steeps with the greatest
ease," which would prove that they are
equally well, if not better, fitted for glacial re-
gions. I have already mentioned that British
Columbia, that very beautiful but hitherto
singularly isolated corner of America, is the
true home of this rare animal. Hunting there
differs in many ways from the sport in Mon-
tana or Idaho, at least in those parts visited by
me, /. <?., the beautiful Kootenay country, in
which the great Columbia River has its cradle.
The charming Kootenay River, down
200
HUNTING THE ROCKY MOUNTAIN GOAT.
AT THE LAKE.
which I am going to take the reader, knows
only the frail birch-bark canoes of the In-
dian tribe whose homes are along its garden-
like banks. These canoes are kittle craft.
With your right hand you can lift one that will
take four men for a six weeks' cruise. You have
to sit very steady, as the merest lifting of your
hand will endanger its nicely poised equilib-
rium ; but when once you have mastered the
knack, or, better still, can handle a paddle
yourself, travel by this medium is wonderfully
pleasant. Lying stretched out in the prow of
the frail craft, behind us two shaggy-headed
Indians, their only garments a small mirror tied
round the neck and a breech-clout round
the loins, we skim over the surface of the ma-
jestic stream, propelled by the skillfully han-
dled paddles of our nude and invisible com-
panions. It is the very essence of graceful
and luxurious motion — smooth, noiseless, fast;
— the Venetian gondola, refined, transcendent-
alized. As we silently dart round the sweep-
ing curves we surprise drinking deer, or little
families of duck and other water-fowl, and
are often right in their midst before they rise
to skim over the surface, but little frightened
at the intrusion. Great, stately trees overhang
the banks, and a motion of our guiding pad-
dle will take us under their sweeping boughs,
through which we catch sunny glimpses of
pleasing stretches of park-like land, merging a
mile or two off into timbered foot-hills, which
again are overtopped by snow-crested moun-
tains that are cleft by dark, solemn-looking
HUNTING THE ROCKY MOUNTAIN GOAT
20I
BROUGHT TO BAY.
gorges, — a mass of Alpine pine-forests. On
approaching curves we involuntarily crane
our necks to spy the new scenic beauties
the next bend may disclose, but the guttural
| ugh " of our boatmen and the swaying of
our craft warn us that curiosity now and
again gets punished. One hundred and
ninety watery miles are between us and our
destination : a range more inaccessible than
the rest, more elevated than the sea of peaks
that surround it, a favorite play-ground of
the game we have come to kill. It takes
us four days to accomplish the journey by
canoe, but how quickly and pleasantly they
pass. On a sandy pine-girt beach, in one of
the hundreds of bays that can be found on
the peerless Kootenay Lake, can be seen
our temporary camp, inhabited by two white
men and four Indians. One Express rifle,
one Sharps's rifle, four old flint-lock Hud-
son Bay Company muskets, a few bundles,
and some sacks rilled with essential provis-
ions, all of which is distributed in six loads,
comprise our scant outfit, necessarily of a
very limited character; for we have reached
" the hindermost attic of creation," and
from here we shall have to carry our worldly
possessions on our backs up yonder moun-
tains. As we look at them, letting our eyes
range over the seven thousand feet of church-
steeple roof of Matterhorn steepness, we sud-
denly discover that our loads can be yet more
lightened ; that one cup and one plate will
suffice Jack and myself ; that my fur sleeping-
bag — an invaluable invention when it comes
to carrying one's own bed up mountains, for
it is much lighter and warmer than blankets —
will possibly also hold Jack's carcass, notwith-
standing that the puzzled London furrier who
constructed the said contrivance vowed that
none but a human skeleton could ever wriggle
in and out of it. The next day, after carefully
hiding our canoes, we marched forth on our
big climb, where the axe had to replace the
alpenstock, and every foot of our ascent had
to be forced through the amazingly dense
underbrush that clojthes these mountains for
the first four thousand feet. It took us a long
day of fifteen hours' hard work to do what
under ordinary circumstances, without brush
to impede our progress, we could have ac-
complished in three or four hours, — to get
up the first four thousand feet over the lake.
Camping the first night was uncomfortable ;
it was like sitting on a steep house-roof, with
trees to hold on by, darkness frustrating all
202
HUNTING THE ROCKY MOUNTAIN GOAT.
attempts to find a more suitable spot. It
had, however, one good side ; it enabled us
to carry out an experiment which on level
ground would never have been possible, i. <?.,
the housing of Jack and myself in the sleep-
ing-bag. It was a chilly, frost-laden night,
and the Indians in blanketless misery hugged
the fire pretty closely. The next day we
reached timber-line, and with it our trail-
chopping came to an end. It is monotonous
exercise to handle for many hours a day an
axe in weight and size a medium between
a butcher's cleaver and the Canadian lum-
berman's heavy tool, or, as facetious Jack not
inaptly described it, a hybrid of Washington's
hatchet and Gladstone's axe. The toil is much
greater if you have a fifty-pound pack on your
back, and the slope is so steep that you can
only get up it by dint of " sticking your toes
into the face of nature clear up to your el-
bows," as an old Rocky Mountain character
once said of my performance on a steep
slope. Toward evening we pitched perma-
nent camp at the foot of a very inviting-look-
ing ridge in the lee of a big precipice, with a
miniature lake in front of us. A large piece of
canvas, skillfully weighted down, made a cap-
ital improvised tent, while the Indians were
sent down to our old camp on the lake for a
couple of loads of lake salmon,* for experi-
ence had taught us that goat-meat was so
tough and rank as to be almost uneatable.
Of the hunting or stalking I need not speak,
for it was of the same character as in Mon-
tana, only the game was far more plentiful,
and, never having been hunted before, was
more curious and less shy than their brethren
in the Bitter Root range.
Let me say here a few words about my
dusky companions, members of about the only
perfectly wild tribe of Indians that to-day ex-
ists on the North American continent. The
Kootenays have no reservation; they have
no agent, and, receiving no assistance from the
Government of British Columbia, subsist
entirely upon game, fish, and berries. No cen-
sus even of their number has ever been taken,
and they have come but temporarily in con-
tact with white men, while whisky to a great
portion of the Kootenays is as yet unknown.
There are two portions of the tribe, the Upper
and the Lower Kootenays : the first have their
homes in that beautiful bunch-grass country
along the Upper Kootenay River, near the
source of the Columbia River, and are
" horse " Indians ; while the Lower Koote-
nays live on the rich bottom-lands between
Bonner's Ferry and the Kootenay Lake, and
are canoe Indians. They are a fine, hardy,
and eminently peaceful community. It used
to be their pride that no member of their tribe
had ever killed a white man. They are all
Catholics, made so some thirty or forty years
ago by the brave and adventurous French
missionaries, who were the first white men,
except the Hudson Bay trappers, who pene-
trated into the vast wilderness on the Pacific,
then known as Oregon. They live all the
year round in tepees, or tents ; and though
the cold is nothing like that of the regions
east of the Rocky Mountains, yet the ther-
mometer now and again touches zero, while
snow remains on the bottom-lands for a month
or two at a time. In no country have I seen
such pictures of Arcadian existence among
aboriginals.
They are a fine manly-looking race, of
cheerful disposition and retiring habits. I
never saw so much laughter and bright, smil-
ing eyes as when, sitting in a circle round the
camp-fire, I would produce my tobacco-
pouch and give each of my new-found friends a
pinch of its contents. But, alas ! also the realm
of the Kootenays is doomed. The past year
was the last one of the free, untrammeled tribal
existence of these lords of a tract of country
some twenty thousand square miles in extent.
By the time these pages are before the reader
this last remnant of the great North Ameri-
can aboriginal race, as it was in the days of
Lewis and Clarke, will have passed under the
white man's yoke in the shape of confining
reserves, while their country, the interesting
Kootenay district, unrivaled for its scenic at-
tractions, will be undergoing even more rad-
ical changes. Three railroads, two of which
are already surveyed and in construction, will
cross the Kootenay district : the Canada Pacific,
forcing a passage over the tremendous Selkirk
range, within sight, as it were, of the snowy
peak which is the home of the white moun-
tain goat ; the Kootenay and Columbia Rail-
way, a small line to be constructed down
the Kootenay Lake outlet by some San Fran-
cisco capitalists ; while the third is the pro-
posed branch line of the Northern Pacific,
which will connect the Kootenay River with
their main line. And that is not all: some
* The existence of land-locked salmon has so often been disputed that it is interesting to note that in the
Kootenay Lake these fish can be found in great quantities and of large size. Salmon, as every one knows,
ascend the Columbia in millions, but none can get over the falls in the Kootenay Lake outlet, — the only
connection between the Columbia and Kootenay Lake, — so that the presence of land-locked salmon in the lake
would be puzzling but for the close approach of the Kootenay River to the Upper Columbia Lake, where
during high freshets a natural connection between the two waters was formerly established. From an
ichthyological point of view Kootenay Lake is, therefore, an exceedingly interesting and, one might say,
perfectly unexplored region.
HUNTING THE ROCKY MOUNTAIN GOAT.
203
■■HH
AMONG THE CLOUDS.
English " land-grabbers," friends of the writer,
have secured from the British Columbia Gov-
ernment those beautiful stretches of park -like
riverine land along the Kootenay, which at
present are subject to an annual overflow
from spring freshets, with the view of re-
claiming them on a large scale and dot-
ting the Kootenay valley with peaceful farm-
houses, where tormerly stood isolated Indian
lodges.
Poor, simple, smiling Kootenay ! Men from
the Far East and men from the Far West have
taken his happy hunting-grounds under their
protectorate ; and, ransack his shaggy head as
he may, he cannot solve civilization's problem,
which says might is right, not right is might.
William A. Baillie-Grohmati.
AMERICAN PAINTERS IN PASTEL.
dHEWH/TfllEY&C
IN THE LAUNDRY. (PASTEL BY ROBERT BLUM.)
The time is not long past when, if the
average educated American spoke of pictures,
he meant oil paintings alone; if of prints,
steel engravings only. Art — true art, "high
art" — was confined for him to these two
methods ; and he would not have understood
that certain so-called minor branches, of
whose existence he was dimly conscious,
might properly be ranked beside them. He
would not have understood that each of these,
however limited its scope, has yet an indi-
vidual importance of its own, an aim, a char-
acter, and an outcome quite peculiar to itself.
But in all art there are two great factors :
the mind that speaks, and the medium — the
materials — through which it speaks. And in
pictorial art the various mediums are extremely
potent, each limiting with decision the effects
that may be wrought in it, and so prescribing
with authority those which should be sought.
No painter, however great his mastery of oils.
can do everything by their sole aid. To secure
certain effects, he must perforce seek other
help, and find it in some one of those humbler
branches which until lately were ignored or
despised by us. And so it is with engraving :
etching, mezzotinting, and wood-engraving
have each a province far beyond the power
of steel and burin to embrace.
Great as has been our advance in oil paint-
ing within recent years, I think our most
notable evidence of progress lies in the fact
that these minor branches are no longer either
unfamiliar or despised ; that we have turned
with eagerness to many methods of interpre-
tation our fathers did not touch. It is but
seventeen years since our Water-color Society
was formed, and only five or six years since
its exhibitions have attracted either much
public attention or the hands of our strongest
men. Now these exhibitions are perhaps the
most popular of the season, and hundreds of
AMERICAN PAINTERS IN PASTEL
205
varied works annually fill their walls. Middle-
aged readers will remember what it was that
gave the first impulse to water-colors in this
country — the Crystal Palace Exhibition of
1853. If they contrast the astonished inter-
est then excited by a small group of English
aquarelles with the number and popularity
of our own productions at this moment, they
will realize how our ideas of art have broad-
ened and how our practice has developed.
I need hardly speak of the recent revival
of wood-engraving in this country ; of how
it has grown within fifteen years from an un-
intelligent, unambitious craft — only one or
two men practicing it in an artistic way — into
a full-fledged art, into a truly national de-
velopment. Etching is a still younger branch
with us. This year we had but our fifth annual
exhibition (the third with a separate catalogue),
yet our etchers, too, are numerous, eager, and
industrious. Look again at our collections of
work in black and white, consider the variety
of processes displayed, and think how many
of them have only recently been made known
to us. How long is it since charcoal, for exam-
ple, has been recognized as a valuable means
of expression — as something more than a
mere stage in a student's practice while color is
beyond his reach ? Only, I think, since Wil-
liam Hunt explained it to his Boston pupils.
The fact that we have thus eagerly taken
up these varied mediums does not of itself,
I know, prove an actual growth in our artistic
feeling. Further evidence is needed to show
that our innovations are due to something
more than a mere craving for novelty on the
part of the artist or his public. But I think
it may be said that we have taken them up
not only eagerly, but intelligently. The num-
ber of our water-colors is not a more patent
fact than their steady growth in general ex-
cellence — the testimony they afford that our
painters realize the proper aims of the art, and
so its best methods and most desirable re-
sults. If they are not all able to produce ad-
mirable aquarelles, yet taken as a whole they
show their perception of what these ought to
be. They are on the right road, though its
ultimate goal has been reached but by a few
of their swiftest runners.
So it is, I think, with our etching; and so,
to a notable degree, with our wood- engraving.
Here the goal we set ourselves is in many
respects quite new — a goal we have our-
selves discovered and proclaimed. But none
could be more legitimate and worthy; and
our results are not only so novel, but already
so valuable and persuasive, that they have
begun to affect the practice of the art in all
foreign lands.
We are not overconfident, then, in feeling
Vol. XXIX.— 21.
that our recently acquired impulse toward
variety in medium is genuine, and not fac-
titious; is a vital effort, and not a mere imported
fashion, a mere expression of impatience with
the beaten track, a mere search for novelty
and change. I think we failed to appreciate
these arts in other days partly because they
were comparatively unfamiliar to our eyes,
but chiefly because we felt no desire for the
expressional facilities they offer. Absolutely
unknown they were not, but their germs lay
dormant till we awoke to a wider wish for
self-expression. As soon as we really wanted
to say many things through art, its language
became of interest to our eyes, and we scanned
its various dialects to find the one best suited
to the moment's need. Great ideas, intense
feelings, artistic messages of a deep and
potent sort, I confess, we do not often speak
as yet. But most of what we do say is appro-
priate to the form of speech selected. And
this is the important because the fundamental
fact. It proves that our instinct is not inar-
tistic, and warrants the drawing of much pro-
phetic comfort from the future.
For these reasons we cannot but rejoice
that still another medium has recently found
favor with our younger workmen. The first
annual exhibition of the " Society of Painters
in Pastel" was held in New York in the month
of March, and its catalogue showed some
sixty entries. Scarcely one of these lacked
interest, and as a whole they proved that
their painters had understood the nature of
the method — not only its technical manage-
ment, but its expressional possibilities — and
had striven to conform themselves thereto.
A brief history of pastel painting and a brief
explanation of its character may not be out
of place as a preface to my notice of these
works, since the art is unfamiliar to American
eyes, and since its range, moreover, is com-
monly misconceived even by those who have
seen its earlier examples preserved in foreign
galleries.
It is a question among artists, I believe,
whether pastel should be called a process of
drawing or of painting. " Painting " usually
implies the use of some liquid medium ; but
pastels are simply cylinders of dry color which
are handled much after the manner of the
charcoal stick, the substance worked upon
being commonly rough paper, to the "tooth"
or burr of which the color-particles adhere.
And yet it does not seem quite right to speak
of drawings in pastel, partly because of their
color and partly because of the way in which
their effects are wrought. " Drawing," though
it must often be used with less precision,
really implies work with the point. One draws
with the pencil or the etcher's needle, and
2o6
AMERICAN PAINTERS IN PASTEL.
the effects one seeks are effects of line, not
mass. But with pastels one seeks effects of
mass, not line. Either the color is completely
blended with the stump or fingers, as was
often the case in former days, or, if one uses
the harder crayons most in favor now and
their strokes remain distinct, these are com-
parable rather to the brush-marks of a painter
than to the true lines of a draughtsman. The
point too is used in pastels upon occasion,
but subordinately — never conspicuously in
the most artistic work. If, then, we must
have a strict definition, we may call the pro-
cess a sort of dry painting.
Since the color is not incorporated with the
ground, but simply adheres to its surface, it
will be seen that pastel work is of necessity
somewhat fragile, yet not so fragile as is com-
monly supposed. Fixative may be used upon
it, though with some danger to the color.
And even without this, if it is covered with a
glass and hung where no damp can reach it,
there need be no cause for fear. Thus pro-
tected, a pastel should have, indeed, a surer
chance of immortality than a work in oils,
for it has no such troublous elements within
itself. Its apparently vaporous tones are quite
unchangeable, whereas we all know how
Time the Destroyer finds a mighty ally in the
slow transformation of pigments mixed with
oil and varnish.
No color method is so useful to outdoor
workers as is this. Since dry tints cannot
readily be mixed, the pastel painter gets his
ready-made from the hand of the color-man
in an almost endless variety. They are light
and portable, and always ready for instant,
rapid use, without the necessity of any pause
for dryings. And an added advantage (in
which water-colors at least cannot claim to
share) lies in the ease with which corrections
may be made. A mistake can be effaced by
friction, or, as the color is opaque, a super-
imposed tint retains its purity, and quite
obliterates all that may lie beneath.
It is impossible to say just when pastels
were first invented. They were used in a
rather tentative fashion by Leonardo da Vinci
and some of his near successors — sometimes
alone in rather slight productions, but more
often for the addition of color-notes to work
in monochrome. It was not until the eight-
eenth century, however, that pastel painting
attained its full stature as an independent art.
Many artists of that time are known to-day
by their pastels only — artists like Latour and
Leotard and Vivien and Caffe and Rosalba
Carriera. Others who were great in oils were
great also in pastels, like Chardin, whose por-
traits of himself and his wife are, with La-
tour's " Madame de Pompadour " (all now in
the Louvre collections), perhaps the most
triumphant essays the history of this earlier
development can show.
Portraiture was preeminently the art of
the time, and most eighteenth- century pastels
fall within its category. As the crayons were
then used, no medium could have been in
greater sympathy with the spirit of the age
of Louis Quinze, when powder and pearls
and soft rosy flesh, and clothes of pink and
blue and white, made up the ideal of beauty
— when grace not strength, when charm not
force, when buoyancy not depth, when sensi-
bility not earnestness, characterized both life
and art. Every traveler will remember the
rooms in the Dresden gallery which are filled
with pastel portraits of the friends and favor-
ites of King Augustus, and of the Venetian
fellow-townsfolk of Rosalba. How appropri-
ate seems the dainty, facile, fragile, rather
superficial process to the human types it shows,.
and to the epoch which they vivify for us !
Yet, charming as are the pastels of this
age, they do not reveal the whole of which
the art is capable. So plentiful were theyy
however, and so perfect in their way, that
they long blinded the world to further possi-
bilities which lay behind them. As then prac-
ticed, the art was characterized by elaborate
finish, carefully blended tones, soft effects,,
and a gently florid or a rather pale and
chalky scheme of color. It seemed fit only
for a super-elegant, somewhat shallow, and
sentimental sort of work, unfit for spirited
masculine intentions, for bold and rapid hand-
ling, for brilliant or emphatic color. Thus,
when a robuster art arose upon the ruins of
the shattered eighteenth century, — when the
school of David came with its sobriety and
dignity, and the school of Delacroix with its
fire and force, — pastels were almost wholly
given up. They only lingered humbly in the
background, as when Prud'hon and Delacroix,,
for instance, used them to make hasty notes
or to plan out their schemes of color. But
later Millet took them up more seriously, and
worked for a year or two almost wholly by
their help. And to his example is chiefly due,
I think, the renascence of the art in its altered
shape to-day. Mr. Shaw of Boston has a
roomful of Millet's pastels, which are not only
delightful in themselves, but most instructive,
when their spirit is contrasted with the spirit
of such work as Latour's. Here, as I have
said, softly blended effects were produced by
a marvelously tender, delicate, and patient
touch. But Millet's work does not differ more
widely from Latour's in subject-matter and
sentiment than it does in treatment. Under
his hand the medium which had seemed fit
AMERICAN PAINTERS IN PASTEL.
207
for boudoir use alone — a hot-house plant of
art, a lovely, gracious, sympathetic, but rather
nervous and effeminate form of speech — grew
rapid, vigorous, direct, and masculine enough.
Millet's color, too, is stronger, though for
brilliancy he did not strive.
Of very late years the art has been widely
practiced, especially in France, pushing still
further the qualities which Millet gave it, and
adding to their list the most pronounced and
vivid color. Mr. Whistler gave it fresh im-
pulse and popularity with his exquisite, subtile,
yet freely handled and brilliantly colored Ve-
netian studies. And finally, De Nittis showed
that it was suitable for the most ambitious ef-
forts. Single figures of large size were com-
mon, it is true, in the eighteenth century ;
but De Nittis paints elaborate compositions,
in which the strongest color, the most diffi-
cult effects, and the most powerful handling
are attempted. I remember one of them that
showed a scene at a race-course with almost
life-size groups — a marvel of technical audac-
ity, a work that was remarkable, above all,
for the strength which had so long lain un-
suspected in these little cylinders of paint. In
such pastels De Nittis seems to say : " See !
I will take this medium which you have
called charming but nothing more, which you
think appropriate for rosy babes and pow-
dered beauties only, and I will give you in it
everything but charm — vigor, decision, rapid-
ity, and breadth — and will paint you all
subjects save those you deem most fit for it,
even a mass of black umbrellas under a gray
down-pour and over a turf of vivid green."
He does, indeed, touch the outer limit of the
art on the side of impetuosity and strength,
and his example has visibly molded current
practice. The pastel painters of to-day differ
widely among themselves, but more, perhaps,
are followers of De Nittis than of Whistler,
while the eighteenth-century manner is en-
tirely out of favor.
It will not take long to tell the history of
the art in our own country. I can think of
but one man who essayed it here in ante-
bellum days — the Italian Fagnani, whose
small portrait-heads are still preserved in a
hundred New York homes. But not, we may
assume, for strictly artistic reasons, since they
have little cleverness or charm — are nig-
gled little drawings, carefully worked up with
the point, rather than true pastel paintings.
In later years a few pastels were from time to
time inspired by a sight of the new work
abroad. But the public heard nothing of them,
for no exhibition would grant them hospitality.
They belonged to no recognized category —
were neither the fish, the flesh, nor the good
red herring of art. So, continuing to grow in
favor with the profession, they have been
driven to set up in the world for themselves —
a fact we need not at all deplore, since a spe-
cialized exhibition is apt to incite to special
effort, and since its appeal to the public eye
is peculiarly direct and clear. This first col-
lection of our " Society of Painters in Pastel "
was but modestly heralded and was opened
in an unfamiliar gallery ; yet it attracted
much attention, and undoubtedly went far to
explain to intelligent eyes the peculiar char-
acteristics of the process. Let us now briefly
review its contents and see what those char-
acteristics are.
At a first hasty glance the pictures looked
very like an assemblage of works in oil, so
analogous were they in their varieties of size,
of subject-matter, and of color-scheme. But
upon deeper examination this resemblance did
not prove to be of a fundamental sort. As
soon as we studied the process we began to
see which were its most valuable because most
characteristic results. We began to feel that,
whatever his theme, the wise pastel-painter
will choose from the mingled qualities of na-
ture those which are most in sympathy with
his material, from her multitudinous effects
those which it best can render; and we began
to learn that these are not quite identical with
the qualities and the effects most consonant
to the more familiar brush. We missed some
charms which that brush can give, but we
gained by others that it cannot imitate.
If we looked first at the landscapes, for ex-
ample, we were particularly struck by Mr.
Ross Turner's " Fiesole " — by the refinement
of its feeling, the tenderness of its tone, the
sensitiveness of its color, the suavity of its
gradations, the pulsating vitality of its light.
And we noted, too, how delicate was the
manipulation which yet had not been blended
into insipidity or smoothness. An oil might
have been more forcible, a water-color more
vivacious, but nothing save a charcoal could
have been so deliciously modulated, so soft
and yet so firm in substance; and here we
had lovely color in addition to all that char-
coal might have given. Turning now to Mr.
Harry Chase's " North Sea, Holland," we
found something of amore emphatic kind. The
touch was bolder and broader, the color more
positive, the effect more striking. But here,
too, a delightful softness of texture had been
preserved, in spite of the admirable way in
which the quality of the water had been ren-
dered. And it is this softness (which is not in
the least akin to weakness or flimsiness, or to
what painters call " sweetness ") that enables
pastel to give with unrivaled felicity certain
of nature's features — such, for example, as
her spring-time colors and as her atmosphere.
208
AMERICAN PAINTERS IN PASTEL.
especially when it is in a hazy, misty mood,
when its light is diffused and veiled rather
than direct and vigorous.
But nowhere is this peculiar softness more
at home than in the painting of fair human
flesh ; nowhere have its results a more distinct
and inimitable value of their own. The actual
material nature of pastel — the impalpable
sort of bloom which marks its surface — has
much in common with the character of such
flesh. And then it is possible, in this medium,
to elaborate with such nicety, and yet keep
one's handling so very fresh and pure ! Take,
for instance, Miss Hecker's half-length of a
girl in black against a blue background, which,
in spite of many that were signed by more
familiar names, seemed to me the gem among
the portraits. Nothing could exceed the thor-
oughness with which all subtilities of model-
ing, color, and expression had been followed
out ; yet there was no niggling, no porcelain-
like over-elaboration of the surface. Each of
the delicately " telling " crayon strokes re-
mained distinct and vital, and the effect was
as spirited and artistic as it was complete.
Nor was there, by the way, a more brilliant
bit of technique on the wall than we saw in
the lady's fluffy feather fan. I do not know
how well Miss Hecker can do in oil, but in
any case she will hardly make a mistake if
she keeps faithfully to pastel. Such a portrait
as this should not stand alone while we count
so many maidens whose faces are a type of
what pastel can best interpret.
Some of Mr. Beckwith's children's heads
were very lovely ; light but not chalky in tone,
and extremely refined but not weak in work-
manship. At the end of the scale, in the di-
rection of audacity, was Mr. Chase's portrait
of himself, as vigorous and vehement a piece
of work, both in color and handling, as any
painter need desire to show in any medium
whatsoever.
Looking now at the collective work of each
artist, it seemed to me as though Mr. Blum
deserved the honor of first place, not so much
because his pictures were very diverse and very
clever, as because he showed in some of them
a deeper intention, a more original mental im-
pulse, than any of his fellows. We had had so
much of mere clever workmanship in recent
years; we had had so much of themes selected
for their technical opportunities only; we had
had so much of decorative frivolity, of shallow
effectiveness, of picturesque futility ; so many
studio interiors with carefully careless acces-
sories ; so many models that were palpably
nothing else ; so much of the seductive froth
and foam of manual dexterity, and so little
keenness of artistic insight or spontaneity of
artistic feeling, that we were thankful indeed
for the fresh and genuine impulse that had
prompted some of Mr. Blum's pastels — and
doubly thankful, since superficial work might
so easily have satisfied himself, and all but
satisfied his friends, when he was trying a new
process, extremely fascinating on its merely
technical side.
His three chief pictures were groups of
working-girls — actual transcripts from the
local life about us, and from a side of that
life which offers rich opportunities which
have hitherto been neglected. They were no
less truthful than novel, and were truthful in
the best fashion — with a veracity touched by
artistic idealization, but not transformed by
it out of true verisimilitude. The artist had
worked as an artist should, — realistically, but
judiciously, I might almost say jiidicially, —
keeping to the facts of. nature, but carefully
choosing from among them those which would
best insure artistic felicity in his result. One
of these pictures, reproduced in our engrav-
ing, showed a group of young laundresses at
work ; another, a room full of busy seam-
stresses ; and the third, called " The Sisters,"
two girls sewing by a window. All were un-
conventional and apparently unstudied in
arrangement, rapid, frank, and nervous in
handling, and charming though subdued in
color. All had a gray scheme and a rather
light tonality, cleverly vivified in the two
first-named by touches of brilliant yet harmo-
nizing color; and in all three the light shone
strongly from the pictured windows toward
the spectator's eye. Such a device often savors
of affectation, or of a desire to secure effect-
iveness at the expense of simplicity and re-
pose. But here it was so well managed that
it seemed as natural and unforced as any more
conventional expedient. It was merely an
evidence of that artistic choice to which I have
referred — a choice which is praiseworthy or
blamable, not according as it is conventional
or eccentric, but according as the result con-
firms or does not confirm its Tightness. An-
other evidence of apt selection lay in the
character of the figures themselves — in the
grace and charm that had been given with-
out taking them outside the bounds of faith-
ful portraiture. All our working- girls are not
ugly, coarse, or vulgar. Far from it, as the
first street or shop will prove. And we owe
Mr. Blum a debt for the clear yet discreet
way in which he marked the fact — for his
protest against the oft-supposed necessity of
painting ugliness whenever we turn from "im-
aginative " work to the transcribing of our
every-day contemporary life. The spirited
facial expressiveness which he always man-
ages to give his figures, even when they are
most conventional in conception, was another
AMERICAN PAINTERS IN PASTEL.
:o9
merit in these pictures, and was further illus-
trated in a piquant little " Study in Red and
Gray," which showed a saucy face smiling
over the back of a chair.
A single figure in white by Mr. Francis
Jones had no originality of invention to rec-
ommend it, but was nevertheless charming in
sentiment, and from a technical point of view
a truly exquisite bit of work — with a fine
delicacy in the perception and rendering of
difficult values that could hardly be over-
praised. And Mr. Blashfield's " Sibyl," though
not very successful in its main intention, gave
an interesting proof that pastels can interpret
smooth and shining surfaces as well as those
of softer and opaquer kinds.
These were not all the good works on the
wall, for, as I have said, scarcely one of the
sixty failed to interest or please to some de-
gree. But a mere catalogue raisonne would be
of little value here. It is more important that
I should turn once more to the testimony
given by the exhibition as a whole with re-
gard to the specialties and the limitations of
the process.
It showed us that pastel is a very flexible
medium, in so far as execution is concerned.
In some specimens the handling was ex-
tremely refined, sensitive, and subtile ; in
others it was very dexterous, spirited, and
crisp ; in others strong and self-assured, or as
broad and fluent as it well could be without
falling into absolute manual license. We saw
that delicacy with pastel need not mean fee-
bleness ; that accuracy need not mean hard-
ness ; that breadth need not mean diffuseness,
or swiftness insufficiency. We saw, in a word,
that technical individuality had here as wide
a field as when the brush is used. And yet
we could not ignore a difference in the tech-
nical results of the two arts. We could not
fail to see that the delicacy, accuracy, breadth,
or freedom of the pastel painter's work differs
a little from the same quality when it is real-
ized in oil.
We saw, again, that pastel color can range
from the beauty of vaporous vagueness to the
beauty of sparkling emphasis, or of incisive
force, or of vivid brilliancy. But still just here
in color there was one thing wanting, that one
thing which is the peculiar glory, the distinct-
ive specialty of work in oils — depth. Pastel
color, bright and powerful though it may be,
lacks profundity, liquidity, translucent glow,
simply because these qualities are inherent in
the oil medium and in the peculiar sort of
transparence that comes to pigments mixed
therewith. Water-color is transparent, but it
too has little depth ; while fresco and distem-
per in truth have none. And to these last
pastel is somewhat akin in the quality of its
tones. That dry, powdery, efflorescent nature,
which, rightly used, is its chief title to honor,
giving a bloom, an airiness, a tenderness, a
decorative grace that oil can hardly rival,
marks out, on the other hand, the limitations
of its power.
The general result of a color-scheme is the
tone of a picture ; and where color cannot be
deep in the truest sense of the word, neither,
of course, can tone. The tone of a pastel
may vary from the palest to the darkest, an
absolute black being as well within its reach
as the most evanescent of hues. But deep-
toned a pastel can never be — not deep-toned
as Rembrandt, for example, would have un-
derstood the term. We can imagine many
masters to whom pastel was unfamiliar who
might be glad to try its power could they
come back to life to-day ; and among them
would be some of the world's most brilliant
colorists. But this one master — who is pre-
eminently the master of luminous profundity
of tone — would hardly be tempted by their
possibilities. I think we can hardly imagine
a pastel with the signature of Rembrandt.
Clever manipulations can, in truth, do much
to mask these limitations. Mr. Ulrich, for
example, sent to this exhibition the head of a
negro that had almost the translucent depth
of oil. But still I cannot omit the " almost";
and I must add that the secured success did
not seem to me to compensate for the ab-
sence of more characteristic qualities, sacri-
ficed of necessity in its attainment. It is not
the best way to praise pastels to say, as I
have heard it said by some of these young
painters, " They can do anything that oil
can do." Almost anything they can, in
truth, though some things not so perfectly as
oil. But if this were all, there would be no
reason, save occasional convenience, why an
artist should essay their use. It is because
they can do certain things that oil can not do
so well that they have a real claim on his at-
tention. The most pertinent way to praise
them is to state this fact ; and the most ad-
mirable way to use them is to prove it in one's
work. The pastel painter can do such lovely
things with these docile crayons, can do things
so unique in their artistic value, that he need
not grudge the brush its own successes. He
can do such lovely things — can fix such un-
substantial moods of nature, can seize such
evanescent, shy effects, can imitate such in-
imitable textures, can elaborate such bewitch-
ing, rare tonalities, and such aerial or such
audacious schemes of color — that he need
surely not essay a tour de force and try for the
deep translucency, the dignified severity, or
the passionate force of oil.
If there are certain dangers attending the
2IO
THE POET HEINE.
use of this medium, — if its supple facility may
easily lead a painter to be superficial, puerile,
or vapid, if its coloristic charm may tempt
him to be content with mere decorative ef-
fectiveness instead of true pictorial beauty,
— it has certain safeguards within itself which
almost forbid his sinning in the opposite di-
rection. If he tries very hard, he may do
crude and "showy" work; but his crudeness
and vulgarity will not be so offensive as
though he had been working with the brush.
And, though he try his very worst, he can
hardly arrive at positive glare or harshness
or brutality of effect.
And now, to conclude, I will come back to
the point from which I started, and repeat
that most of the artists represented in this
collection had evidently understood their
medium. Some of their results were distinctly
valuable; almost all showed cleverness of
hand at least ; and their wide versatility had
in general been of the proper sort — free within
the true limits of the art, but not lawless in
a wish to overpass them. And this is the
reason why the exhibition seemed worthy of
notice and of praise ; not because it was
made up of charming pictures, but because
these pictures showed that we had laid hold
of a new art with interest and intelligence,
had perceived its true ends and aims, and
had tried to make them clearly visible.
M. G. van Rensselaer.
THE POET HEINE.
THE VENUS OF THE LOUVRE.
Down the long hall she glistens like a star,
The foam-born mother of love, transfixed to stone,
Yet none the less immortal, breathing on ;
Time's brutal hand hath maimed, but could not mar.
When first the enthralled enchantress from afar
Dazzled mine eyes, I saw not her alone,
Serenely poised on her world-worshiped throne,
As when she guided once her dove-drawn car, —
But at her feet a pale, death-stricken Jew,
Her life-adorer, sobbed farewell to love.
Here Heine wept ! Here still he weeps anew,
Nor ever shall his shadow lift or move
While mourns one ardent heart, one poet-brain,
For vanished Hellas and Hebraic pain.
E.L.
The recent publication in a German maga-
zine of a fragment of the long-lost "Memoirs
of Heine," lends the fresh excitement of a
contemporary interest to the poet's classic
name. If the German public were naturally
inclined to greet with a certain skepticism the
discovery of this duplicate autobiography, all
doubts as to its genuineness must vanish with
the appearance of the work itself. No one
but Heine arisen from the grave could re-
produce that magically pictorial style, with
its exquisitely interwoven tissue of fancy,
sentiment, and humor.
A fatal and irreconcilable dualism formed
the basis of Heine's nature, and was the secret
cause not only of his profound unhappiness,
but of his moral and intellectual inconsis-
tencies. He was a Jew, with the mind and
eyes of a Greek. A beauty-loving, myth-
creating pagan soul was imprisoned in a
Hebrew frame ; or rather, it was twinned, like
the unfortunate Siamese, with another equally
powerful soul, — proud, rebellious, oriental in
its love of the vague, the mysterious, the gro-
tesque, and tragic with the two-thousand-
year-old Passion of the Hebrews. In Heine
the Jew there is a depth of human sympathy,
a mystic warmth and glow of imagination, a
pathos, an enthusiasm, an indomitable resist-
ance to every species of bondage, totally at
variance with the qualities of Heine the
Greek. On the other hand, the Greek Heine
is a creature of laughter and sunshine, pos-
sessing an intellectual clearness of vision, a
plastic grace, a pure and healthy love of art
for art's own sake, with which the somber
Hebrew was in perpetual conflict. What could
be the result of imprisoning two such antag-
onistic natures in a single body ? What but
the contradictions, the struggles, the tears,
the violences that actually ensued ? For
Heine had preeminently the artist capacity
THE POET HEINE.
211
>f playing the spectator to the workings of
lis own mind, and his mordant sarcasm and
nerciless wit were but the expression of his
iwn sense of the internal incongruity. None
>f the unhappily bewitched creatures that
,bound in his poems, — lovely mermaids with
he extremities of a sea-monster, the immortal
>phinx, half woman, half brute, beautiful Greek
;ods wandering disinherited in beggar guise
hrough the labyrinth of the Black Forest —
Lone of these had been subjected to a more
>ainful transformation than he himself had
uffered. He was a changeling, the victim of
me of Nature's most cruel tricks, and his
egacy to the world bears on every page the
nark of the grotesque caprice which had be-
gotten him. To-day his muse is the beautiful
lerodias, the dove-eyed Shulamite; to-mor-
ow it will be the Venus Anadyomene, the
Genius of blooming Hellas. He laments the
uin of Jerusalem with the heart-stirring ac-
ents of the prophets, he glorifies Moses, "the
;reat emancipator, the valiant rabbi of liberty,
he terrible enemy of all servitude ! What a glo-
bus personage ! " he exclaims. " How small
/[ount Sinai looks when Moses stands on its
ummit ! " He confesses that in his youth he
ad never done justice to this great master,
or to the Hebrew people, — " doubtless," he
ays, "on account of my Graeco-pagan nature,
he partiality of my Athenian mind which
bhorred the asceticism of Judaea. But my
redilection for the Hellenic world has di-
linished since then. I see now that the Greeks
rere only beautiful youths, whilst the Jews
/■ere always men, and powerful, indomitable
len, not only then, in antiquity, but even to-
ay, in spite of eighteen centuries of persecu-
ton and misery. I have learned to appreciate
hem since, and if all pride of birth were not
n absurd contradiction, in the champion of
he democratic principles of the revolution,
he author of this book might boast that his
ncestors belonged to the noble house of
srael, that he is descended from those mar-
yrs who gave the world a God, who pro-
rogated the eternal code of morality, and
fho have fought valiantly upon every battle-
.eld of thought ! "
Let the reader contrast with this eloquent
outburst the well-known passage written at a
till later date in the preface to Heine's last
olume of poems :
" I have forsworn nothing, not even my old heathen
ods, from whom indeed I have parted, but parted in
:>ve and friendship. It was in May, 1848, the last day
went out, that I took leave of my lovely idols whom
had worshiped in the time of my happiness. I
rawled painfully as far as the Louvre, and I almost
dnted away when I entered the lofty hall, where the
ver-blessed Goddess of Beauty, our beloved Lady of
<tilo, stands upon her pedestal. I lay for a long time
at her feet, and I wept so bitterly that even a stone
would have pitied me. And indeed the goddess looked
down upon me compassionately, yet at the same time
so disconsolately, as if she would say : ' Do you not
see that I have no arms, and that I cannot help you ? ' "
If we bear in mind this distinctly dual na-
ture of Heine, we may partly understand how
he, whom his enemies called " a sybarite,
whose sleep was disturbed by the fall of a
rose-leaf," proved himself capable during the
last ten years of his life of a sustained forti-
tude under bodily anguish that recalls the
heroism of the martyrs. From this inherent
self-contradiction sprang his alternations of
enthusiasm and cynicism, of generosity and
egotism, his infidelities, his meannesses, his
magnanimities, his broken-hearted laughter,
his rainbow-shining tears. Mr. Matthew Ar-
nold speaks of his " inconceivable attacks upon
his enemies, his still more inconceivable at-
tacks upon his friends." We no longer won-
der at either, when we remember that his
double nature impelled him to turn and rend
on the morrow that which he had worshiped
the day before. He loves to defy, to shock,
even to revolt, his warmest admirers ; no preju-
dices are sacred, no associations are reverend
to him. Romanticism, Hellenism, Hebraism,
Teutonism, — he swears allegiance to each and
all in turn, and invariably concludes with a
mock and parody of each one. As a political
writer he remained steadfast to no single
party, oscillating between Napoleonism and
Communism ; as a critic his literary opinions
were frequently extravagant and partial, and
his enthusiasm generally an unsafe guide ;
as a philosopher, he was now a Pantheist,
worshiping God everywhere in nature, now
a Hegelian, believing in himself as the in-
carnation of deity. A mocking voice calls
out from his pages, " I am a Jew, I am a
Christian, I am tragedy, I am comedy —
Heraclitus and Democritus in one — a Greek,
a Hebrew, an adorer of despotism incar-
nate in Napoleon, an admirer of Commun-
ism embodied in Proudhon — a Latin, a
Teuton, a beast, a devil, a god ! " Thus
he bewitches us amid roguish laughter,
streaming tears, and fiery eloquence. In real-
ity Heine is all and none of these ; he is a
Poet, and in each phase of human develop-
ment that passes before his contemplation his
plastic mind seizes and reproduces an image
of beauty and inspiration. It is only as a poet
that we shall consider him in these pages, for
his prose-writings, which fill half a dozen oc-
tavo volumes, cover too large a field of aes-
thetic and political interest for us properly to
review them all within the limits of a maga-
zine article. Moreover, whether he wrote in
prose or verse, Heine remained always and
212
THE POET HEINE.
essentially a poet, and from this single point
of view we may get a true insight into his
genius.
ii.
A brief recapitulation of the main outward
events of Heine's life may not come amiss to
American readers. He was born in Dussel-
dorf on the Rhine, of Jewish parents, in 1799,
and received his education first at a Francis-
can monastery of French Jesuits in his native
town, and later at the universities of Bonn
and Gottingen. His home-life and surround-
ings were strictly Jewish, and it was not until
the year 1825 that he was baptized in the
Lutheran church. Religious forms were at all
times a matter of complete indifference to him ;
and this step was taken, not from conviction,
but in order to secure freedom in the choice
of a profession, as the German code of that
day obliged every Jew to become either a
physician or a money-lender. In 1831 he
voluntarily exiled himself, and settled in Paris
for the remainder of his days, owing to the
increasing vexations and disquiet caused him
in Germany by the severity of the literary
censorship and the absence of all political
liberty. His last ten years of life were dark-
ened by a horrible disease of the spine, which
chained him to his bed and gradually reduced
his frame to the proportions of a child. His
intellect remained clear and active to the end,
and his patience and cheerfulness under his
affliction became proverbial. He died in 1856,
and was buried in the cemetery of Montmar-
tre. Heine married, some time during the
early stages of his illness, a Parisian grisette,
whose death occurred about two years ago.
With the publication of Heine's first vol-
ume of poems, " Youthful Sorrows " (" Junge
Leiden "), the world felt that a new chord
had been struck, although he only deals in
these with the eternal simple elements of poe-
try— love, longing, and disappointment,
spring, moonlight, flowers, and nightingales —
and pours them into the most familiar molds :
the ballad and Volkslied measures of the Min-
nesingers, or the conventional Italian sonnet.
For him human language seems to lose its
inadequacy and intangibility ; for him the
German tongue lays aside its harshness and
unwieldiness to become the most pliant musi-
cal medium of lyrical utterance. The " In-
termezzo," " Homeward Bound," and the
" New Spring " are all a continuation of the
tone struck in the " Youthful Sorrows." A
collection of Austrian Volk-songs suggested
the form of these poems, but their spirit was
that of the modern man of the world, their
passion was the Weltschmerz of the nineteenth
century. Heine, the young disciple destined
to surpass so immeasurably his masters, takes
up the long-neglected sylvan pipe of reeds
dropped from the hands of Wolfram von
Eschenbach and Walter von der Vogelweide
and transforms it into a harp of a thousand
strings, capable of responding with swelling
harmonies to every note of passion wrung
from the poet's heart by the complicated in-
fluences of modern life. In the " Intermezzo "
Heine attains his fullest and richest lyrical
expression. This series of songs develops in
regular sequence the whole drama of the birth
of love in the " wondrous, lovely month of
May," its growth and progress, and finally its
cruel betrayal, to be followed by unspeakable
anguish and death. We must go back to the
Hebrew poets of Palestine and Spain to find
a parallel in literature for the magnificent im-
agery and voluptuous orientalism of the " In-
termezzo." Yet how dexterously Heine could
catch the mediaeval strain is shown in the last
song but one of the series, which has the sim-
plicity of diction and quaint symbolism of the
Minnesingers :
Night lay upon mine eyelids,
About my lips earth clave ;
With stony heart and forehead
I lay within my grave.
How long I cannot reckon
I slept in that strait bed ;
I woke and heard distinctly
A knocking overhead.
" Wilt thou not rise, my Henry ?
The eternal dawn is here ;
The dead have re-arisen,
Immortal bliss is near ? "
" I cannot rise, my darling,
I am blinded to the day.
Mine eyes with tears, thou knowest,.
Have wept themselves away."
" Oh, I will kiss them, Henry,
Kiss from thine eyes the night.
Thou shalt behold the angels
And the celestial light."
" I cannot rise, my darling,
My blood is still outpoured,
Where thou didst wound my heart once,.
With sharp and cruel word."
" I'll lay my hand, dear Henry,
Upon thy heart again.
Then shall it cease from bleeding,
And stilled shall be its pain."
" I cannot rise, my darling,
My head is bleeding — see!
I shot myself, thou knowest,
When thou wast reft from me."
" Oh, with my hair, dear Henry,
I'll staunch the cruel wound,
And press the blood stream backward.
Thou shalt be whole and sound."
THE POET HEINE.
213
So kind, so sweet she wooed me,
I could not say her nay.
t I tried to rise and follow,
And clasp my loving May.
Then all my wounds burst open,
From head and breast outbrake
The gushing blood in torrents —
And lo, I am awake !
Even at the cost of sacrificing the enchanted
melody we will give a few prose translations
of these masterpieces ; only in such a literal
version may we hope to convey an approxi-
mate idea of their piercing subtlety of thought
and innuendo. Sharp and fine as the poisoned
sting of a deadly tropic flower is the barbed
wit of these inimitable songs; each one under
its velvet sheath seems to prick our very
heart's blood with its long needle of em-
bittered irony.
They sat and drank at the tea-table, and chatted much
about love.
The gentlemen were aesthetic and the ladies full of
delicate sensibility.
" Love must be Platonic," said the dried-up Chancellor,
• and the Chancellor's wife smiled ironically and
sighed, "Alas!"
The Canon opened his mouth wide. " Love must not
be too violent, or it may endanger one's health."
The young lady lisped, " How so ? "
The sentimental Countess spoke : " Love is a passion,"
and she kindly offered a cup to M. le Baron.
There was still another seat at the table. My darling,
you were absent. My dearest treasure, you could
have talked to them so prettily about your love.
II.
Like the sea-foam Goddess, so glitters my love in the
splendor of her beauty; for she is the chosen
bride of a stranger.
Heart, my heart, thou patient sufferer, murmur not
against this treason. Bear it, bear it, and forgive
whatever the foolish darling does.
in.
I dreamt of a king's daughter with wet, pale cheeks.
We sat under the green linden and lovingly we
embraced.
I I crave not thy father's throne, I crave not his golden
scepter, I crave not his diamond crown, I crave
thee, thou beautiful creature ! "
"That may not be," said she, "for I am lying in my
grave. And only at night I come to thee, because
I love thee so dearly."
IV.
Out of my huge sorrows, I make my little songs.
They spread their musical wings and flutter to-
ward her heart.
They have found their way to my darling, but they
come back lamenting. They lament, and will not
tell me what they saw in her heart.
v.
My darling, thou must tell me to-day : Art thou not
the creature of a dream, such as in sultry summer
evenings might spring from some poet's brain ?
But, no ! such a mouth, such magically-glowing eyes,
such a sweet lovely little chin, no poet ever
created.
Basilisks and vampyres, monsters and dragons, and
all such fabulous evil beasts, are created by the
poet's fire.
But thee and thy tricks and thine innocent face and
thy demure, treacherous glance, no poet ever
created these.
The " Intermezzo " was originally, as its
name implies, a brief lyrical interlude intro-
duced between Heine's two tragedies, "Al-
mansor " and " Ratcliffe," which appeared in
the same volume. These plays afford one
more curious instance of an author's inca-
pacity for self-judgment. " I will tell you in
confidence," Heine wrote to a friend, " they
are very good, better than my poems, which
are not worth a shot. Everything else that I
have written, or write now, may perish and
must perish." In " Ratcliffe " we fail to find
a trace of the poet of the " Intermezzo "; an
ordinary schoolboy with a healthy enthusiasm
for Scott might almost be capable of a similar
production. "Almansor," which Heine thought
the poorer of the two, is a decided improve-
ment upon " Ratcliffe," being redeemed from
mediocrity by its brilliant arabesques of Moor-
ish life in Spain, its pathetic description of
the death of Fatima, and its fantastic idyl of
the love of Almansor and Zuleima. Never-
theless as a tragedy it is a complete failure;
it lacks all the essential elements — interest,
action, and character — and resembles rather
a ballad to which has been capriciously as-
signed the dramatic form.
In the " North Sea " Poems, the theme is
one never before enlarged upon in German lit-
erature : the glory and beauty of the sea, which
Heine "loved as he loved his soul." His muse
here blends in a symmetrical whole the sunny
mythology of Hellas, the rude spirit of the
Goths, and the Hebraic diction and imagery.
Odin and Poseidon stand side by side, Aph-
rodite and her roguish son " who has chosen
the poet's heart for his playground " are sur-
rounded with the atmosphere of the Scandin-
avian Sagas, and followed by a pre-Raphaelite
picture of the tremendous figure of Christ
striding over the waters in waving white rai-
ment, enveloped in golden light, with the red
flaming sun as the heart in his bosom. In the
second cyclus there is no diminution of wit,
pathos, and energy, from the spirit-stirring
" Salutation to the Sea " to the exquisite pas-
toral epilogue.
In 1 84 1 appeared Heine's satirical ballad
of" Atta Troll — a Summer Night's Dream."
It has been remarked that this poem, while
ridiculing and parodying the Romantic school,
is indebted for its chief beauty to its own
highly colored romanticism. Its hero, Atta
214
THE POET HEINE.
Troll, is a dancing bear, who, escaping from
his keeper in the market-place of Cauteretz,
flies to his former home in the valley of Ron-
cesvalles, where in the bosom of his family he
declaims against the barbarity of men and in-
cites his cubs to rebellion against these arch-
aristocrats. In the latter half of the poem Heine
describes the hunting and ignominious death
of the audacious brute. His hand had lost
none of its cunning, he was still absolute
sovereign over the laughter and tears of his
generation. His nocturnal vision of the phan-
toms of Romanticism riding through the
moonlit forest stands out prominently among
his most masterly pictures. King Arthur,
Ogier the Dane, Shakspere, and his com-
mentator Franz Horn, dash past him, together
with slender nymphs enveloped in their flow-
ing curls as in a golden mantle, some bearing
falcons on their wrists, amidst ringing laughter,
baying of hounds, tramp of horses, snapping
of whips, winding of horns, and all the halloo
and uproar of the chase. He recognizes the
ravishing figure of the beautiful Herodias,
and his Hebrew blood tingles in his veins
with longing and love.
" On her glowing, languid visage
Lay the magic of the Orient.
And her garb recalled the splendor
Of Scheherezade's legends.
" Softest lips like twin pomegranates,
Dainty nose, a bended lily.
And her limbs as cool and slender
As the palms of the oasis."
In 1844 Heine published " Germania, A
Winter's Tale," in which his humor adopted
a still coarser garb than she had hitherto worn,
but where side by side with biting satire and
broad Rabelaisian metaphors bloomed delicate
buds of fancy and luxuriant flowers of elo-
quence. This was the last work of his years
of healthy activity, the " Romancero," the
"Lamentations," and the "Book of Lazarus"
being written while his ruthless malady chained
him to his " mattress grave." The verses en-
titled " Sylvan Solitude " (" Waldeinsam-
keit "), where the poet returns to his favorite
woodland haunts and finds his old friends
the elves and nixies fleeing with horror from
his ghastly aspect, are full of heart- wrung
pathos. But this tone, although it predomi-
nates in his last poems, does not by any means
exclude all others. Heine sports with his
misery to the very end, and from the cater-
wauling on the roofs of Paris at night and
the distracting jingle of incessant pianos, to
the delirium of fever and the administering
of potions and poultices, the most prosaic
themes suffice to inspire his inexhaustible
humor and imagination. The tragic wail,
however, deepens as the struggle continues,
and some of the final poems are like a groan-
ing prayer for mercy, or a sob of anguish*
Such a note as this, he bitterly remarked, had
never been struck in German literature, for
no German poet had ever suffered as he suf-
fered. Had he forgotten his romantic com-
patriot Hoffmann, the author of the " Contes
Fantastiques," who some twenty-four years
previously had endured with a like spirit the
same horrible malady ? No, it was not the
agony, nor even the indomitable fortitude,
but the genius, " whose crest was a smiling
tear," that was without a parallel in German
literature.
in.
There was one ideal object from which
Heine's loyal devotion never swerved nor wa-
vered through all the vagaries of his eccen-
tric career — and this object was Germany.
Harshly as he and all his race were treated
by the fatherland, his sentiment for the Ger-
man people, his affinity with the German
genius, his affection for the language, the
literature, the legends, the very soil of his
native land continued in unbroken force
through all his years of exile beneath the thin
veneer of Gallicism and cosmopolitanism. He
who by his brilliant essays in the French lan-
guage and his sparkling mots acquired the
reputation of being " the wittiest Frenchman
since Voltaire," was in reality heart-sick for
the sound of his mother tongue. " No one,"
he said bitterly, " can form an idea of this
spiritual exile but a German poet who finds
himself all day long obliged to speak and
write in French. Even my thoughts are
exiled — exiled into a foreign tongue." And
again : " I, a bird from the German forest,
accustomed to build my nest out of the most
motley and simple materials — I must nest
here in the powdered wig of Voltaire ! "
But if he loved Germany, it was the ideal,
the possible Germany of the future, not the
actual servile and petty principalities that con-
stituted the Prussia of his day. He was never
tired of ridiculing the " thirty kings or more,"
who " snored under the shadow of St. Gothard."
When he returned to France after his last
visit to his old home, he replied manfully to
the " lackeys of the Government " who had
taunted him with his partiality for the French
and his want of patriotism : " I will honor
and revere your colors," said he, " when they
deserve my respect, when they cease to be an
empty or a wicked farce. Plant the red, black
and golden flag on the heights of German
thought, make it the standard of free human-
ity, and I will shed for it my heart's best
THE POET HEINE.
2I5
blood. Be easy ; I love the fatherland just as
much as you do. For this very love's sake I
have pined thirteen years of my life in exile,
and for this very love's sake I return to-day
into exile, perhaps for ever. . . . Becalm; I
will never surrender the Rhine to the French,
for one simple reason, because the Rhine be-
longs to me, by inalienable birthright. I am
the free Rhine's still freer son ; on its banks
stood my cradle, and I am unable to under-
stand how the Rhine can possibly belong to
any one but its own children. ... As for
Alsace and Lorraine, they will be united with
Germany, when we have completed that
which the French have begun, when we out-
strip them in act as we have already done in
thought, . : . when we have reinstated in
their dignity the poor disinherited people,
despised genius and disgraced beauty, as our
great masters have said and sung, and as we
young ones will do." The following poem il-
lustrates still further Heine's passionate sym-
pathy with his country :
THE SPINNERS.
No tears are in their eyes of gloom,
They grind their teeth before the loom.
** Oh, Germany, thy shroud we spin,
And weave a threefold curse therein.
We're weaving, we're weaving.
"Cursed be the idol to whom we call,
In winter's cold and hunger's pain,
We have hoped and waited in vain, in vain,
He has duped and cheated and fooled us all.
We're weaving, we're weaving.
"Cursed be the king, the rich man's king,
Untouched by the sight of our suffering,
Who squeezed the farthings from every one,
And shot us like dogs when the last was gone.
We're weaving, we're weaving.
" Cursed be the treacherous fatherland,
Where shame and disgrace go hand in hand,
Where the bud is blighted before its time,
But the mouldy worm may reach its prime.
We're weaving, we're weaving.
" The shuttle whirrs, the wheel's in flight,
Busily spin we, day and night,
Oh, Germany, thy shroud we spin,
And weave a threefold curse therein.
We're weaving, we're weaving."
Compared with these ringing, burning
words, how cold seems the detached cosmo-
politanism of Goethe, the serene pagan, the
courtier and companion of princes, who, from
his lofty height of indifference, accused Heine,
the embittered enthusiast, of a " want of
love." There is a personal and still deeper
note in the following " Night Thoughts : "
When I think of Germany at night, then sleep grows
impossible.
I can no longer close my eyes, for the hot tears are
streaming down.
Years have come and gone since I last saw my
mother ; twelve years already have passed, and
my yearning and longing increase. . . .
Oh, how she loves me, and in her letters, I see how
her hand trembles, and how her mother-heart is
shaken. . . .
Germany has an everlasting foundation, and is sound
to the core, with its oaks and lindens, I can al-
ways find it again.
I should not yearn so for Germany, if the old mother
were not there ; the fatherland will not spoil, only
the old lady may die.
Since I left home, how many have sunk into the grave,
of those I loved ! When I count them, my heart
seems bleeding away.
And I must count them ! Even as I count, my grief
swells higher and higher. I feel as if the corpses
were dancing about in my breast. Thank God,
they vanish !
Thank God ! through my window breaks the cheerful
French daylight. My wife enters, beautiful as
morning, and laughs away my German cares.
Heine made peculiarly his own the rich
and lovely realm of German tradition and folk-
lore; he was undisputed master over the
elves, kobolds, undines and fairies, the willis,
wizards, enchantresses, and dwarfs that people
the woods and springs of his fatherland. He
created anew the Lorelei of the Rhine and
the Venus of the Wartburg ; he was the lover
and beloved of all the exquisite creatures that
inhabit the groves and water-ways, and in
many a poem he has described how the
nymphs or the mermaids come forth at twi-
light from their secret haunts to caress and
entice the melancholy poet. Even in his own
day he was accepted as a folk-singer, and his
rhymes found their way to the heart of the
people and the lips of the peasantry, side by
side with the bird-like refrains of the mediaeval
minstrels. No surer proof than this could be
offered of his thorough identification with
the Teutonic spirit and genius. But it was the
graft of a foreign tree that gave him his rich and
spicy aroma, his glowing color, his flavor of the
Orient. His was a seed sprung from the golden
branch that flourished in Hebrew-Spain be-
tween the years iooo and 1200. Whoever
looks into the poetry of the mediaeval Spanish
Jews will see that Heine, the modern, cynical
German-Parisian, owns a place among these
devout and ardent mystics who preceded him
by fully eight centuries. The " Intermezzo,"
so new and individual in German literature,
is but a well-sustained continuation of the
" Divan " and " Gazelles " of Judah Halevi,
or the thinly veiled sensuousness of Alcharisi
and Ibu Ezra. Heine is too sincere a poet
to be accused of plagiarism, but there can be
no doubt that, imbued as he was with the
spirit of his race, revering so deeply their sel-
dom-studied poetic legacy, he at times unwit-
tingly repeated the notes which rang so sweetly
in his ears. What the world thought distinct-
2l6
THE POET HEINE.
ively characteristic of the man was often
simply a mode of expression peculiar to his
people at their best. To illustrate our mean-
ing we will quote a few lines from one of the
older poets — Judah Halevi. Might they not
have been inserted in the very heart of the
" Intermezzo," without our perceiving the
slightest variation of tone ?
" ' Seest thou o'er my shoulders falling,
Snake-like ringlets waving free ?
Have no fear, for they are twisted
To allure thee unto me.'
Thus she spake, the gentle dove,
Listen to thy plighted love.
'Ah, how long I wait, until
Sweetheart cometh back,' she said;
' Laying his caressing hand
Underneath my burning head.'"
In the following stanza, translated from the
Hebrew of Halevi, we have even a flash of the
Heine wit :
"The day I crowned his rapture at my feet,
He saw his image in mine eyeballs shine.
He kissed me on the eyes — ah, what deceit !
He kissed his picture, not these eyes of mine."
Heine has worthily celebrated his great
predecessor in the poem entitled " Judah
Halevi," and his passionate lamentation for
Jerusalem has the very ring of the older poet.
" She, the peopled, sacred city,
Is transformed into a desert,
Where wild devils, were-wolves, jackals,
Lead a foul, accursed existence.
" Serpents, birds of night are nesting
In her weather-beaten gateways.
From her windows' airy arches,
Gaze, as from their dens, the foxes.
" Sometimes you may see emerging
Some poor beggar of the desert,
Pasturing his hump-backed camels
On the thick, high-growing grasses.
" Oh the noble heights of Zion,
Where were held the golden revels,
Whose rare splendor once bore witness
To the glory of the monarch;
"There, by noisome weeds o'ercovered,
Now you find gray heaps of rubbish,
Of such melancholy aspect
You would fancy they were weeping.
" And 'tis said they weep in earnest,
Once in every year, upon the
Ninth day of the month of Ab.
Mine own eyes were overflowing,
"As I saw the heavy tear-drops
Glittering on the mighty ruins,
As I heard the lamentation
Of the broken temple-columns."
If Heine had never written any other Judaic
poems than this ballad of " Halevi," and the
verses we are about to quote, he would de-
serve a high place in that splendid galaxy
which includes not only Halevi and Gabirol,
but David, Isaiah, and the author of Job. The
following is a rhymed dedication to his unfin-
ished novel, the "Rabbi of Bacharach " •
Break out into loud lamentations, thou glowing mar-
tyr-song, that I have so long cherished in the
flaming silence of my soul.
It pierces all ears, and through the ears it pierces
into the heart. I have powerfully invoked the
thousand-year-old agony.
Great and small are weeping, even the haughty
nobles; the women and the flowers are weeping,
the stars are weeping in heaven.
And all the tears flow silently commingled toward
the south, they all flow onward and empty them-
selves in the Jordan.
But it would convey a false impression to
insist unduly upon the Hebrew element in
Heine's genius, or to deduce therefrom the
notion that he was religiously at one with
his people. His sympathy with them was a
sympathy of race, not of creed, and, as we
have said, it alternated with an equally strong
revulsion in favor of Greek forms and ideas
of beauty. Nor did it ever restrain him from
showering his pitiless arrows of ridicule upon
the chosen race. No one has given us more
irresistibly comic pictures of their peculiar
traits, no one comparable to him in wit and
power has so fully understood and exposed
the lingering traces stamped upon them by
centuries of degradation. We repeat it, he
was no one thing long or consistently, and the
deluded Jew who takes up his work to chuckle
over his witty sarcasms against Christianity
will be grievously disappointed suddenly to
receive a stinging blow full in the face from
the same merciless hand.
Despite the magical fascination of Heine's
style, there is no denying the continual recur-
rence of a false note in his song. We do not
speak of the flippancy or the vulgarity into
which he occasionally degenerates, but of a
morbid, lachrymose sentimentality, which in
its first suggestion was unpleasant, and which,
predominating in proportion as his health and
temper failed, more and more offends a pure
taste, and inexorably precludes him from wear-
ing the crown of those poets whose high pre-
rogative it is to console, to uplift, to lead
humanity. Goethe ascribed Heine's weakness
to the want of love, and Matthew Arnold to
a lack of moral balance. If, after these au-
thoritative voices, we presume to give another
name to his defect, it is not in contradiction,
but rather in explanation, of their terms. We
should say that what he lacked, physically,
mentally, and morally, was — health. His love
is a frenzy, his wit is often fantastic and gro-
WINTER.
217
tesque as a sick man's visions, his very en-
joyment of nature is more like the feverish
excitement of an invalid who is allowed a
brief breathing-space in the sunshine, than the
steady, sober intensity of one of her life-long
worshipers. He has expressed it himself in
the following lines :
I feel as if I had sat all winter long,
A sick man in a darkened sick-room,
And now suddenly I leave it,
And dazzlingly beams forth to meet me,
The emerald spring, the sunshine-awakened spring.
And the white-blossomed trees rustle,
And the young flowers look up at me, with their
many-colored fragrant eyes,
And there is an aroma and a murmuring, and a
breathing and laughter,
And the little birds are singing in the blue heaven,
Thalatta! Thalatta!
It was impossible that the inharmonious
elements combined in Heine's personality
should ever properly affiliate and result in a
sound, symmetric whole. His song is but the
natural expression of the inward dissonance.
Its lack of repose and dignity is characteristic
of the tortured, vacillating soul, the over-
strained nerves, and the proud, brutally
wounded heart that engendered it. Poor
Heine ! I stood last summer by the grave of
May, 1884.
* The following description of Heine's personal appearance, from the pen of the German poet Weinbarg,
may be of interest to our readers : " He dressed in severely-simple taste ; I never saw him wear any jewelry.
Beautiful soft dark-brown hair surrounded his full smooth oval face, which was generally overspread with a
delicate pallor. Between his close-drawn eyelids, his well-cut eyes, which were rather small than large, were
usually shadowed by a dreamy expression, the most distinctive feature of the poet. When he was animated,
they were lighted by a merry, clever smile, with a spice of lurking mischief, but without any sting of malice.
The weak root of the nose betrayed (according to the physiognomists) a lack of force and magnanimity, and
the nose itself, slightly hooked, seemed to have a somewhat languid character. The smooth brow was lightly
and beautifully arched, the lips were frank, the chin round, but not powerful. The ' wicked twitching ' of
the upper lip was evidently nothing but a habit, and no sign of inherent misanthropy and disgust with life."
this free song-bird of the German forest. He
lies in the stony heart of Paris amidst the
hideous monuments decked with artificial
wreaths of bead and wire that form the usual
adornments of a French cemetery. Where
were the waving boughs, and emerald turf,
the " lofty oaks glowing like green flame
against the sky," that should have covered
the poet's resting-place ? Far from the par-
ents whom he had loved with the passionate
intensity of the Jew, far from his kinsfolk and
the friends of his youth, surrounded by stran-
gers to whom the very name on the tomb-
stone is an unpronounceable, barbaric word,
— he seems even in death an exile and out-
cast.
Yet no ! Even now, more than a quarter
of a century after his death, perhaps he is
better thus. The day before I visited his tomb
the barrier-wall between the Jewish and Chris-
tian portions of the .cemetery of Montmartre
had been demolished by order of the French
Government. As I saw the rubbish and wreck
left by the work of humane destruction, I
could not but reflect with bitterness that the
day had not yet dawned beyond the Rhine,
when Germany, free from race-hatred and
bigotry, is worthy and ready to receive her
illustrious Semitic son.*
Emma Lazarus.
WINTER.
O winter ! thou art not that haggard Lear,
With stormy beard and countenance of woe,
Raving amain, or dumbly crouching low,
In hoary desolation mocked with fear.
To me thou art the white queen of the year,
A stately virgin in her robes of snow,
With royal lilies crowned, and all aglow
With holy charms and gems celestial clear.
Nor dost thou come in barren majesty,
Thou hast thy dower of sunbeams thrice refined \
Nor songless, but with cheerful minstrelsy
Rung from the singing harp-strings of the wind;
And ah, with such sweet dreams — such visions bright,
Of flowers, and birds, and love's divine delight !
O. C. Aziringer.
WINTER NEIGHBORS.
The country is, of course, more of a wil-
derness, more of a wild solitude, in the win-
ter than in the summer. The wild comes out.
The urban, the cultivated, is hidden or neg-
atived. You shall hardly know a good field
from a poor, a meadow from a pasture, a
park from a forest. Lines and boundaries are
disregarded ; gates and bar- ways are unclosed ;
man lets go his hold upon the earth ; title-
deeds are deep buried beneath the snow;
the best-kept grounds relapse to a state of
nature ; under the pressure of the cold all
the wild creatures become outlaws, and roam
abroad beyond their usual haunts. The par-
tridge comes to the orchard to get buds ; the
rabbit comes to the garden and lawn; the
crows and jays come to the ash-heap and
corn-crib, the snow-buntings to the stack and
to the barn-yard ; the sparrows pilfer from the
domestic fowls; the pine-grosbeak comes
down from the north and shears your maples
of their buds ; the fox prowls about your
premises at night, and the red squirrels find
your grain in the barn or steal the butternuts
from your attic. In fact, winter, like some
great calamity, changes the status of most
creatures, and sets them adrift. Winter, like
poverty, makes us acquainted with strange
bedfellows.
For my part, my nearest approach to a
strange bedfellow is the little gray rabbit that
has taken up her abode under my study floor.
As she spends the day here and is out larking
at night, she is not much of a bedfellow, after
all. It is probable that I disturb her slumbers
more than she does mine. I think she is some
support to me under there — a silent, wide-
eyed witness and backer ; a type of the gen-
tle and harmless in savage nature. She has no
sagacity to give me or lend me, but that
soft, nimble foot of hers, and that touch as of
cotton wherever she goes, are worthy of emu-
lation. I think I can feel her good-will
through the floor, and I hope she can mine.
When I have a happy thought I imagine her
ears twitch, especially when I think of the
sweet apple I will place by her doorway at
night. I wonder if that fox chanced to catch a
glimpse of her the other night when he stealth-
ily leaped over the fence near by and walked
along between the study and the house ? How
clearly one could read that it was not a little dog
that had passed there. There was something
furtive in the track ; it shied off away from the
house and around it, as if eying it suspiciously ;
and then it had the caution and deliberation
of the fox — bold, bold, but not too bold ;
wariness was in every footprint. If it had been
a little dog that had chanced to wander that
way, when he crossed my path he would have
followed it up to the barn and have gone
smelling around for a bone ; but this sharp,
cautious track held straight across all others,
keeping five or six rods from the house, up
the hill, across the highway toward a neigh-
boring farmstead, with its nose in the air and
its eye and ear alert, so to speak.
A winter neighbor of mine in whom I am
interested, and who perhaps lends me his sup-
port after his kind, is a little red owl, whose
retreat is in the heart of an old apple-tree just
over the fence. Where he keeps himself in
spring and summer I do not know, but late
every fall, and at intervals all winter, his hid-
ing-place is discovered by the jays and nut-
hatches, and proclaimed from the tree-tops
for the space of half an hour or so, with all
the powers of voice they can command. Four
times the present winter they have called me
out to behold this little ogre feigning sleep in
his den, sometimes in one apple-tree, some-
times in another. Whenever I hear their cries,
I know my neighbor is being berated. The
birds take turns at looking in upon him and
uttering their alarm-notes. Every jay within
hearing comes to the spot and at once ap-
proaches the hole in the trunk or limb, and
with a kind of breathless eagerness and ex-
citement takes a peep at the owl, and then
joins the outcry. When I approach they
hastily take a final look and then with-
draw and regard my movements intently.
After accustoming my eye to the faint light
of the cavity for a few moments, I can usually
make out the owl at the bottom feigning sleep.
Feigning, I say, because this is what he really
does, as I first discovered one day when I cut
into his retreat with the axe. The loud blows
and the falling chips did not disturb him at
all. When I reached in a stick and pulled
him over on his side, leaving one of his wings
spread out, he made no attempt to recover him-
self, but lay among the chips and fragments
of decayed wood, like a part of themselves.
Indeed, it took a sharp eye to distinguish
him. Not till I had pulled him forth by one
wing, rather rudely, did he abandon his
trick of simulated sleep or death. Then,
like a detected pickpocket, he was suddenly
transformed into another creature. His eyes
WINTER NEIGHBORS.
219
flew wide open, his talons clutched my finger,
his ears were depressed, and every motion and
look said " Hands off, at your peril." Finding
this game did not work, he soon began to
"play 'possum" again. I put a cover over
my study wood-box and kept him captive for
a week. Look in upon him at any time, night
or day, and he was apparently wrapped in
the profoundest slumber; but the live mice
which I put into his box from time to time
found his sleep was easily broken; there would
be a sudden rustle in the box, a faint squeak,
and then silence. After a week of captivity I
gave him his freedom in the full sunshine :
no trouble for him to see which way and
where to go.
Just at dusk in the winter nights, I often
hear his soft bur-r-r-r, very pleasing and bell-
like. What a furtive, woody sound it is in the
winter stillness, so unlike the harsh scream
of the hawk. But all the ways of the owl are
ways of softness and duskiness. His wings
are shod with silence, his plumage is edged
with down.
Another owl neighbor of mine, with whom
I pass the time of day more frequently than
with the last, lives farther away. I pass his
castle every night on my way to the post-office,
and in winter, if the hour is late enough, am
pretty sure to see him standing in his door-
way, surveying the passers-by and the land-
scape through narrow slits in his eyes. For
four successive winters now have I observed
him. As the twilight begins to deepen he
rises up out of his cavity in the apple-tree,
scarcely faster than the moon rises from be-
hind the hill, and sits in the opening, complete-
ly framed by its outlines of gray bark and dead
wood, and by his protective coloring virtually
invisible to every eye that does not know he
is there. Probably my own is the only eye
that has ever penetrated his secret, and mine
never would have done so had I not chanced
on one occasion to see him leave his retreat
and make a raid upon a shrike that was im-
paling a shrew-mouse upon a thorn in a neigh-
boring tree, and which I was watching. Failing
to get the mouse, the owl returned swiftly to
his cavity, and ever since, while going that way,
I have been on the lookout for him. Dozens of
teams and foot-passengers pass him late in the
day, but he regards them not, nor they him.
When I come along and pause to salute him,
he opens his eyes a little wider, and, appear-
ing to recognize me, quickly shrinks , and
fades into the background of his door in a
very weird and curious manner. When he
is not at his outlook, or when he is, it re-
quires the best powers of the eye to decide
the point, as the empty cavity itself is al-
most an exact image of him. If the whole
thing had been carefully studied, it could not
have answered its purpose better. The owl
stands quite perpendicular, presenting a front
of light mottled gray ; the eyes are closed to
a mere slit, the ear-feathers depressed, the
beak buried in the plumage, and the whole
attitude is one of silent, motionless waiting
and observation. If a mouse should be seen
crossing the highway, or scudding over any
exposed part of the snowy surface in the
twilight, the owl would doubtless swoop down
upon it. I think the owl has learned to dis-
tinguish me from the rest of the passers-by ;
at least, when I stop before him, and he sees
himself observed, he backs down into his den7
as I have said, in a very amusing manner.
Whether blue-birds, nuthatches, and chick-
adees— birds that pass the night in cavities of
trees — ever run into the clutches of the doz-
ing owl, I should be glad to know. My impres-
sion is, however, that they seek out smaller
cavities. An old willow by the roadside blew
down one summer, and a decayed branch
broke open, revealing a brood of half- fledged
owls, and many feathers and quills of blue-
birds, orioles, and other songsters, showing
plainly enough why all birds fear and berate
the owl.
The English house-sparrows, that are so
rapidly increasing among us, and that must
add greatly to the food supply of the owls
and other birds of prey, seek to baffle their
enemies by roosting in the densest evergreens
they can find, in the arbor-vitae, and in hem-
lock hedges. Soft-winged as the owl is, he
cannot steal in upon such a retreat without
giving them warning.
These sparrows are becoming about the
most noticeable of my winter neighbors, and
a troop of them every morning watch me
put out the hens' feed, and soon claim their
share. I rather encouraged them in their
neighborliness, till one day I discovered the
snow under a favorite plum-tree where they
most frequently perched covered with the
scales of the fruit-buds. On investigating I
found that the tree had been nearly stripped
of its buds — a very unneighborly act on the
part of the sparrows, considering, too, all the
cracked corn I had scattered for them. So I
at once served notice on them that our good
understanding was at an end. And a hint is
as good as a kick with this bird. The stone
I hurled among them, and the one with which
I followed them up, may have been taken as
a kick; but they were only a hint of the shot-
gun that stood ready in the corner. The spar-
rows left in high dudgeon, and were not back
again in some days, and were then very shy.
No doubt the time is near at hand when we
shall have to wage serious war upon these
220
WINTER NEIGHBORS.
sparrows, as they long have had to do on the
continent of Europe. They have the Old
World hardiness and prolificness ; they are
wise and tenacious of life, and we shall find
it by and by no small matter to keep them in
check. Our native birds are much different,
less prolific, less shrewd, less aggressive and
persistent, less quick-witted and able to read
the note of danger or hostility — in short, less
sophisticated. Most of our birds are yet essen-
tially wild, that is, little changed by civiliza-
tion. In winter, especially, they sweep by
me and around me in flocks, — the Canada
sparrow, the snow-bunting, the shore-lark,
the pine-grosbeak, the red-poll, the cedar-
bird, — feeding upon frozen apples in the or-
chard, upon cedar-berries, upon maple-buds
and the berries of the mountain-ash, and upon
the seeds of the weeds that rise above the
snow in the field, or upon the hay-seed
dropped where the cattle have been foddered
in the barn-yard or about the distant stack;
but yet taking no heed of man, in no way
changing their habits so as to take advantage
of his presence in nature. The pine-grosbeak
will come in numbers upon your porch to get
the black drupes of the honeysuckle or the
woodbine, or within reach of your windows
to get the berries of the mountain-ash, but
they know you not ; they look at you as in-
nocently and unconcernedly as at a bear or
moose in their native north, and your house
is no more to them than a ledge of rocks.
The only ones of my winter neighbors that
actually rap at my door are the nuthatches
and woodpeckers, and these do not know
that it is my door. My retreat is covered
with the bark of young chestnut-trees, and
the birds, I suspect, mistake it for a huge
stump that ought to hold fat grubs (there
is not even a book-worm inside of it), and
their loud rapping often makes me think
I have a caller indeed. I place fragments of
hickory-nuts in the interstices of the bark,
and thus attract the nuthatches ; a bone upon
my window-sill attracts both nuthatches and
the downy woodpecker. They peep in curi-
ously through the window upon me, pecking
away at my bone, too often a very poor one. A
bone nailed to a tree a few feet in front of the
window attracts crows as well as lesser birds.
Even the slate-colored snow-bird, a seed-
eater, comes and nibbles it occasionally.
The bird that seems to consider he has the
best right to the bone both upon the tree
and upon the sill is the downy woodpecker,
my favorite neighbor among the winter birds,
to whom I will mainly devote the remainder
of this chapter. His retreat is but a few
paces from my own, in the decayed limb of
an apple-tree which he excavated last fall.
I say "he" because the. red plume on the
top of his head proclaims the sex. This is the
second winter he has lodged in the old apple-
tree. It seems not to be generally known to
our writers upon ornithology that certain of
our woodpeckers — probably all the winter
residents — each fall excavate a limb or the
trunk of a tree in which to pass the winter,
and that the cavity is abandoned in the
spring, probably for a new one in which nidi-
fication takes place. So far as I have observed,
these cavities are drilled out only by the
males. Where the females take up their quar-
ters I am not so well informed, though I sus-
pect that they use the abandoned holes of the
males of the previous year.
The particular woodpecker to which I re-
fer drilled his first hole in my apple-tree one
year ago last fall. This he occupied till last
spring, when he abandoned it. In the fall he
began a hole in an adjoining limb, later than
before, and when it was about half completed
a female took possession of his Old quarters.
I am sorry to say that this seemed to enrage
the male very much, and he persecuted the
poor bird whenever she appeared upon the
scene. He would fly at her spitefully and
drive her off. One chilly November morning,
as I passed under the tree, I heard the ham-
mer of the little architect in his cavity, and at
the same time saw the persecuted female
sitting at the entrance of the other hole as if
she would fain come out. She was actually
shivering, probably from both fear and cold.
I understood the situation at a glance ; the
bird was afraid to come forth and brave the
anger of the male. Not till I had rapped
smartly upon the limb with my stick did she
come out and attempt to escape ; but she had
not got ten feet from the tree before the male
was in hot pursuit, and in a few moments had
driven her back to the same tree, where she
tried to avoid him among the branches. A
few days after, he rid himself of his un-
welcome neighbor in the following ingenious
manner : he fairly scuttled the other cav-
ity ; he drilled a hole into the bottom of
it that let in the light and the cold, and I
saw the female there no more. I did not see
him in the act of rendering this tenement un-
inhabitable ; but one morning, behold, it was
punctured at the bottom, and the circum-
stances all seemed to point to him as the au-
thor of it. There is probably no gallantry
among the birds except at the mating sea-
son. I have frequently seen the male wood-
pecker drive the female away from the bone
upon the tree. When she hopped around to
the other end and timidly nibbled it, he
would presently dart spitefully at her. She
would then take up her position in his
WINTER NEIGHBORS.
221
rear and wait till, he had finished his meal.
The position of the female among the birds
is very much the same as that of woman
among savage tribes. Most of the drudgery
of life falls upon her, and the leavings of the
males are often her lot.
My bird is a genuine little savage, doubtless,
but 1 value him as a neighbor. It is a satis-
faction during the cold or stormy winter nights
to know he is warm and cozy there in his re-
treat. When the day is bad and unfit to be
abroad in, he is there too. When I wish to
know if he is at home, I go and rap upon his
tree, and, if he is not too lazy or indifferent,
after some delay he shows his head in his
round doorway about ten feet above, and
looks down inquiringly upon me — sometimes
latterly I think half resentfully, as much as to
say, " I would thank you not to disturb me so
often." After sundown, he will not put his
head out any more when I call, but as I step
away I can get a glimpse of him inside look-
ing cold and reserved. He is a late riser,
especially if it is a cold or disagreeable morn-
ing, in this respect being like the barn fowls;
it is sometimes near nine o'clock before I see
him leave his tree. On the other hand, he
comes home early, being in if the day is un-
pleasant by 4 p. m. He lives all alone; in
this respect I do not commend his example.
Where his mate is I should like to know.
I have discovered several other wood-
peckers in adjoining orchards, each of which
has a like home and leads a like solitary life.
One of them has excavated a dry limb within
easy reach of my hand, doing the work also in
September. But the choice of tree was not a
good one ; the limb was too much decayed,
and the workman had made the cavity too
large ; a chip had come out, making a hole in
the outer wall. Then he went a few inches
down the limb and began again, and. ex-
cavated a large, commodious chamber, but had
again come too near the surface; scarcely
more than the bark protected him in one
place, and the limb was very much weakened.
Then he made another attempt still farther
down the limb, and drilled in an inch or two,
but seemed to change his mind; the work
stopped, and I concluded the bird had wisely
abandoned the tree. Passing there one cold,
rainy November day, I thrust in my two fin-
gers and was surprised to feel something soft
and warm ; as I drew away my hand the bird
came out, apparently no more surprised than
I was. It had decided, then, to make its home
in the old limb ; a decision it had occasion to
regret, for not long after, on a stormy night,
the branch gave way and fell to the ground.
"When the bough breaks the cradle will fall,
And down will come baby, cradle and all."
Vol. XXIX.— 22.
Such a cavity makes a snug, warm home,
and when the entrance is on the under side
of the limb, as is usual, the wind and snow
cannot reach the occupant. Late in Decem-
ber, while crossing a high, wooded mountain,
lured by the music of fox-hounds, I discovered
fresh yellow chips strewing the new-fallen snow,
and at once thought of my woodpeckers.
On looking around I saw where one had been
at work excavating a lodge in a small yellow
birch. The orifice was about fifteen feet from
the ground, and appeared as round as if struck
with a compass. It was on the east side of
the tree, so as to avoid the prevailing west
and north-west winds. As it was nearly two
inches in diameter, it could not have been
the work of the downy, but must have been
that of the hairy, or else the yellow-bellied
woodpecker. His home had probably been
wrecked by some violent wind, and he was
thus providing himself another. In digging
out these retreats the woodpeckers prefer a
dry, brittle trunk, not too soft. They go in
horizontally to the center and then turn down-
ward, enlarging the tunnel as they go, till when
finished it is the shape of a long, deep pear.
Another trait our woodpeckers have that
endears them to me, and that has never been
pointedly noticed by our ornithologists, is
their habit of drumming in the spring. They
are songless birds, and yet all are musicians ;
they make the dry limbs eloquent of the com-
ing change. Did you think that loud, sonorous
hammering which proceeded from the orchard
or from the near woods on that still March
or April morning was only some bird getting
its breakfast ? It is downy, but he is not rap-
ping at the door of a grub ; he is rapping at
the door of spring, and the dry limb thrills
beneath the ardor of his blows. Or, later in
the season, in the dense forest or by some
remote mountain lake, does that measured
rhythmic beat that breaks upon the silence,
first three strokes following each other rapidly,
succeeded by two louder ones with longer
intervals between them, and that has an effect
upon the alert ear as if the solitude itself had
at last found a voice — does that suggest any-
thing less than a deliberate musical perform-
ance ? In fact, our woodpeckers are just as
characteristically drummers as is the ruffed
grouse, and they have their particular limbs
and stubs to which they resort for that pur-
pose. Their need of expression is apparently
just as great as that of the song-birds, and it
is not surprising that they should have found
out that there is music in a dry, seasoned limb
which can be evoked beneath their beaks.
The past spring a downy woodpecker,
probably the individual one who is now my
winter neighbor, began to drum early in March
222
WINTER NEIGHBORS.
in a partly decayed apple-tree that stands in
the edge of a narrow strip of woodland near
me. When the morning was still and mild
I would often hear him through my window
before I was up, or by half-past six o'clock,
and he would keep it up pretty briskly till
nine or ten o'clock, in this respect resembling
the grouse, which do most of their drumming
in the forenoon. His drum was the stub of
a dry limb about the size of one's wrist. The
heart was decayed and gone, but the outer
shell was hard and resonant. The bird would
keep his position there for an hour at a time.
Between his drummings he would preen his
plumage and listen as if for the response of
the female, or for the drum of some rival.
How swift his head would go when he was
delivering his blows upon the limb ! His beak
wore the surface perceptibly. When he wished
to change the key, which was quite often, he
would shift his position an inch or two to a
knot which gave out a higher, shriller note.
When I climbed up to examine his drum he
was much disturbed. I did not know he was
in the vicinity, but it seems he saw me from a
near tree, and came in haste to the neigh-
boring branches, and with spread plumage and
a sharp note demanded plainly enough what
my business was with his drum. I was invad-
ing his privacy, desecrating his shrine, and the
bird was much put out. After some weeks
the female appeared ; he had literally drum-
med up a mate; his urgent and oft-repeated
advertisement was answered. Still the drum-
ming did not cease, but was quite as fervent as
before. If a mate could be won by drumming,
she could be kept and entertained by more
drumming; courtship should not end with
marriage. If the bird felt musical before, of
course he felt much more so now. Besides that,
the gentle deities needed propitiating in behalf
of the nest and young as well as in behalf of
the mate. After a time a second female came,
when there was war between the two. I did
not see them come to blows, but I saw one
female pursuing the other about the place,
and giving her no rest for several days. She
was evidently trying to run her out of the
neighborhood. Now and then, she, too, would
drum briefly, as if sending a triumphant mes-
sage to her mate.
The woodpeckers do not each have a par-
ticular dry limb to which they resort at all
times to drum, like the one I have described.
The woods are full of suitable branches, and
they drum more or less here and there as
they are in quest of food; yet I am convinced
each one has its favorite spot, like the
grouse, to which it resorts especially in the
morning. The sugar-maker in the maple-
woods may notice that this sound proceeds
from the same tree or trees about his camp
with great regularity. A woodpecker in my
vicinity has drummed for two seasons on a
telegraph-pole, and he makes the wires and
glass insulators ring. Another drums on a thin
board on the end of a long grape-arbor, and on
still mornings can be heard a long distance.
A friend of mine in a Southern city tells
me of a red-headed woodpecker that drums
upon a lightning-rod on his neighbor's house.
Nearly every clear, still morning at certain
seasons, he says, this musical rapping may be
heard. " He alternates his tapping with his
stridulous call, and the effect on a cool, au-
tumn-like morning is very pleasing."
The high-hole appears to drum more pro-
miscuously than does downy. He utters his
long, loud spring call, whick — whic — whick
— whick, and then begins to rap with his beak
upon his perch before the last note has reached
your ear. I have seen him drum sitting upon
the ridge of the barn. The log-cock, or pileated
woodpecker, the largest and wildest of our
Northern species, I have never heard drum.
His blows should wake the echoes.
When the woodpecker is searching for
food, or laying siege to some hidden grub,
the sound of his hammer is dead or muffled,
and is heard but a few yards. It is only upon
dry, seasoned timber, freed of its bark, that he
beats his reveille to spring and woos his mate.
Wilson was evidently familiar with this
vernal drumming of the woodpeckers, but
quite misinterprets it. Speaking of the red-
bellied species, he says : " It rattles like the
rest of the tribe on the dead limbs, and with
such violence as to be heard in still weather
more than half a mile off; and listens to hear
the insect it has alarmed." He listens rather
to hear the drum of his rival or the brief and
coy response of the female ; for there are no
insects in these dry limbs.
On one occasion I saw downy at his drum
when a female flew quickly through the tree
and alighted a few yards beyond him. He
paused instantly, and kept his place apparently
without moving a muscle. The female, I took
it, had answered his advertisement. She flitted
about from limb to limb (the female may be
known by the absence of the crimson spot on
the back of the head), apparently full of busi-
ness of her own, and now and then would
drum in a shy, tentative manner. The male
watched her a few moments, and, convinced
perhaps that she meant business, struck up
his liveliest tune, then listened for her re-
sponse. As it came back timidly but promptly,
he left his perch and sought a nearer acquaint-
ance with the prudent female. Whether or
not a match grew out of this little flirtation I
cannot say.
WINTER NEIGHBORS.
223
Our smaller woodpeckers are sometimes
accused of injuring the apple and other fruit
trees, but the depredator is probably the
larger and rarer yellow-bellied species. In the
fall I caught one of these fellows in the act
of sinking long rows of his little wells in the
limb of an apple-tree. There were series of
rings of them, one above another, quite
around the stem, some of them the third of an
inch across. They are evidently made to get
at the tender, juicy bark, or cambium layer,
next to the hard wood of the tree. The health
and vitality of the branch are so seriously im-
paired by them that it often dies.
In the following winter the same bird
(probably) tapped a maple-tree in front of
my window in fifty-six places; and when the
day was sunny, and the sap oozed out, he
spent most of his time there. He knew the
good sap-days, and was on hand promptly for
his tipple ; cold and cloudy days he did not
appear. He knew which side of the tree to
tap, too, and avoided the sunless northern ex-
posure. When one series of well-holes failed
to supply him, he would sink another, drill-
ing through the bark with great ease and
quickness. Then, when the day was warm,
and the sap ran freely, he would have a reg-
ular sugar-maple debauch, sitting there by his
wells hour after hour, and as fast as they be-
came filled sipping out the sap. This he did
in a gentle, caressing manner that was very
suggestive. He made a row of wells near the
foot of the tree, and other rows higher up,
and he would hop up and down the trunk as
these became filled. He would hop down the
tree backward with the utmost ease, throw-
ing his tail outward and his head inward at
each hop. When the wells would freeze up
or his thirst become slaked, he would ruffle
his feathers, draw himself together, and sit
and doze in the sun on the side of the tree.
He passed the night in a hole in an apple-
tree not far off. He was evidently a young
bird, not yet having the plumage of the ma-
ture male or female, and yet he knew which
tree to tap and where to tap it. I saw where
he had bored several maples in the vicinity,
but no oaks or chestnuts. I nailed up a fat
bone near his sap-works ; the downy wood-
pecker came there several times a day to dine ;
the nuthatch came, and even the snow-bird
took a taste occasionally; but this sap-sucker
never touched it; the sweet of the tree sufficed
for him. This woodpecker does not breed or
abound in my vicinity ; only stray specimens
are now and then to be met with in the colder
months. As spring approached, the one I refer
to took his departure.
I must bring my account of my neighbor
in the tree down to the latest date ; so, after
the opening of spring, I add this note. The
last day of February was bright and spring-
like. I heard the first sparrow sing that morn-
ing and the first screaming of the circling
hawks, and about seven o'clock the first
drumming of my little friend. His first notes
were uncertain and at long intervals, but by
and by he warmed up and beat a lively tattoo.
As the season advanced he ceased to lodge
in his old quarters. I would rap and find
nobody at home. Was he out on a lark, I
said, the spring fever working in his blood ?
After a time his drumming grew less frequent,
and finally, in the middle of April, ceased en-
tirely. Had some accident befallen him, or
had he wandered away to fresh fields, follow-
ing some siren of his species ? Probably the
latter. Another bird that I had under obser-
vation also left his winter-quarters in the spring.
This, then, appears to be the usual custom.
The wrens and the nuthatches and chicka-
dees succeed to these abandoned cavities, and
often have amusing disputes over them. The
nuthatches often pass the night in them, and
the wrens and chickadees nest in them. I have
further observed that in excavating a cavity
for a nest the downy woodpecker makes the
entrance smaller than when he is excavating
his winter-quarters. This is doubtless for the
greater safety of the young birds.
John Burroughs.
THE NEW ASTRONOMY. III.
THE SUNS ENERGY.
" It is indeed," says good Bishop Berkeley,
u an opinion strangely prevailing amongst men
that ... all sensible objects have an ex-
istence . . . distinct from their being per-
ceived by the understanding. But . . . some
truths there are, so near and obvious to the
mind, that a man need only open his eyes to
see them. Such I take this important one to
be, namely, that all the choir of heaven and
furniture of the earth — in a word, all those
bodies which compose the mighty frame of
the world — have not any subsistence without
a mind."
We are not going to take the reader along
" the high priori road " of metaphysics, but
only to speak of certain accepted conclusions
of modern experimental physics, which do not
themselves, indeed, justify all of Berkeley's
language, but to which these words of the
author of " A New Theory of Vision " seem
to be a not unfit prelude. When we see
a rose-leaf, we see with it what we call a color,
and we are apt to think it is in the rose. But
the color is in us, for it is a sensation which
something coming from the sun excites in the
eye; so that if the rose-leaf were still there,
there would be no color unless there were an
eye to receive and a brain to interpret the
sensation. Every color that is lovely in the
rainbow or the flower, every hue that is vivid
in a ribbon or somber in the grave harmonies
of some old Persian rug, the metallic luster
of the humming-bird or the sober imperial
yellow of precious china, — all these have no
existence as color apart from the seeing eye,
and all have their fount and origin in the sun
itself.
"Color" and "light," then, are not, prop-
erly speaking, external things, but names given
to the sensations caused by an uncompre-
hended something radiated from the sun
when this falls on our eyes. If this very same
something falls on our face it produces another
kind of sensation, which we call " heat," or if
it falls on a thermometer it makes it rise ; while
if it rests long on the face it will produce yet
another effect, " chemical action," — for it
will tan the cheek, producing a chemical
change there ; or, it will do the like work more
promptly if it meet a photographic plate. If
we bear in mind that it is the identically same
thing (whatever that is) which produces all
these diverse effects, we see, some of us
perhaps for the first time, that " color,"
" light," radiant " heat," " actinism," etc., are
only names given to the diverse effects of some
thing, not things themselves, so that, for in-
stance, all the splendor of color in the visible
world exists only in the eye that sees it. The
reader must not suppose that he is here being
asked to entertain any metaphysical subtlety.
We are considering a fact almost universally
accepted within the last few years by physi-
cists, who now generally admit the existence
of a something coming from the sun, which
is not itself light, heat, or chemical action, but
of which these are effects. When we give this
unknown thing a name, we call it " radiant
energy."
How it crosses the void of space we can-
not be properly said to know, but all the
phenomena lead us to think it is in the form
of motion in some medium — somewhat (to
use an imperfect analogy) like the transmis-
sion through the air of the vibrations which
will cause sound when they reach an ear.
This, at any rate, is certain, that there is an
action of some sort incessantly going on be-
tween us and the sun, which enables us to
experience the effects of light and heat. We
assume it to be a particular mode of vibration,
but whatever it is, it is repeated with incom-
prehensible rapidity. Experiments recently
made by the writer show that the slowest
heat vibrations which reach us from the sun
succeed each other nearly 100,000,000,000,000
times in a single second, while those which
make us see have long been known to be
more rapid still. These pass outward from
the sun in every direction, in ever-widening
spheres ; and in them, so far as we know, lies
the potency of motion and life for the planet
upon whose surface they fall.
Did the reader ever consider that next to
the mystery of gravitation, which draws all
things on the earth's surface down, comes
that mystery — not seen to be one because so
familiar — of the occult force in the sun-
beams which lifts things up ? The incompre-
hensible energy of the sunbeam brought the
carbon out of the air, put it together in the
weed or the plant, and lifted each tree-trunk
above the soil. The soil did not lift it, any
more than the soil in Broadway lifted the
spire of Trinity. Men brought stones there
in wagons to build the church, and the sun
THE SUN'S ENERGY.
!2S
brought the materials in its own way, and
built up alike the slender shaft that sustains
the grass blade and the column of the pine.
If the tree or the spire fell, it would require
a certain amount of work of men or horses or
engines to set it up again. So much actual
work at least the sun did in the original build-
ing; and if we consider the number of trees in
the forest, we see that this alone is something
great. * But besides this, the sun locked up in
each tree a store of energy thousands of times
greater than that which was spent in merely
lifting the trunk from the ground, as we may see
by unlocking it again, when we burn the tree
under the boiler of an engine; for it will de-
velop a power equal to the lifting of thousands
of its kind, if we choose to employ it in this
way. This is so true, that the tree may fall,
and turn to coal in the soil, and still keep
this energy imprisoned in it, — keep it for
millions of years, till the black lump under
the furnace gives out, in the whirling spindles
of the factory or the turning wheel of the
steam-boat, the energy gathered in the sun-
shine of the primeval world.
The most active rays in building up plant-
life are said to be the yellow and orange,
though nature's fondness for green every-
where is probably justified by some special
utility. At any rate, the action of these solar
rays is to decompose the products of com-
bustion, to set free the oxygen, and to fix the
carbon in the plant. Perhaps these words do
not convey a definite meaning to the reader,
but it is to be hoped they will, for the state-
ment they imply is wonderful enough. Swift's
philosopher at Laputa, who had a project for
extracting sunbeams out of cucumbers, was
wiser than his author knew ; for cucumbers,
like other vegetables, are now found to be
really in large part put together by sunbeams,
and sunbeams, or what is scarcely distinguish-
able from such, could with our present scien-
tific knowledge be extracted from cucumbers
again, only the process would be too expen-
sive to pay. The sunbeam, however, does
what our wisest chemistry cannot do : it takes
the burned-out ashes and makes them into
green wood again ; it takes the close and
breathed-out air and makes it sweet and fit
to breathe, by means of the plant, whose food
is the same as our poison. With the aid of
sunlight a lily would thrive on the deadly at-
mosphere of the " black hole of Calcutta " ;
for this bane to us, we repeat, is vital air to
the plant, which breathes it in through all its
pores, bringing it into contact with the chlo-
rophyl, its green blood, which is to it what
the red blood is to us ; doing almost every-
thing, however, by means of the sun ray ; for
if this be lacking, the oxygen is no longer set
free or the carbon retained, and the plant
dies. This too brief statement must answer
instead of a fuller description of how the
sun's energy builds up the vegetable world.
But the ox, the sheep, and the lamb feed on
the vegetable, and we in turn on them (and
on vegetables too) ; so that, though we might
eat our own meals in darkness and still live5
the meals themselves are provided literally at
the sun's expense, virtue having gone out of
him to furnish each morsel we put in our
mouths. But while he thus prepares the ma-
terial for our own bodies, and while it is plain
that without him we could not exist any more
than the plant, the processes by which he acts
grow more intricate and more obscure in our
own higher organism, so that science as yet
only half guesses how the sun makes us. But
the making is done in some way by the suns
and so almost exclusively is every process of
life.
It is not generally understood, I think, how
literally true this is of every object in the
organic world. In a subsequent illustration we
shall see a newspaper being printed by power
directly and visibly derived from the sunbeam.
But all the power derived from coal, and all
the power derived from human muscles, come?
originally from the sun, in just as literal a
sense; for the paper on which the reader's
eye rests was not only made primarily from
material grown by the sun, but was stitched
together by derived sun-power, and by this,,
also, each page was printed, so that the amounl
of this solar radiation expended for printing
each number of this magazine could be stated
with approximate accuracy in figures. To
make even the reader's hand which holds
this page, or the eye which sees it, energy
again went out from the sun ; and in saying
this I am to be understood in the plain and
common meaning of the words.
Did the reader ever happen to be in a great
cotton-mill, where many hundreds of opera-
tives watched many thousands of spindles?
Nothing is visible to cause the multiplied
movement, the engine being perhaps away in
altogether another building. Wandering from
room to room, where everything is in motion
derived from some unseen source, he may be
arrested in his walk by a sudden cessation of
the hum and bustle — at once on the floor be-
low, and on that above, and all around him.
The simultaneousness of this stoppage at
points far apart when the steam is turned off
strikes one with a sense of the intimate de-
pendence of every complex process going on
upon some remote invisible motor. The cessa-
tion is not, however, absolutely instantaneous,
for the great fly-wheel, in which a trifling part
of the motor power is stored, makes one or
226
THE NEW ASTRONOMY.
two turns more, till the energy in this, also, is
exhausted, and all is still. The coal-beds and
the forests are to the sun what the fly-wheel
is to the engine ; all their power comes from
him ; they retain a little of it in store, but very
little by comparison with the original; and
were the change we have already spoken of
to come over the sun's circulation, — were
the solar engine disconnected from us, — we
could go on perhaps a short time at the cost
of this store, but when this was over it would
be over with us, and all would be still here too.
Is there not a special interest for us in that
New Astronomy which considers these things,
and studies the sun, not only in the heavens
as a star, but in its workings here, and so
largely in its relations to man ?
Since, then, we are the children of the sun,
and our bodies a product of its rays, as much
as the ephemeral insects that its heat hatches
from the soil, it is a worthy problem to learn
how things earthly depend upon this material
ruler of our days. But although we know it
does nearly all things done on the earth, and
have learned a little of the way it builds up
the plant, we know so little of the way it does
many other things here that we are still often
only able to connect the terrestrial effect with
the solar cause by noting what events happen
together. We are in this respect in the posi-
tion of our forefathers, who had not yet
learned the science of electricity, but who
noted that when a flash of lightning came a
clap of thunder followed, and concluded as
justly as Franklin or Faraday could have
done that there was a physical relation be-
tween them. Quite in this way, we who are
in a like position with regard to the New
Astronomy, which we hope will one day ex-
plain to us what is at present mysterious in
our connection with the sun, can as yet often
only infer that when certain phenomena there
are followed or accompanied by others here,
all are really connected as products of one
cause, however dissimilar they may look, and
however little we know what the real connec-
tion may be.
There is no more common inquiry than as
to the influence of sun-spots on the weather;
but as we do not yet know the real nature of
the connection, if there be any, we can only
try to find out by assembling independent
records of sun-spots and of the weather here,
and noticing if any changes in the one are
accompanied by changes in the other ; to see,
for instance, if when sun-spots are plenty
the weather the world over is rainy or not, or
to see if when an unusual disturbance breaks
out in a sun-spot any terrestrial disturbance
is simultaneously noted.
When we remember how our lives depend
on a certain circulation in the sun, of which
the spots appear to be special examples, it is
of interest not only to study the forms within
them, as we have already been doing here,
but to ask whether the spots themselves are
present as much one year as another. The
sun sometimes has numerous spots on it, and
sometimes none at all; but it does not seem
to have occurred to any one to see whether
they had any regular period for coming or
going till Schwabe, a magistrate in a little
German town, who happened to have a small
telescope and a good deal of leisure, began
for his own amusement to note their number
everyday. He commenced in 1826, and with
German patience observed daily for forty
years. He first found that the spots grew
more numerous in 1830, when there was no
single day without one ; then the number de-
clined very rapidly, till in 1833 they were
about gone ; then they increased in number
again till 1838, then again declined; and so
on, till it became evident that sun-spots
do not come and go by chance, but run
through a cycle of growth and disappearance,
on the average about once in every eleven
years. While amusing himself with his tele-
scope, an important sequence in nature had
thus been added to our knowledge by the
obscure Hofrath Schwabe, who indeed com-
pares himself to Saul, going out to seek his
father's asses and finding a kingdom. Old
records made before Schwabe's time have
since been hunted up, so that we have a fairly
connected history of the sun's surface for
nearly a hundred and fifty years ; and the
years when spots will be plentiful and rare
can now be often predicted from seeing what
has been in the past. Thus I may venture to
say that the spots, now so frequent, will have
probably nearly disappeared in 1888, and will
be probably very plentiful in 1894. I do
not know at all why this is likely to happen;
I only know that it has repeatedly happened
at corresponding periods in the past.
" Now," it may be asked, "have these things
any connection with weather changes, and is
it of any practical advantage to know if they
have ? "
Would it be, it may be answered, of any
practical interest to a merchant in bread-
stuffs to have private information of a reliable
character that crops the world over would be
fine in 1888 and fail in 1894 ? The exclusive
possession of such knowledge might plainly
bring "wealth beyond the dreams of avarice"
to the user; or, to ascend from the lowest
ground of personal interest to the higher aims
of philanthropy and science, could we predict
the harvests, we should be armed with a knowl-
THE SUN'S ENERGY.
227
FIG. I. — SUN-SPOTS AND PRICE OF GRAIN. (FROM "OBSERVATIONS OF SOLAR SPOTS.")
edge that might provide against coming years
of famine, and make life distinctly happier
and easier to hundreds of millions of toilers on
the earth's surface.
" But can we predict ? " We certainly can-
not till we have, at any rate, first shown that
there is a connection between sun-spots and
the weather. Since we know nothing of the
ultimate causes involved, we can only at pres-
ent, as I say, collect records of the changes
there, and compare them with others of the
changes here, to see if there is any significant
coincidence. To avoid columns of figures,
and yet to enable the reader to judge for him-
self in some degree of the evidence, I will give
the results of some of these records repre-
sented graphically by curves, like those which
he may perhaps remember to have seen used
to show the fluctuations in the value of gold
and grain, or of stocks in the stock-market. It
is only fair to say that mathematicians used
this method long before it wras ever heard of
by business men, and that the stock-brokers
borrowed it from the astronomers, and not
the astronomers from them.
In Fig. 1, from Carrington's work, each
horizontal space represents ten years of time,
and the figures in the upper part represent
the fluctuations of the sun-spot curve. In the
middle curve, variations in vertical distances
correspond to differences in the distance from
the sun of the planet Jupiter, the possibility
of whose influence on sun-spot periods can
thus be examined. In the third and lowest,
suggested by Sir William Herschel, the fig-
ures at the side are proportional to the price
of wheat in the English market, rising when
wheat ruled high, falling when it was cheap.
In all three curves one-tenth of a horizontal
spacing along the top or bottom corresponds
to one year; and in this way we have at
a glance the condensed result of observa-
tions and statistics for sixty years, which
otherwise stated would fill volumes. The
result is instructive in more ways than one.
The variations of Jupiter's distance certainly
do present a striking coincidence with the
changes in spot frequency, and this may
indicate a real connection between the phe-
nomena ; but before we decide that it does
so, we must remember that the number of
cycles of change presented by the possible
combination of planetary periods is all but
infinite. Thus we might safely undertake, with
study enough, to find a curve, depending solely
on certain planetary configurations, which yet
would represent with quite striking agreement
for a time the rise and fall in any given rail-
road stock, the relative numbers of Demo-
cratic and Republican congressmen from year
to year, or anything else with which the
heavenly bodies have in reality as little to do.
228
THE NEW ASTRONOMY.
The third curve (meant by the price of wheat
to test the possible influence of sun-spots on
years of good or bad harvests) is not open to
the last objection, but involves a fallacy of
another kind. In fact the price of wheat de-
pends on many things quite apart from the
operations of nature, — on wars and legislation,
for instance; and here the great rise in the
first years of the century is as clearly con-
nected with the great continental wars of the
first Napoleon, which shut up foreign ports,
as the sudden fall about 1815, the year of
Waterloo, is with the subsequent peace.
Meanwhile an immense amount of labor has
been spent in making tables of the weather,
and of almost every conceivable earthly phe-
nomenon which may be supposed to have a
similar periodic character, with very doubtful
success, nearly every one having brought out
some result which might be plausible if it
stood alone, but which is apt to be contra-
dicted by the others. For instance, Mr. Stone,
at the Cape of Good Hope, and Dr. Gould,
in South America, consider that the obser-
vations taken at those places show a little dim-
inution of the earth's temperature (amounting
to one or two degrees) at a sun-spot maximum.
Mr. Chambers concludes, from twenty-eight
years' observations, that the hottest are those
of most sun-spots. So each of these contra-
dicts the other. Then we have Gelinck, who,
from a study of numerous observations, con-
cludes that all are wrong together, and that
there is really no change in either way.
I might go on citing names with no better
result. One observer tabulates observations
of terrestrial temperature, or rain-fall, orbarom-
eter, or ozone; another, the visitations of Asiatic
cholera; while still another (the late Professor
Jevons) tabulates commercial crises with the
serious attempt to find a connection between
the sun-spots and business panics. Of making
such cycles there is no end, and much study of
them would be a weariness I will not inflict.
Our own conclusion is, that from such in-
vestigations of terrestrial changes nothing is
yet certainly known" with regard to the in-
fluence of sun-spots on the weather. There
is, however, quite another way, that is, to
measure their effect at the origin in the sun
itself. The sun-spot is cooler than the rest of
the surface, and it might be thought that when
there are many the sun would give less heat.
As far as the spots themselves are concerned
this is so, but in a very small degree. I have
been able to ascertain how much this depriva-
tion of heat amounts to, and find it is a real but
a most insignificant quantity, rising to about
two-thirds of one degree Fahrenheit every
eleven years. This, it will be remembered, is
the direct effect of the spots considered merely
as so many cool patches on the surface, and
it does not imply that when there are most
spots the sun will necessarily give less heat.
In fact there may be a compensating action
accompanying them which makes the radia-
tion greater than when they are absent. I
will not enter on a detailed explanation, but
only say that in the best judgment I can
form by a good deal of study and direct ex-
periment, there is no certain evidence that the
sun is hotter at one time than at another.
If we investigate, however, the connec-
tion between spots and terrestrial magnetic
disturbances, we shall find altogether more
satisfactory testimony. This evidence is of
all degrees of strength, from probability up to
what may be called certainty, and it is always
obtained, not by a priori reasoning, but by
the comparison of independent observations
of something which has happened on the sun
r^-w^
%
FIG. 2, — SUN'SPOT OF NOVEMBER l6th, 1882, AND EARTH.
and on the earth. We will first take an in-
stance of what we consider the weakest de-
gree of evidence (weak, that is, when any such
single case is considered), and we do so by
simply quoting textually three records which
were made at nearly the same time in differ-
ent parts of the world in 1882.
A certain spot had been visible on the sun
at intervals for some weeks ; but when on the
1 6th of November a glimpse was caught of it
after previous days of cloudy weather, the ob-
server, it will be seen, is struck by the great
activity going on in it, and, though familiar
with such sights, describes this one as " mag-
nificent."
From the daily record at the Allegheny
Observatory, November 16th, 1882 :
" Very large spot on the sun ; . great va-
riety of forms ; inrush from S. E. to S. W. ; tendency
to cyclonic action at several points. The spot is ap-
parently near its period of greatest activity. A mag-
nificent sight."
At the same time a sketch was commenced
which was interrupted by the cloudy weather
of this and following days. The outline of the
main spot only is here given (Fig. 2). Its area,
as measured at Allegheny, was 2,200,000,000
6 8 10 12 14 16 IS 20 ZZ 24
1
-
D
i
"N*/^ — ^
^*^ww*\y
'^VHt
V
(^
!
FIG. 3.— GREENWICH RECORD OF DISTURBANCE OF MAGNETIC NEEDLE, NOVEMBER l6th AND 17th, 1882.
230
THE NEW ASTRONOMY.
square miles ; at Greenwich its area, inclusive
of some out-lying portions, was estimated on
the same day to be 2,600,000,000 square
miles. The earth is shown of its relative size
upon it, to gave a proper idea of the scale.
From the " New York Tribune" of Novem-
ber 1 8th (describing what took place in the
night preceding the 17th) :
"AN ELECTRIC STORM.
" TELEGRAPH WIRES GREATLY AFFECTED.
THE DISTURBANCE WIDE-SPREAD.
" . . . At the Mutual Union office the manager
said, ' Our wires are all running, but very slowly. There
is ofte" an intermission of from one to five minutes
between the words of a sentence. The electric storm
is general as far as our wires are concerned.' . . .
The cable messages were also delayed, in some cases
as much as an hour.
" The telephone service was practically useless dur-
ing the day.
"Washington, Nov. 17. — A magnetic storm of
more than usual intensity began here at an early hour
this morning, and has continued with occasional in-
terruptions during the day, seriously interfering with
telegraphic communication. ... As an experiment
one of the wires of the Western Union Telegraph
Company was worked between Washington and Balti-
more this afternoon with the terrestrial current alone,
the batteries having been entirely detached.
"Chicago, Nov. 17. — An electric storm of the
greatest violence raged in all the territory to points
beyond Omaha. . . . The switch-board here has
been on fire a dozen times during the forenoon. At
noon only a single wire out of fifteen between this city
and New York was in operation."
And so on through a column.
In Fig. 3 we give a portion of the auto-
matic trace of the magnetic needles at Green-
wich.* These needles are mounted on massive
piers in the cellars of the observatory, far
removed from every visible source of distur-
bance, and each carries a small mirror, whence
a spot of light is reflected upon a strip of pho-
tographic paper, kept continually rolling be-
fore it by clock-work. If the needle is still,
the moving strip of paper will have a straight
line on it, traced by the point of light, which
is in this case motionless. If the needle swings
to the right or left, the light-spot vibrates with
it, and the line it traces becomes sinuous, or
more and more sharply zigzagged as the
needle shivers under the unknown forces
which control it.
The upper part of Fig. 3 gives a little
portion of this automatic trace on Novem-
ber 1 6th before the disturbance began, to
show the ordinary daily record, which should
be compared with the violent perturbation
occurring simultaneously with the telegraphic
disturbance in the United States. We may,
* It appears here through the kindness of the Astronomer Royal. We regret to say that American observ-
ers are dependent on the courtesy of foreign ones in such matters, the United States having no observatory
where such records of sun-spots and magnetic variation are systematically kept.
for the reader's convenience, remark that as
the astronomical day begins twelve hours
later than the civil day, the approximate
Washington mean times, corresponding to the
Greenwich hours after twelve, are found by
adding one to the days and subtracting
seventeen from the hours. Thus " November
1 6th, twenty-two hours " corresponds in the
eastern United States nearly to five o'clock in
the morning of November 17th.
The Allegheny observer, it will be remem-
bered, in his glimpse of the spot on Novem-
ber 1 6th, was struck with the great activity
of the internal motions then going on in it.
The Astronomer Royal states that a portion of
the spot became detached on November 17th
or 18th, and that several small spots which
broke out in the immediate neighborhood
were seen for the first time on the photographs
taken November 17th, twenty-two hours.
" Are we to conclude from this," it may be
asked, "that what went on in the sun was
the cause of the trouble on the telegraph
wires ? " I think we are not at all entitled to
conclude so from this instance alone ; but
though in one such case, taken by itself, there
is nothing conclusive, yet when such a degree
of coincidence occurs again and again, the
habitual observer of solar phenomena learns
to look with some confidence for evidence of
electrical disturbance here following certain
kinds of disturbance there, and the weight of
this part of the evidence is not to be sought
so much in the strength of a single case as
in the multitude of such coincidences.
We have, however, not only the means of
comparing sun-spot years with years of terres-
trial electric disturbance, but individual in-
stances, particular minutes of sun-spot changes,
with particular minutes of terrestrial change ;
and both comparisons are of the most con-
vincing character.
First let us observe that the compass needle,
in its regular and ordinary behavior, does not
point exactly in any one direction through the
day, but moves a very little one way in the
morning, and back in the afternoon. This same
movement, which can be noticed even in a
good surveyor's compass, is called the "diur-
nal oscillation," and has long been known.
It has been known, too, that its amount
altered from one year to another, but since
Schwabe's observations it has been found
that the changes in this variation and in the
number of the spots went on together. The
coincidences which we failed to note in the
comparison of the spots with the prices of
grain are here made out with convincing
THE SUN'S ENERGY.
231
!20 1830 1940
FIG. 4. — SUN-SPOTS AND MAGNETIC VARIATIONS.
850
clearness, as the reader will see by a simple
inspection of this chart (Fig. 4, taken from
Prof. Young's work), where the horizontal
divisions still denote years, and the height of
the continuous curve the relative number of
spots, while the height of the dotted curve is
the amount of the magnetic variation. Though
we have given but a part of the curve, the
presumption from the agreement in the forty
years alone would be a strong one that the
two effects, apparently so widely remote in
their nature, are really due to a common
cause.
Here we have compared years with years ;
let us next compare minutes with minutes.
Thus, to cite (from Mr. Proctor's work) a
well-known instance : On September 1st,
1869, at eighteen minutes past eleven, Mr. Car-
rington, an experienced solar observer, sud-
denly saw in the sun something brighter than
the sun — two patches of light, breaking out
so instantly and so intensely that his first
thought was that daylight was entering
through a hole in the darkening screen he used.
It was immediately certain that something
unusual was occurring in the sun itself, across
which the brilliant spots were moving, travel-
ing 35,000 miles in five minutes, at the end
of which time (at twenty-three minutes past
eleven) they disappeared from sight. By
good fortune, another observer a few miles
distant saw and independently described the
same phenomenon ; and as the minute had
been noted, it was immediately afterward
found that recording instruments registered
a magnetic disturbance at the same time, —
" at the very moment," says Dr. Stewart, the
director of the observatory at Kew.
" By degrees," says Sir John Herschel,
" accounts began to pour in of . . . great
electro-magnetic disturbances in every part
of the world. ... At Washington and
Philadelphia, in America, the telegraphic sig-
nal men received severe electric shocks. At
Boston, in North America, a flame of fire
followed the pen of Bain's electric telegraph."
(Such electric disturbances, it may be men-
tioned, are called " electric storms," though
when they occur the weather may be per-
fectly serene to the eye. They are shown also
by rapid vibrations of the magnetic needle,
like those we have illustrated.)
On August 3d, 1872, Professor Young, who
was observing at Sherman in the Rocky
Mountains, saw three notable paroxysms in
the sun's chromosphere, jets of luminous
matter of intense brilliance being projected
at 8h. 45m., ioh. 30m., and nh. 50m. of the
local time. " At dinner," he says, " the pho-
tographer of the party, who was making our
magnetic observations, told me, before know-
ing anythirfg about what I had been observing,
that he had been obliged to give up work, his
magnet having swung clear off the limb."
Similar phenomena were observed August 5th.
Professor Young wrote to England, and re-
ceived from Greenwich and Stonyhurst copies
of the automatic record, which he gives, and
which we give in Fig. 5. After allowing for
difference of longitude, the reader who will
take the pains to compare them may see for
himself that both show a jump of the needles
in the cellars at Greenwich at the same
minute in each of the four cases of outburst
in the Rocky Mountains.
While we admit that the evidence in any
single case is rarely so conclusive as in these,
while we agree that the spot is not so much
the cause of the change as the index of some
other solar action which does cause it, and
while we fully concede our present ignorance
of the nature of the cause, we cannot refuse
to accept the cumulative evidence of which a
little has been submitted.
It is only in rare cases that we can feel quite
sure ; and yet, in regard even to one of the
more common and less conclusive ones, we
may at least feel warranted in saying that if
232 THE NEW ASTRONOMY.
the reader forfeited a busi-
ness engagement or missed
an invitation to dinner
through the failure of the
telegraph or telephone on
such an occasion as that
of the 17th of Novem-
ber, 1882, the far-off sun-
spot was not improbably
connected with the cause.
Probably we should all
like to hear some at least
equally positive conclusion
about the weather, also, and
to learn that there was a
likelihood of our being able
to predict it for the next
year, as the Signal Service
now does for the next day ;
but there is at present no
such likelihood. The study
of the possible connection
between sun-spots and the
weather is, nevertheless, one that will always considered in its essence, so are all things ;
have great interest to many; for, even if we while regarded separately in any one of its
FIG. 5. — GREENWICH MAGNETIC OBSERVATIONS, AUGUST 3d AND 5th, 1872.
set its scientific aim aside and consider it
in its purely utilitarian aspect, it is evident
that the knowledge how to predict whether
coming harvests would be good or bad
would enable us to do for the whole
terrestrial effects of magnetic or chemical
action, or light or heat, it may seem less so.
Since there is not room to consider all. these
aspects, let us choose the last, and look at
this energy in its familiar form of the heat by
world what Joseph's prophetic vision of the which we live.
seven good and seven barren years did for the We, the human race, are warming ourselves
land of Egypt, and confer a greater power on at this great fire which called our bodies into
its discoverer than any sovereign now pos-
sesses. There is something to be said, then,
for the cyclists ; for if their zeal does some-
times outrun knowledge, their object is a
worthy one, and their aims such as we can
sympathize with, and of which none of us can
say that there is any inherent impossibility in
them, or that they may not conceivably yet
lead to something. Let us not, then, treat the
inquirer who tries to connect panics on 'Change
with sun-spots as a mere lunatic; for there is
being, and when it goes out we shall go too.
What is it ? How long has it been ? How
long will it last ? How shall we use it ?
To look across the space of over ninety
million miles, and to try to learn from that
distance the nature of the solar heat, and how
it is kept up, seemed to the astronomers of
the last century a hopeless task. The difficulty
was avoided rather than met by the doctrine
that the sun was pure fire, and shone because
" it was its nature to." In the middle ages
this amount of reason in his theory, that the such an idea was universal ; and along with it,
panics, together with the general state of and as a logical sequence of it, the belief was
business, are connected in some obscure way long prevalent that it was possible to make
with the good or bad harvests, and these again another such flame here, in the form of a
in some still obscurer way with changes in lamp which should burn forever and radiate
our sun. light endlessly without exhaustion. With the
We may leave, then, this vision of forecast- philosopher's stone, which was to transmute
ing the harvests and the markets of the world lead into gold, this perpetual lamp formed a
from a study of the sun, as one of the fair prime object of research for the alchemist
dreams for our science's future. Perhaps the and student of magic.
dream will one day be realized. Who knows ? We recall the use which Scott has made
of the belief in this product of " gramarye "
If we paused on the last words, the reader in the " Lay of the Last Minstrel," where it
might perhaps so far gather an impression is sought to open the grave of the great
that the whole all-important subject of the wizard in Melrose Abbey. It is midnight
solar energy was involved in mystery and when the stone which covers it is heaved
doubt. But if it be indeed a mystery when away, and Michael's undying lamp, buried
THE SUN'S ENERGY.
233
FIG. 6. — ONE CUBIC CENTIMETER.
with him long ago, shines out from the open
tomb and illuminates the darkness of the
chancel.
" I would you had been there to see
The light break forth so gloriously ;
That lamp shall burn unquenchably
Until the eternal doom shall be,"
says the poet. Now we are at liberty to enjoy
the fiction as a fiction ; but if we admit that the
art which could make such a lamp would in-
deed be a black art, which did not work un-
der nature's laws, but against them, then we
ought to see that, as the whole conception is
derived from the early notion of a miraculous
constitution of the sun, the idea of an eter-
nal self- sustained sun is no more permitted
to us than that of an eternal self-sustained
lamp. We must look for the cause of the
sun's heat in nature's laws, and we know
those laws chiefly by what we see here.
Before examining the source of the sun's
heat, let us look a little more into its amount.
To find the exact amount of heat which it
sends out is a very difficult problem, espe-
cially if we are to use all the refinements of
the latest methods in determining it. The
underlying principle, however, is embodied
in an old method which gives, it is true,
rather crude results, but by so simple a treat-
ment that the reader can follow it readily,
especially if unembarrassed with details, in
which most of the actual trouble lies. We
must warn him in advance that he is going
to be confronted with a kind of enormous
sum in multiplication, for whose general ac-
curacy he may, however, trust to us if he
pleases. We have not attempted exact accu-
racy, because it is more convenient for him
that we should deal with round numbers.
The apparatus which we shall need for the
attack of this great problem is surprisingly
simple, and moderate in size. Let us begin
by finding how much sun-heat falls in a small
known area. To do this we take a flat, shal-
low vessel, which is to be filled with water.
The amount it contains is usually a hundred
cubic centimeters (a centimeter being nearly
four-tenths of an inch), so that if we imagine a
tiny cubical box about as large as a backgam-
mon die, or, more exactly, having each side just
the size of this (Fig. 6), to be filled and emp-
tied into the vessel one hundred times, we
shall have a precise idea of its limited ca-
pacity. Into this vessel we dip a thermom-
eter, so as to read the temperature of the
water, seal all up so that the water shall not
run out, and expose it so that the heat at
noon falls perpendicularly on it. The appar-
atus is shown in Fig. 7, attached to a tree.
The stem of the instrument holds the
thermometer, which is upside down, its bulb
being in the water-vessel. Now all the sun's
rays do not reach this vessel, for some are
absorbed by our atmosphere; and all the
heat which falls on it does not stay there, as
the water loses part of it by the contact of
the air with the box outside, and in other
ways. When allowance is made for these
losses, we find that the sun's heat, if all re-
tained, would have raised the temperature of
the few drops of water which would fill a box
the size of our little cube (according to these
latest observations) nearly three degrees of
the centigrade thermometer in one minute — a
most insignificant result apparently, as a meas-
ure of what we have been told is the almost
infinite heat of the sun ! But if we think so,
we are forgetting the power of numbers, of
which we are about to have an illustration as
striking in its way as that which Archimedes
once gave with the grains of sand.
There is a treatise of his extant, in which
he remarks (I cite from mem-
ory) that as some people be-
lieve it possible for numbers
to express a quantity as great
as that of the grains of sand
upon the sea-shore, while
others deny this, he shall
show that they can express
one even larger. To prove
this beyond dispute, he be-
gins with a single seed, be-
side which he ranges single
grains of sand in a line, till
he can give the number of
these latter which equal its
length. Next he ranges seeds
beside each other till their
number makes up the length
of a span ; then he counts
the spans in a stadium, and
the stadia in the whole world as known to the
ancients, at each step expressing his results in
a number certainly greater than the number of
sand-grains which the seed, or the span, or the
stadium, or finally the whole world, is thus
successively shown to contain. He has then
already got a number before his reader's eyes
demonstrably larger than that of all the grains
of sand on the sea-shore; yet he does not
stop, but steps off the earth into space, to
calculate and express a number greater than
FIG. 7. — POUILLET S
PYRHELIOMETER.
234
THE NEW ASTRONOMY.
that of all the grains of sand which would
fill a sphere embracing the earth and the sun !
We are going to use our little unit of heat
in the same way, for (to calculate in round
figures and in English measure) we find that
we can set over nine hundred of these small
cubes side by side in a square foot, and, as
there are 28,000,000 feet in a square mile,
that the latter would contain 25,000,000,000
of the cubes, placed side by side, touching
each other, like a mosaic pavement. We find
also, by weighing our little cup, that we should
need to fill and empty it almost exactly a
million^ times to exhaust a tank containing a
ton of water. The sun-heat falling on one
square mile corresponds, then, to over seven
hundred and fifty tons of water raised every
minute from the freezing-point to boiling,
which already is becoming a respectable
amount !
But there are 49,000,000 square miles in
the cross-section of the earth exposed to the
sun's rays, which it would therefore need
1,225,000,000,000,000,000 of our little dies
to cover one deep; and therefore in each
minute the sun's heat falling on the earth
would raise to boiling 37,000,000,000 tons of
water.
We may express this in other ways, as by
the quantity of ice it would melt ; and as the
heat required to melt a given weight of ice is
T7^ of that required to bring as much water
from the freezing to the boiling-point, and as
the whole surface of the earth, including the
night side, is four times the cross-section ex-
posed to the sun, we find, by taking 526,000
minutes to a year, that the sun's rays would
melt in the year a coating of ice over the
whole earth more than, one hundred and sixty
feet thick.
We have ascended already from our small
starting-point to numbers which express the
heat that falls upon the whole planet, and
enable us to deal, if we wish, with questions
relating to the glacial epochs and other
changes in its history. We have done this by
referring at each step to the little cube which
we have carried along with us, and which is
the foundation of all the rest ; and we now
see why such exactness in the first determina-
tion is needed, since any error is multiplied
by enormous numbers. But now we, too, are
going to step off the earth and to deal with
numbers which we can still express in the
same way if we choose, but which grow so
large thus stated that we will seek some
greater term of comparison for them. We
have just seen the almost incomprehensible
amount of heat which the sun must send the
earth in order to warm its oceans and make
green its continents ; but how little this is to
what passes us by ! The earth as it moves on
in its annual path continually comes into new
regions, where it finds# the same amount of
heat already pouring forth ; and this same
amount still continues to fall into the empty
space we have just quitted, where there is
no one left to note it, and where it goes on
in what seems to us utter waste. If, then,
the whole annual orbit were set close with
globes like ours, and strung with worlds like
beads upon a ring, each would receive the
same enormous amount the earth does now.
But this is not all ; for not only along the or-
bit, but above and below it, the sun sends its
heat in seemingly incredible wastefulness, the
final amount being expressible in the number
of worlds like ours that it could warm like
ours, which is 2,200,000,000.
We have possibly given a surfeit of such
numbers, but we cannot escape or altogether
avoid them, when dealing with this stupen-
dous outflow of the solar heat. They are too
great, perhaps, to convey a clear idea to the
mind, but let us before leaving them try to
give an illustration of their significance.
Let us suppose that we could sweep up
from the earth all the ice and snow on its sur-
face, and, gathering in the accumulations
which lie on its Arctic and Antarctic poles,
commence building with it a tower greater
than that of Babel, fifteen miles in diameter,
and so high as to exhaust our store. Imagine
that it could be preserved untouched by the
sun's rays, while we built on with the ac-
cumulations of successive winters, until it
stretched out 240,000 miles into space, and
formed an ice-bridge to the moon, and that
then we concentrated on it the sun's whole
radiation, neither more nor less than that which
goes on every moment. In oiie second the
whole would be gone, melted, boiled and
dissipated in vapor. And this is the rate at
which the solar heat is being (to human ap-
prehension) wasted/
Nature, we are told, always accomplishes
her purpose with the least possible expenditure
of energy. Is her purpose here, then, some-
thing quite independent of man's comfort and
happiness ? Of the whole solar heat, we have
just seen that less than 2, 000, 000 — less> that is,
than the one twenty-thousandth part of one
per cent. — is made useful to us. " But may
there not be other planets on which intelligent
life exists, and where this heat, which passes
us by, serves other beings than ourselves ? "
There may be; but if we could suppose all
the other planets of the solar system to be
inhabited, it would help the matter very little;
for the whole together intercept so little of
the great sum, that all of it which nature be-
stows on man is still as nothing to what she
THE SUN'S ENERGY.
235
bestows on some end—if end there be — those who have not studied the subject, be-
which is to us as yet inscrutable. cause the fact that heat so generated is not
How is this heat maintained ? Not by the made familiar to most of us by observation.
miracle of a perpetual self-sustained flame, we Perhaps the following illustration will make
may be sure. But, then, by what fuel is such the matter plainer. When we are carried up
a fire fed ? There can be no question of in a lift, or elevator, we know well enough
simple burning, like that of coal in the grate, that heat has been expended under the boiler
for there is no source of supply adequate to
the demand. The State of Pennsylvania, for
instance, is underlaid by one of the richest
coal-fields of the world, capable of supplying
of some engine to drag us up against the
power of gravity. When the elevator is at the
top of its course, it is ready to give out in
descending just the same amount of power
the consumption of the whole country at its needed to raise it, as we see by its drawing
present rate for more than a thousand years up a nearly equal counterpoise in the descent,
to come. If the source of the solar heat It can and must give out in coming down
(whatever that is) were withdrawn, and we the power that was spent in raising it up • and
were enabled to carry this coal there and
shoot it into the solar furnace fast enough
to keep up the known heat-supply, so that the
solar radiation would go on at just its actual
rate, the time which this coal would last is
though there is no practical occasion to do
so, a large part of this power could, if we
wished, be actually recovered in the form of
heat again. In the case of a larger body,
such as the pyramid of Ghizeh, which weighs
easily calculable. It would not last days or between 6,000,000 and 7,000,000 tons, all
hours, but the whole of these coal-beds would
demonstrably be used up in rather less than
one one-thousandth of a second ! We find by
a similar calculation that if the sun were itself
one solid block of coal, it would have burned
out to the last cinder in less time than man
has certainly been on the earth. But during
historic times there has as surely been no
noticeable diminution of the sun's heat, for
the olive and the vine grow just as they
did three thousand years ago, and the hy-
pothesis of an actual burning becomes unten-
the furnaces in the world, burning coal under
all its engines, would have to supply their
heat for a measurable time to lift it a mile
high ; and then, if it were allowed to come
down, whether it fell at once or were made
to descend with imperceptible slowness, by
the time it touched the earth the same heat
would be given out again.
Perhaps the fact that the sun is gaseous
rather than solid makes it less easy to realize
the enormous weight which is consistent with
this vaporous constitution. A cubic mile of
able. It has been supposed by some that hydrogen gas (the lightest substance known)
meteors striking the solar surface might gen- would weigh much more at the sun's surface
erate heat by their impact, just as a cannon- than the Great Pyramid does here, and the
ball fired against an armor- plate causes a number of these cubic miles in a stratum one
flash of light, and a heat so sudden and in- mile deep below its surface is over 2,000,000,-
tense as to partly melt the ball at the instant 000,000 ! This alone is enough to show that,
of concussion. This is probably a real source as they settle downward as the solar globe
of heat-supply as far as it goes, but it cannot shrinks, here is a possible source of supply for
go very far ; and, indeed, if our whole world all the heat the sun sends out. Exacter cal-
should fall upon the solar surface like an im- culation shows that it is sufficient, and that a
mense projectile, gathering speed as it fell, contraction of 300 feet a year (which in 10,000
and finally striking (as it would) with the years would make a shrinkage hardly visible
force due to a rate of over three hundred in the most powerful telescope) would give all
miles a second, the heat developed would the immense outflow of heat we see.
supply the sun for but little more than sixty There is an ultimate limit, however, to the
sun's shrinking, and there must have been some
bounds to the heat he can already have thus
acquired; for — though the greater the origi-
nal diameter of his sphere, the greater the
gain of heat by shrinking to its present size —
if the original diameter be supposed as great
as possible, there is still a finite limit to the
heat gained.
Suppose, in other words, the sun itself and
all the planets ground to powder, and dis-
years.*
It is not necessary, however, that a body
should be moving rapidly to develop heat,
for arrested motion always generates it,
whether the motion be fast or slow, though
in the latter case the mass arrested must be
larger to produce the same result. It is in
the slow settlement of the sun's own substance
toward its center, as it contracts in cooling,
that we find a sufficient cause for the heat de-
veloped.
tributed on the surface of a sphere whose
This explanation is often unsatisfactory to radius is infinite, and that this matter (the same
* These estimates differ somewhat from those of Helmholtz and Tyndall, as they rest on later measures.
236
THE NEW ASTRONOMY.
in amount as that constituting the present solar
system) is allowed to fall together at the cen-
ter. The actual shrinkage cannot possibly be
greater than in this extreme case; but even in
this practically impossible instance, it is easy
to calculate that the heat given out would not
support the present radiation over 18,000,000
years, and thus we are enabled to look back
over past time and fix an approximate limit to
the present age of the sun and earth.
If we would look into the future, also, we
find that at the present rate we may say that
the sun's heat-supply is enough to last for some
such term as four or five million years be-
fore it sensibly fails ; for so long as the sun is
purely gaseous, it actually grows hotter in-
stead of cooler as it contracts ; that is, there
is less potential but more actual heat in it. It
is certainly remarkable that by the aid of our
science man can look out from this " bank
and shoal of time," where his fleeting exist-
ence is spent, not only back on the almost
infinite lapse of ages past, but that he can
forecast with some sort of assurance what is
to happen in an almost infinitely distant
future, long after the human race itself will
have disappeared frcm its present home. But
so it is, and we may say — with something
like awe at the meaning to which science
points — that the whole past of the sun cannot
then have been over 18,000,000 years, and its
whole future radiation cannot last so much
more. Its probable life is covered by about
30,000,000 years. No reasonable allowance
for the fall of meteors or for all other known
causes of supply could possibly raise the whole
term of its existence to 60,000,000 years.
This is substantially Professor Young's view,
and he adds : "At the same time it is, of course,
impossible to assert that there has been no
catastrophe in the past — no collision with
some wandering star . . . producing a shock
which might in a few hours, or moments even,
restore the wasted energy of ages. Neither is
it wholly safe to assume that there may not
be ways, of which we as yet have no concep-
tion, by which the energy apparently lost in
space may be returned. But the whole course
and tendency of nature, so far as science now
makes out, points backward to a beginning
and forward to an end. The present order
of things seems to be bounded both in the
past and in the future by terminal catas-
trophes which are veiled in clouds as yet
inscrutable."
There is another matter of interest to us as
dwellers on this planet, connected not with
the amount of the sun's heat so much as with
the degree of its temperature ; for it is almost
certain that a very little fall in the tempera-
ture will cause an immense and wholly dis-
proportionate diminution of the heat-supply.
The same principle may be observed in
more familiar things. We can, for instance,
warm quite a large house by a very small fur-
nace, if we urge this (by a wasteful use of
coal) to a dazzling white heat. If we now let
the furnace cool to half this white-heat tem-
perature, we shall be sure to find that the heat
radiated has not diminished in proportion, but
out of all proportion, — has sunk, for instance,
not only to one-half what it was (as we might
think it would do), but to perhaps a twentieth
or even less, so that the furnace which heated
the house can no longer warm a single room.
The human race, as we have said, is warm-
ing itself at the great solar furnace, which we
have just seen contains an internal source for
generating heat enough for millions of years
to come ; but we have also learned that if the
sun's internal circulation were stopped, the
surface would cool and shut up the heat in-
side, where it would do us no good. The tem-
perature of the surface, then, on which the
rate of heat-emission depends, concerns us
very much ; and if we had a thermometer so
long that we could dip its bulb into the sun
and read the degrees on the stem here, we
should find out what observers would very
much like to know, and at present are dis-
posed to quarrel about. The difficulty is not
in measuring the heat, — for that we have
just seen how to do, — but in telling what
temperature corresponds to it, since there is
no known rule by which to find one from the
other. One certain thing is this — that we
cannot by any contrivance raise the tempera-
ture in the focus of any lens or mirror beyond
that of its source (practically we cannot do
even so much) ; we cannot, for instance, by
any burning-lens make the image of a candle
as hot as the original flame. Whatever a
thermometer may read when the candle-heat
is concentrated on its bulb by a lens, it would
read yet more if the bulb were dipped in the
candle-flame itself; and one obvious appli-
cation of this fact is that, though we cannot
dip our thermometer in the sun, we know
that if we could do so the temperature would
at least be greater than any we get by the
largest burning-glass. We need have no fear
of making the burning-glass too big; the
temperature at its solar focus is always and
necessarily lower than that of the sun itself.
For some reason no very great burning-
lens or mirror has been constructed for a long
time, and we have to go back to the eight-
eenth century to see what can be done in
this way. The annexed figure (Fig. 8) is from
a wood-cut of the last century, describing the
largest burning-lens then or since constructed
THE SUN'S ENERGY.
237
\,XV*»*»W*-
FIG. 8. — BERNIERES'S GREAT BURNING-GLASS. (AFTER AN OLD FRENCH ■ PRINT.)
ClAPLKKTE
in France,' whose size and mode of use the
drawing clearly shows. All the heat falling on
the great lens was concentrated or^ a smaller
one, and the smaller one concentrated it in
turn, till at the very focus we are assured
that iron, gold, and other metals ran like
melted butter. In England, the largest burning-
lens on record was made about the same time
by an optician named Parker for the English
Government, who designed it as a present to
be taken by Lord Macartney's embassy to
the Emperor of China. Parker's lens was three
feet in diameter and very massive, being seven
inches thick at the center. In its focus the
most refractory substances were fused, and
even the diamond was reduced to vapor, so
that the temperature of the sun's surface is at
any rate higher than this.
(What became of the French lens shown,
it would be interesting to know. If it is still
above ground, its fate has been better than
that of the English one. It is said that the
Emperor of China, when he got his lens, was
much alarmed by it, as being possibly sent
him by the English with some covert design
for his injury. By way of a test, a smith was
ordered to strike it with his hammer ; but the
hammer rebounded from the solid glass, and
this was taken to be conclusive evidence of
magic in the thing, which was immediately
buried, and probably is still reposing under
the soil of the Celestial Flowery Kingdom.)
We can confirm the evidence of such burn-
ing-lenses as to the sun's high temperature by
another class of experiment, which rests on
an analogous principle. We can make the
Vol. XXIX.— 23.
comparison between the heat from some ar-
tificially heated object and that which would
be given out from an equal area of the sun's
face. Now, supposing like emissive powers,
if the latter be found the hotter, though we
cannot tell what its temperature absolutely
is, we can at least say that it is greater than
that of the thing with which it is compared ;
so that we choose for comparison the hottest
thing we can find, on a scale large enough
for the experiment. One observation of my
own in this direction I will permit myself to
cite in illustration.
Perhaps the highest temperature we can
get on a large scale in the arts is that of
molten steel in the Bessemer converter. As
many may be as ignorant of what this is as I
was before I tried the experiment, I will try
to describe it.
The " converter" is an enormous iron pot,
lined with fire-brick, and capable of holding
thirty or forty thousand pounds of melted
metal • and it is swung on trunnions, so that
it can be raised by an engine to a vertical po-
sition, or lowered by machinery so as to pour
its contents out into a caldron. First the
empty converter is inclined, and fifteen thou-
sand pounds of fluid iron streams down into
the mouth from an adjacent furnace where
it has been melted. Then the engine lifts the
converter into an erect position, while an air-
blast from a blowing-engine is forced in at
the bottom and through the liquid iron, which
has combined with it nearly half a ton of sil-
icon and carbon, — materials which, with the
oxygen of the blast, create a heat which
238
THE NEW ASTRONOMY.
leaves that of the already molten iron far be-
hind. After some time the converter is tipped
forward, and fifteen hundred pounds more
of melted iron is added to that already in it.
What the temperature of this last is, may be
judged from the fact that though a stream
of ordinary melted iron is dazzlingly bright,
the melted metal in the converter is so much
brighter still that the entering stream is dark
brown by comparison, presenting a contrast
radiated, make the spectacle a most striking
one. (See Fig. 9.)
The " pour " is preceded by a shower of
sparks, consisting of little particles of molten
steel which are projected fully a hundred feet
in the direction of the open mouth of the con-
verter. In the line of this my apparatus was
stationed in an open window, at a point where
its view could be directed down into the con-
verter on one side, and up at the sun on the
FIG. 9. — A "POUR" FROM THE BESSEMER CONVERTER.
like that of chocolate poured into a white
cup. The contents are now no longer iron,
but liquid steel, ready for pouring into the
caldron ; and, looking from the front down
into the inclined vessel, we see the almost
blindingly bright interior dripping with the
drainage of the metal running down its side,
so that the circular mouth, which is twenty-
four inches in diameter, presents the effect
of a disk of molten metal of that size (were it
possible to maintain such a disk in a vertical
position). In addition, we have the actual
stream of falling metal, which continues nearly
a minute, and presents an area of some
square feet. The shower of scintillations from
this cataract of what seems at first " sun-
like " brilliancy, and the area whence such
intense heat and light are for a brief time
other. This apparatus consisted of a long
photometer-box with a porte-lnmiere at one
end. The mirror of this reflected the sun's
rays through the box and then on to the pour-
ing metal, tracing their way to it by a beam
visible in the dusty air (Fig. 10). In the path
of this beam was placed the measuring appa-
ratus, both for heat and light. As the best
point of observation was in the line of the blast,
a shower of sparks was driven over the instru-
ment and observer at every "pour"; and the
rain of wet soot from chimneys without, the
bombardment from within, and the moving
masses of red-hot iron around, made the ex-
periment an altogether peculiar one. The
apparatus was arranged in such a way that
the effect (except for the absorption of its
beams on the way) was independent of the
THE SUN'S ENERGY.
239
size or distance of the sun, and depended on
the absolute radiation there, and was equiva-
lent, in fact, to taking a sample piece of the
sun's face of equal size with the fluid metal,
bringing them face to face, and seeing which
was the hotter and brighter. The comparison,
however, was unfair to the sun, because its
rays were in reality partly absorbed by the
atmosphere on the way, while those of the
furnace were not. Under these circumstances
the heat from any single square foot of the
sun's surface was found to be at least eighty-
seven times that from a square foot of the
melted metal, while the light from the sun
was proved to be, foot for foot, over five
thousand times that from the molten steel,
though the latter, separately considered,
seemed to be itself, as I have said, of quite
sun-like brilliancy.
We must not conclude from this that the
temperature of the sun was five thousand times
that of the steel, but we may be certain that it
was at any rate a great deal the higher of the
two. It is probable, from all experiments
made up to this date, that the solar effective
temperature is not less than 3000 nor more
than 30,000 degrees of the centigrade ther-
mometer. Sir William Siemens, whose opinion
on any question as to heat is entitled to great
respect, thought the lower value nearer the
truth, but this is doubtful.
We have, in all that has preceded, been
speaking of the sun's constitution and appear-
ance, and have hardly entered on the ques-
tion of its industrial relations to man. It must
be evident, however, that if we derive, as it is
asserted we do, almost all our mechanical
physical sense our creator, and he keeps us
alive from hour to hour), and considering him
only as a possible servant to grind our corn
and spin our flax, we find that even in this
light there are startling possibilities of profit
in the study of our subject. From recent
measures it appears that from every square
yard of the earth exposed perpendicularly to
the sun's rays, in the absence of an absorbing
atmosphere there could be derived more than
one horse-power, if the heat were all con-
verted into this use, and that even on such a
little area as the island of Manhattan, or that
occupied by the city of London, the noon-
tide heat is enough, could it all be utilized,
to drive all the steam-engines in the world.
It will not be surprising, then, to hear that
many practical men are turning their atten-
tion to this as a source of power, and that,
though it has hitherto cost more to utilize
the power than it is worth, there is reason to
believe that some of the greatest changes
which civilization has to bring may yet be
due to such investigations. The visitor to
the last Paris Exposition may remember
an extraordinary machine on the grounds
of the Trocadero looking like a gigantic in-
verted umbrella pointed sunward. This was
the sun-machine of M. Mouchot, consist-
ing of a great parabolic reflector which con-
centrated the heat on a boiler in the focus
and drove a steam-engine with it, which was
employed in turn to work a printing-press
as our engraving shows (Fig. 11). Because
these constructions have been hitherto little
more than playthings, we are not to think
of them as useless. If toys, they are the toys
of the childhood of a science which is destined
FIG. IO. PHOTOMETER- BOX.
power from this solar heat, — if our water-wheel
is driven by rivers which the sun feeds by the
rain he sucks up for them into the clouds, if
the coal is stored sun-power, and if, as Ste-
venson said, it really is the sun which drives
our engines, though at second hand, — there
is an immense fund of possible mechanical
power still coming to us from him which
might be economically utilized. Leaving out
of sight all our more important relations to
him (for, as has been already said, he is in a
to grow, and in its maturity to apply this
solar energy to the use of all mankind.
Even now they are beginning to pass into
the region of practical utility, and in the form
of the latest achievement of Mr. Ericsson's
ever- young genius are ready for actual work
on an economical scale. We present in Fig.
12 his new actually working solar engine,
which there is every reason to believe is more
efficient than Mouchot's, and probably capa-
ble of being used with economical advantage
240
THE NEW ASTRONOMY.
FIG. II. — MOUCHOT'S SOLAR ENGINE. (FROM A FRENCH PRINT.)
in pumping water in desert regions of our own
country. It is pregnant with suggestion of the
future, if we consider the growing demand for
power in the world, and the fact that its stock
of coal, though vast, is strictly limited, in the
sense that when it is gone we can get abso-
lutely no more. The sun has been making a
little every day for millions of years — so little
and for so long that it is as though time had
daily dropped a single penny into the bank to
our credit for untold ages, until an enormous
fund had been thus slowly accumulated in our
favor. We are drawing on this fund like a
prodigal who thinks his means endless, but
the day will come when our check will no
longer be honored, and what shall we do
then?
The exhaustion of some of the coal-beds is
an affair of the immediate future, by compari-
son with the vast period of time we have been
speaking of. The English coal-beds, it is as-
serted, will, from present indications, be quite
used up in about three hundred years more.
Three hundred years ago the sun, looking
down on the England of our forefathers, saw
a fair land of green woods and quiet waters,
a land unvexed with noisier machinery than
the spinning-wheel, or the needles of the " free
maids that weave their threads with bones."
Because of the coal which has been dug
from its soil, he sees it now soot-blackened,
furrowed with railway-cuttings, covered with
noisy manufactories, rilled with grimy opera-
tives, while the island shakes with the throb
of coal-driven engines, and its once quiet
waters are churned by the wheels of steam-
ships. Many generations of the lives of men
have passed to make the England of Elizabeth
into the England of Victoria, but what a mo-
ment this time is compared with the vast
lapse of ages during which the coal was being
stored! What a moment in the life of the
" all-beholding sun," who in a few hundred
years — his gift exhausted and the last fur-
nace-fire out — may send his beams through
rents in the ivy- grown walls of deserted fac-
tories, upon silent engines brown with eating
rust, while the mill-hand has gone to other
lands, the rivers are clean again, the harbors
show only white sails, and England's " black
country " is green once more ! To America,
too, such a time, may come, though at a
greatly longer distance.
Does this all seem but the idlest fancy ?
That something like it will come to pass sooner
or later is a most certain fact — as certain
THE SUN'S ENERGY,
241
FIG. 12.. — ERICSSON S NEW SOLAR ENGINE, NOW IN PRACTICAL USE IN NEW YORK.
as any process of nature — if we do not find
a new source of power; for of the coal which
has supplied us, after a certain time we can
get no more.
Future ages may see the seat of empire
transferred to regions of the earth now barren
and desolated under intense solar heat — coun-
tries which, for that very cause, will not im-
probably become the seat of mechanical and
thence of political power. Whoever finds the
way to make industrially useful the vast sun-
power now wasted on the deserts of North
Africa or the shores of the Red Sea, will effect
a greater change in men's affairs than any
conqueror in history has done ; for he will
once more people those waste places with
the life that swarmed there in the best days
of Carthage and of old Egypt, but under
another civilization, where man no longer
shall worship the sun as a god, but shall
have learned to make it his servant.
S. P. Langley.
Vol. XXIX.— 24.
THE RISE OF SILAS LAPHAM.*
BY W. D. HOWELLS,
Author of "Venetian Life," "A Chance Acquaintance," "A Modern Instance," "A Woman's Reason," etc.
III.
Toward the end of the winter there came
a newspaper addressed to Miss Irene Lap-
ham ; it proved to be a Texas newspaper,
with a complimentary account of the ranch
of the Hon. Loring G. Stanton, which the
representative of the journal had visited.
" It must be his friend," said Mrs. Lapham,
to whom her daughter brought the paper;
" the one he's staying with."
The girl did not say anything, but she
carried the paper to her room, where she
scanned every line of it for another name.
She did not find it, but she cut the notice
out and stuck it into the side of her mirror,
where she could read it every morning when
she brushed her hair, and the last thing at
night when she looked at herself in the glass
just before turning off the gas. Her sister
often read it aloud, standing behind her and
rendering it with elocutionary effects.
" The first time I ever heard of a love-letter
in the form of a puff to a cattle-ranch. But
perhaps that's the style on the Hill."
Mrs. Lapham told her husband of the ar-
rival of the paper, treating the fact with an
importance that he refused to see in it.
" How do you know the fellow sent it,
anyway ? " he demanded.
" Oh, I know he did."
" I don't see why he couldn't write to
'Rene, if he really meant anything."
" Well, I guess that wouldn't be their way,"
said Mrs. Lapham ; she did not at all know
what their way would be.
When the spring opened Colonel Lapham
showed that he had been in earnest about
building on the New Land. His idea of a
house was a brown-stone front, four stories
high, and a French roof with an air-chamber
above. Inside, there was to be a reception-
room on the street and a dining-room back.
The parlors were to be on the second floor,
and finished in black walnut or parti-colored
paint. The chambers were to be on the three
floors above, front and rear, with side rooms
over the front door. Black walnut was to be
used everywhere except in the attic, which
was to be painted and grained to look like
black walnut. The whole was to be very
* Copyright, 1884, by W. D.
high-studded, and there were to be hand-
some cornices and elaborate center-pieces
throughout, except, again, in the attic.
These ideas he had formed from the inspec-
tion of many new buildings which he had
seen going up, and which he had a passion
for looking into. He was confirmed in his
ideas by a master-builder who had put up a
great many houses on the Back Bay as a
speculation, and who told him that if he
wanted to have a house in the style, that was
the way to have it.
The beginnings of the process by which
Lapham escaped from the master-builder and
ended in the hands of an architect are so ob-
scure that it would be almost impossible to
trace them. But it all happened, and Lap-
ham promptly developed his ideas of black-
walnut finish, high-studding, and cornices.
The architect was able to conceal the shud-
der which they must have sent through him.
He was skillful, as nearly all architects are,
in playing upon that simple instrument Man.
He began to touch Colonel Lapham's stops.
" Oh, certainly, have the parlors high-stud-
ded. But you've seen some of those pretty, old-
fashioned country-houses, haven't you, where
the entrance-story is very low-studded ? "
" Yes," Lapham assented.
" Well, don't you think something of that
kind would have a very nice effect ? Have
the entrance-story low-studded, and your par-
lors on the next floor as high as you please.
Put your little reception-room here beside the
door, and get the whole width of your house
frontage for a square hall, and an easy low-
tread staircase running up three sides of it.
I'm sure Mrs. Lapham would find it much
pleasanter." The architect caught toward him
a scrap of paper lying on the table at which
they were sitting and sketched his idea.
" Then have your dining-room behind the
hall, looking on the water."
He glanced at Mrs. Lapham, who said,
" Of course," and the architect went on :
" That gets you rid of one of those long,
straight, ugly staircases," — until that mo-
ment Lapham had thought a long, straight
staircase the chief ornament of a house, —
'•' and gives you an effect of amplitude and
space."
Howells. All rights reserved.
THE RISE OF SILAS LAPHAM.
243
" That's so ! " said Mrs. Lapham. Her
husband merely made a noise in his throat.
" Then, were you thinking of having your
parlors together, connected by folding doors ? "
asked the architect deferentially.
" Yes, of course," said Lapham. " They're
always so, aint they ? "
" Well, nearly," said the architect. " I was
wondering how would it do to make one
large square room at the front, taking the
whole breadth of the house, and, with this
hall-space between, have a music-room back
for the young ladies ? "
Lapham looked helplessly at his wife, whose
quicker apprehension had followed the archi-
tect's pencil with instant sympathy. "First-
rate ! " she cried.
The Colonel gave way. " I guess that
would do. It'll be kind of odd, wont it ? "
" Well, I don't know," said the architect.
I Not so odd, I hope, as the other thing will
be a few years from now." He went on to
plan the rest of the house, and he showed
himself such a master in regard to all the
practical details that Mrs. Lapham began to
feel a motherly affection for the young man,
and her husband could not deny in his heart
that the fellow seemed to understand his busi-
ness. He stopped walking about the room,
as he had begun to do when the architect and
Mrs. Lapham entered into the particulars of
closets, drainage, kitchen arrangements, and
all that, and came back to the table. " I pre-
sume," he said, " you'll have the drawing-
room finished in black walnut ? "
" Well, yes," replied the architect, " if you
like. But some less expensive wood can be
made just as effective with paint. Of course
you can paint black walnut, too."
" Paint it ? " gasped the Colonel.
" Yes," said the architect quietly. " White,
or a little off white."
Lapham dropped the plan he had picked
up from the table. His wife made a little
move toward him of consolation or support.
"Of course," resumed the architect, " I
know there has been a great craze for black
walnut. But it's an ugly wood; and for a
drawing-room there is really nothing like white
paint. We should want to introduce a little
gold here and there. Perhaps we might run a
painted frieze round under the cornice — gar-
lands of roses on a gold ground ; it would tell
wonderfully in a white room."
The Colonel returned less courageously to
the charge. " I presume you'll want Eastlake
mantel-shelves and tiles ? " He meant this
for a sarcastic thrust at a prevailing foible
of the profession.
" Well, no," gently answered the architect.
"I was thinking perhaps a white marble
chimney-piece, treated in the refined Empire
style, would be the thing for that room."
" White marble ! " exclaimed the Colonel.
" I thought that had gone out long ago."
" Really beautiful things can't go out. They
may disappear for a little while, but they
must come back. It's only the ugly things
that stay out after they've had their day."
Lapham could only venture very modestly,
" Hard-wood floors ? "
" In the music-room, of course," consented
the architect.
"And in the drawing-room ? "
" Carpet. Some sort of moquette, I should
say. But I should prefer to consult Mrs. Lap-
ham's taste in that matter."
"And in the other rooms ? "
" Oh, carpets, of course."
"And what about the stairs ? " •
" Carpet. And I should have the rail and
banisters white — banisters turned or twisted."
The Colonel said under his breath, " Well,
I'm dumned ! " but he gave no utterance to
his astonishment in the architect's presence.
When he went at last, — the session did not
end till eleven o'clock, — Lapham said, "Well,
Pert, I guess that fellow's fifty years behind,
or ten years ahead. I wonder what the Ong-
peer style is ? "
" I don't know. I hated to ask. But he
seemed to understand what he was talking
about. I declare, he knows what a woman
wants in a house better than she does herself."
"And a man's simply nowhere in com-
parison," said Lapham. But he respected a
fellow who could beat him at every point, and
have a reason ready, as this architect had ;
and when he recovered from the daze into
which the complete upheaval of all his pre-
conceived notions had left him, he was in a
fit state to swear by the architect. It seemed
to him that he had discovered the fellow (as
he always called him) and owned him now,
and the fellow did nothing to disturb this im-
pression. He entered into that brief but in-
tense intimacy with the Laphams which the
sympathetic architect holds with his clients.
He was privy to all their differences of opin-
ion and all their disputes about the house.
He knew just where to insist upon his own
ideas, and where to yield. He was really
building several other houses, but he gave the
Laphams the impression that he was doing
none but theirs.
The work was not begun till the frost was
thoroughly out of the ground, which that year
was not before the end of April. Even then
it did not proceed very rapidly. Lapham said
they might as well take theif time to it ; if
they got the walls up and the thing closed in
before the snow flew, they could be working
244
THE RISE OF SILAS LAPHAM.
at it all winter. It was found necessary to dig
for the kitchen; at that point the original salt
marsh lay near the surface, and before they
began to put in the piles for the foundation
they had to pump. The neighborhood smelt
like the hold of a ship after a three years'
voyage. People who had cast their fortunes
with the New Land went by professing not to
notice it ; people who still " hung on to the
Hill " put their handkerchiefs to their noses,
and told each other the old terrible stories of
the material used in filling up the Back Bay.
Nothing gave Lapham so much satisfaction
in the whole construction of his house as the
pile-driving. When this began, early in the sum-
mer, he took Mrs. Lapham every day in his
buggy and drove round to look at it ; stopping
the mare in front of the lot, and watching the
operation- with even keener interest than the
little loafing Irish boys who superintended it
in force. It pleased him to hear the portable
engine chuckle out a hundred thin whiffs of
steam, in carrying the big iron weight to the
top of the framework above the pile, then
seem to hesitate, and cough once or twice in
pressing the weight against the detaching ap-
paratus. There was a moment in which the
weight had the effect of poising before it fell;
then it dropped with a mighty whack on the
iron-bound head of the pile and drove it a foot
into the earth.
" By gracious ! " he would say, " there aint
anything like that in this world for business^
Persis ! "
Mrs. Lapham suffered him to enjoy the
sight twenty or thirty times before she said,
" Well, now drive on, Si."
By the time the foundation was in and the
brick walls had begun to go up, there were
so few people left in the neighborhood that
she might indulge with impunity her husband's
passion for having her clamber over the floor-
timbers and the skeleton staircases with him.
Many of the householders had boarded up
their front doors before the buds had begun
to swell and the assessor to appear in early
May; others had followed soon; and Mrs.
Lapham was as safe from remark as if she
had been in the depth of the country. Ordi-
narily she and her girls left town early in July,
going to one of the hotels at Nantasket,
where it was convenient for the Colonel to
get to and from his business by the boat.
But this summer they were all lingering a few
weeks later, under the novel fascination of
the new house, as they called it, as if there
were no other in the world.
Lapham drove there with his wife after
he had set Bdrtley Hubbard down at the
" Events " office, but on this day something
happened that interfered with the solid pleas-
ure they usually took in going over the house.
As the Colonel turned from casting anchor at
the mare's head with the hitching-weight,
after helping his wife to alight, he encoun-
tered a man to whom he could not help speak-
ing, though the man seemed to share his
hesitation if not his reluctance at the neces-
sity. He was a tallish, thin man, with a dust-
colored face, and a dead, clerical air, which
somehow suggested at once feebleness and
tenacity.
Mrs. Lapham held out her hand to him.
" Why, Mr. Rogers ! " she exclaimed, and
then, turning toward her husband, seemed to
refer the two men to each other. They shook
hands, but Lapham did not speak. " I didn't
know you were in Boston," pursued Mrs.
Lapham. " Is Mrs. Rogers with you ? "
" No," said Mr. Rogers, with a voice which
had the flat, succinct sound of two pieces of
wood clapped together. " Mrs. Rogers is still
in Chicago."
A little silence followed, and then Mrs.
Lapham said :
" I presume you are quite settled out there."
" No ; we have left Chicago. Mrs. Rogers
has merely remained to finish up a little
packing."
" Oh, indeed ! Are you coming back to
Boston ? "
" I cannot say as yet. We some think of
so doing."
Lapham turned away and looked up at the
building. His wife pulled a little at her glove,
as if embarrassed or even pained. She tried
to make a diversion.
" We are building a house," she said, with
a meaningless laugh.
" Oh, indeed," said Mr. Rogers, looking
up at it.
Then no one spoke again, and she said,
helplessly :
" If you come to Boston, I hope I shall
see Mrs. Rogers."
" She will be happy to have you call," said
Mr. Rogers.
He touched his hat-brim, and made a bow
forward rather than in Mrs. Lapham's di-
rection.
She mounted the planking that led into the
shelter of the bare brick walls, and her hus-
band slowly followed. When she turned her
face toward him her cheeks were burning,
and tears that looked hot stood in her eyes.
" You left it all to me!" she cried. " Why
couldn't you speak a word ? "
" I hadn't anything to say to him," replied
Lapham sullenly.
They stood awhile, without looking at the
work which they had come to enjoy, and
without speaking to each other.
THE RISE OF SILAS LAPHAM.
245
" I suppose we might as well go on," said
Mrs. Lapham at last, as they returned to the
buggy. The Colonel drove recklessly toward
the Milldam. His wife kept her veil down
and her face turned from him. After a time
she put her handkerchief up under her veil
and wiped her eyes, and he set his teeth and
squared his jaw.
" I don't see how he always manages to
appear just at the moment when he seems to
have gone fairly out of our lives, and blight
everything," she whimpered.
'• I supposed he was dead," said Lapham.
" Oh, don't say such a thing ! It sounds as
if you wished it."
" Why do you mind it ? What do you let
him blight everything for ? "
" I can't help it, and I don't believe I ever
shall. I don't know as his being dead would
help it any. I can't ever see him without
feeling just as I did at first."
" I tell you," said Lapham, " it was a per-
fectly square thing. And I wish, once for all,
you would quit bothering about it. My con-
science is easy as far as he's concerned, and
it always was."
" And I can't look at him without feeling
as if you'd ruined him, Silas."
" Don't look at him, then," said her hus-
band with a scowl. " I want you should rec-
ollect in the first place, Persis, that I never
wanted a partner."
" If he hadn't put his money in when he
did, you'd 'a' broken down."
" Well, he got his money out again, and
more too," said the Colonel with a sulky
weariness.
" He didn't want to take it out."
u I gave him his choice : buy out or go out."
" You know he couldn't buy out then. It
was no choice at all."
" It was a business chance."
" No ; you had better face the truth, Silas.
It was no chance at all. You crowded him
out. A man that had saved you ! No, you
had got greedy, Silas. You had made your
paint your god, and you couldn't bear to let
anybody else share in its blessings."
" I tell you he was a drag and a brake on
me from the word go. You say he saved me.
Well, if I hadn't got him out he'd 'a' ruined
me sooner or later. So it's an even thing, as
far forth as that goes."
" No, it aint an even thing, and you know
it, Silas. Oh, if I could only get you once to
acknowledge that you did wrong about it,
then I should have some hope. I don't say
you meant wrong exactly, but you took an
advantage. Yes, you took an advantage!
You had him where he couldn't help himself,
and then you wouldn't show him any mercy."
" I'm sick of this," said Lapham. " If you'll
'tend to the house, I'll manage my business
without your help."
" You were very glad of my help once."
" Well, I'm tired of it now. Don't med-
dle."
" I will meddle. When I see you harden-
ing yourself in a wrong thing, it's time for
me to meddle, as you call it, and I will. I
can't ever get you to own up the least bit
about Rogers, and I feel as if it was hurting
you all the while."
" What do you want I should own up about
a thing for when I don't feel wrong ? I tell
you Rogers haint got anything to complain
of, and that's what I told you from the start.
It's a thing that's done every day. I was
loaded up with a partner that didn't know
anything, and couldn't do anything, and I un-
loaded; that's all."
u You unloaded just at the time when you
knew that your paint was going to be worth
about twice what it ever had been ; and you
wanted all the advantage for yourself."
" I had a right to it. I made the success."
"Yes, you made it with Rogers's money;
and when you'd made it you took his share
of it. I guess you thought of that when you
saw him, and that's why you couldn't look
him in the face."
At these words Lapham lost his temper.
" I guess you don't want to ride with me
any more to-day," he said, turning the mare
abruptly round.
" I'm as ready to go back as what you are,"
replied his wife. " And don't you ask me to
go to that house with you any morg. You can
sell it, for all me. I sha'n't live in it. There's
blood on it."
IV.
The silken texture of the marriage tie bears
a daily strain of wrong and insult to which no
other human relation can be subjected with-
out lesion ; and sometimes the strength that
knits society together might appear to the eye
of faltering faith the curse of those immedi-
ately bound by it. Two people by no means
reckless of each other's rights and feelings,
but even tender of them for the most part,
may tear at each other's heart-strings in this
sacred bond with perfect impunity ; though if
they were any other two they would not
speak or look at each other again after the
outrages they exchange. It is certainly a
curious spectacle, and doubtless it ought to
convince an observer of the divinity of the in-
stitution. If the husband and wife are blunt,
outspoken people like the Laphams, they do
not weigh their words; if they are more re-
246
THE RISE OE SILAS LAPHAM.
fined, they weigh them very carefully, and
know accurately just how far they will carry,
and in what most sensitive spot they may be
planted with most effect.
Lapham was proud of his wife, and when
he married her it had been a rise in life for
him. For a while he stood in awe of his good
fortune, but this could not last, and he simply
remained supremely satisfied with it. The girl
who had taught school with a clear head and
a strong hand was not afraid of work; she
encouraged and helped him from the first, and
bore her full share of the common burden-
She had health, and she did not worry his
life out with peevish complaints and vagaries ;
she had sense and principle, and in their sim-
ple lot she did what was wise and right. Their
marriage was hallowed by an early sorrow :
they lost their boy, and it was years before
they could look each other in the face and
speak of him. No one gave up more than they
when they gave up each other, and Lapham
went to the war. When he came back and
began to work, her zeal and courage formed the
spring of his enterprise. In that affair of the
partnership she had tried to be his conscience,
but perhaps she would have defended him if
he had accused himself; it was one of those
things in this life which seem destined to
await justice, or at least judgment, in the
next. As he said, Lapham had dealt fairly by
his partner in money ; he had let Rogers take
more money out of the business than he put
into it; he had, as he said, simply forced
out of it a timid and inefficient participant in
advantages which he had created. But Lap-
ham had ,not created them all. He had
been dependent at one time on his partner's
capital. It was a moment of terrible trial.
Happy is the man forever after who can choose
the ideal, the unselfish part in such an exi-
gency ! Lapham could not rise to it. He did
what he could maintain to be perfectly fair.
The wrong, if any, seemed to be condoned to
him, except when from time to time his wife
brought it up. Then all the question stung and
burned anew, and had to be reasoned out and
put away once more. It seemed to have an
inextinguishable vitality. It slept, but it did
not die.
His course did not shake Mrs. Lapham's
faith in him. It astonished her at first, and it
always grieved her that he could not see that
he was acting solely in his own interest. But
she found excuses for him, which at times she
made reproaches. She vaguely perceived that
his paint was something more than business
to him ; it was a sentiment, almost a passion.
He could not share its management and its
profit with another without a measure of self-
sacrifice far beyond that which he must make
with something less personal to him. It was
the poetry of that nature, otherwise so in-
tensely prosaic; and she understood this, and
for the most part forbore. She knew him
good and true and blameless in all his life,
except for this wrong, if it were a wrong; and
it was only when her nerves tingled intoler-
ably with some chance renewal of the pain
she had suffered that she shared her anguish
with him in true wifely fashion.
With those two there was never anything
like an explicit reconciliation. They simply
ignored a quarrel ; and Mrs. Lapham had
only to say a few days after at breakfast, " I
guess the girls would like to go round with
you this afternoon, and look at the new
house," in order to make her husband grumble
out as he looked down into his coffee-cup,
" I guess we better all go, hadn't we ? "
" Well, I'll see," she said.
There was not really a great deal to look
at when Lapham arrived on the ground in
his four-seated open phaeton. But the walls
were up, and the studding had already given
skeleton shape to the interior. The floors
were roughly boarded over, and the stairways
were in place, with provisional treads rudely
laid. They had not begun to lath and plaster
yet, but the clean, fresh smell of the mortar
in the walls mingling with the pungent fra-
grance of the pine shavings neutralized the
Venetian odor that drew in over the water.
It was pleasantly shady there, though for the
matter of that the heat of the morning had
all been washed out of the atmosphere by a
tide of east wind setting in at noon, and the
thrilling, delicious cool of a Boston summer
afternoon bathed every nerve.
The foreman went about with Mrs. Lapham,
showing her where the doors were to be; but
Lapham soon tired of this, and having found
a pine stick of perfect grain, he abandoned
himself to the pleasure of whittling it in what
was to be the reception-room, where he sat
looking out on the street from what was to
be the bay-window. Here he was presently
joined by his girls, who, after locating their
own room on the water side above the music-
room, had no more wish to enter into details
than their father.
" Come and take a seat in the bay-window,
ladies," he called out to them, as they looked
in at him through the ribs of the wall. He
jocosely made room for them on the trestle
on which he sat.
They came gingerly and vaguely forward,
as young ladies do when they wish not to
seem to be going to do a thing they have
made up their minds to do. When they had
taken their places on their trestle, they could
not help laughing with scorn, open and ac-
THE RISE OF SILAS LAPHAM.
247
ceptable to their father ; and Irene curled her
chin up, in a little way she had, and said,
" How ridiculous! " to her sister.
" Well, I can tell you what," said the
Colonel, in fond enjoyment of their young-
ladyishness, " your mother wasn't ashamed
to sit with me on a trestle when I called her
out to look at the first coat of my paint that
I ever tried on a house."
" Yes; we've heard that story," said Penel-
ope, with easy security of her father's liking
what she said. " We were brought up on that
story."
" Well, it's a good story," said her father.
At that moment a young man came sud-
denly in range, who began to look up at the
signs of building as he approached. He
dropped his eyes in coming abreast of the
bay-window, where Lapham sat with his girls,
and then his face lightened, and he took oft
his hat and bowed to Irene. She rose me-
chanically from the trestle, and her face light-
ened too. She was a very pretty figure of a
girl, after our fashion of girls, round and slim
and flexible, and her face was admirably
regular. But her great beauty — and it was
very great — was in her coloring. This was
of an effect for which there is no word but
delicious, as we use it of fruit or flowers. She
had red hair, like her father in his earlier
days, and the tints of her cheeks and temples
were such as suggested May-flowers and
apple-blossoms and peaches. Instead of the
gray that often dulls this complexion, her
eyes were of a blue at once intense and ten-
der, and they seemed to burn on what they
looked at with a soft, lambent flame. It was
well understood by her sister and mother that
her eyes always expressed a great deal more
than Irene ever thought or felt ; but this is
not saying that she was not a very sensible
girl and very honest.
The young man faltered perceptibly^ and
Irene came a little forward, and then there
gushed from them both a smiling exchange
of greeting, of which the sum was that he
supposed she was out of town, and that she
had not known that he had got back. A pause
ensued, and flushing again in her uncertainty as
to whether she ought or ought not to do it, she
said, " My father, Mr. Corey ; and my sister."
The young man took off his hat again,
showing his shapely head, with a line of whole-
some sunburn ceasing where the recently and
closely clipped hair began. He was dressed in
a fine summer check, with a blue white-dotted
neckerchief, and he had a white hat, in which
he looked very well when he put it back on
his head. His whole dress seemed very fresh
and new, and, in fact, he had cast aside his
Texan habiliments only the day before.
" How do you do, sir ? " said the Colonel,
stepping to the window, and reaching out of
it the hand which the young man advanced
to take. " Wont you come in ? We're at home
here. House I'm building."
" Oh, indeed ? " returned the young man ;
and he came promptly up the steps, and
through its ribs into the reception-room.
" Have a trestle ?" asked the Colonel, while
the girls exchanged little shocks of terror and
amusement at the eyes.
" Thank you," said the young man, simply,
and sat down.
" Mrs. Lapham is upstairs interviewing the
carpenter, but she'll be down in a minute."
" I hope she's quite well," said Corey. " I
supposed — I was afraid she might be out of
town."
" Well, we are off to Nantasket next week.
The house kept us in town pretty late."
" It must be very exciting, building a house,"
said Corey to the elder sister.
" Yes, it is," she assented, loyally refusing
in Irene's interest the opportunity of saying
anything more.
Corey turned to the latter. " I suppose
you've all helped to plan it ? "
" Oh, no ; the architect and mamma did
that."
" But they allowed the rest of us to agree,
when we were good," said Penelope.
Corey looked at her, and saw that she was
shorter than her sister, and had a dark com-
plexion.
" It's very exciting," said Irene.
" Come up," said the Colonel, rising, " and
look round if you'd like to."
" I should like to, very much," said the
young man.
He helped the young ladies over crevasses
of carpentry and along narrow paths of plank-
ing, on which they had made their way unas-
sisted before. The elder sister left the younger
to profit solely by these offices as much as
possible. She walked between them and her
father, who went before, lecturing on each
apartment and taking the credit of the whole
affair more and more as he talked on.
" There ! " he said, " wre're going to throw
out a bay-window here, so as get the water
all the way up and down. This is my girls'
room," he added, looking proudly at them
both.
It seemed terribly intimate. Irene blushed
deeply and turned her head away.
But the young man took it all, apparently,
as simply as their father. " What a lovely
lookout," he said. The Back Bay spread its
glassy sheet before them, empty but for a few
smaller boats and a large schooner, with her
sails close-reefed and dripping like snow
248
THE RISE OE SILAS LAPHAM.
from her yards, which a tug was rapidly
towing toward Cambridge. The carpentry of
that city, embanked and embowered in foliage,
shared the picturesqueness of Charlestown in
the distance.
" Yes," said Lapham, " I go in for using
the best rooms in your house yourself. If
people come to stay with you, they can put
up with the second best. Though we don't
intend to have any second best. There aint
going to be an unpleasant room in the whole
house, from top to bottom."
" Oh, I wish papa wouldn't brag so ! "
breathed Irene to her sister, where they stood
a little apart looking away together.
The Colonel went on. " No, sir," he swelled
out, " I have gone in for making a regular
job of it. I've got the best architect in Boston,
and I'm building a house to suit myself. And
if money can do it, I guess I'm going to be
suited."
" It seems very delightful," said Corey,
" and very original."
" Yes, sir. That fellow hadn't talked five
minutes before I saw that he knew what he
was about every time."
" I wish mamma would come ! " breathed
Irene again. I shall certainly go through
the floor if papa says anything more."
" They are making a great many very pretty
houses nowadays," said the young man. " It's
very different from the old-fashioned building."
" Well," said the Colonel, with a large tol-
eration of tone and a deep breath that ex-
panded his ample chest, " we spend more on
our houses nowadays. I started out to build
a forty-thousand-dollar house. Well, sir ! that
fellow has got me in for more than sixty thou-
sand already, and I doubt if I get out of it much
under a hundred. You can't have a nice house
for nothing. It's just like ordering a picture
of a painter. You pay him enough, and he
can afford to paint you a first-class picture ;
and if you don't, he can't. That's all there is
of it. Why, they tell me that A. T. Stewart
gave one of those French fellows sixty thou-
sand dollars for a little seven-by-nine picture
the other day. Yes, sir, give an architect
money enough and he'll give you a nice
house, every time."
"I've heard that they're sharp at getting
money to realize their ideas," assented the
young man, with a laugh.
" Well, I should say so ! " exclaimed the
Colonel. " They come to you with an im-
provement that you can't resist. It has good
looks and common sense and everything in
its favor, and it's like throwing money away
to refuse. And they always manage to get
you when your wife is around, and then you're
helpless."
The Colonel himself set the example of
laughing at this joke, and the young man
joined him less obstreperously. The girls
turned, and he said : " I don't think I ever
saw this view to better advantage. It's sur-
prising how well the Memorial Hall and the
Cambridge spires work up, over there. And
the sunsets must be magnificent."
Lapham did not wait for them to reply.
"Yes, sir, it's about the sightliest view I
know of. I always did like the water side of
Beacon. Long before I owned property here,
or ever expected to, m' wife and I used to ride
down this way, and stop the buggy to get
this view over the water. When people talk
to me about the Hill, I can understand 'em.
It's snug, and it's old-fashioned, and it's
where they've always lived. But when they
talk about Commonwealth Avenue, I don't
know what they mean. It don't hold a can-
dle to the water side of Beacon. You've got
just as much wind over there, and you've got
just as much dust, and all the view you've
got is the view across the street. No, sir!
When you come to the Back Bay at all, give
me the water side of Beacon."
" Oh, I think you're quite right," said the
young man. " The view here is everything."
Irene looked " I wonder what papa is go-
ing to say next ! " at her sister, when their
mother's voice was heard overhead, approach-
ing the opening in the floor where the stairs
were to be ; and she presently appeared, with
one substantial foot a long way ahead.
She was followed by the carpenter, with his
rule sticking out of his overalls pocket, and
she was still talking to him about some
measurements they had been taking, when
they reached the bottom, so that Irene had to
say, " Mamma, Mr. Corey," before Mrs. Lap-
ham was aware of him.
He came forward with as much grace and
speed as the uncertain footing would allow,
and Mrs. Lapham gave him a stout squeeze
of her comfortable hand.
" Why, Mr. Corey ! When did you get
back ? "
" Yesterday. It hardly seems as if I had
got back. I didn't expect to find you in a
new house."
" Well, you are our first caller. I presume
you won't expect I should make excuses for
the state you find it in. Has the Colonel been
doing the honors ? "
" Oh, yes. And I've seen more of your
house than I ever shall again, I suppose."
" Well, I hope not," said Lapham.
" There'll be several chances to see us in the
old one yet, before we leave."
He probably thought this a neat, off-hand
way of making the invitation, for he looked
THE RISE OF SILAS LATHAM.
249
at his womankind as if he might expect their
admiration.
" Oh, yes, indeed ! " said his wife. " We
shall be very glad to see Mr. Corey, any
time."
" Thank you ; I shall be glad to come."
He and the Colonel went before, and helped
the ladies down the difficult descent. Irene
seemed less sure-footed than the others; she
clung to the young man's hand an imperceptible
moment longer than need be, or else he de-
tained her. He found opportunity of saying,
" It's so pleasant seeing you again," adding,
" All of you."
" Thank you," said the girl. " They must
all be glad to have you at home again."
Corey laughed.
" Well, I suppose they would be, if they were
at home to have me. But the fact is, there's
nobody in the house but my father and myself,
and I'm only on my way to Bar Harbor."
" Oh ! Are they there ? "
" Yes ; it seems to be the only place where
my mother can get just the combination of
sea and mountain air that she wants."
"We go to Nantasket — it's convenient for
papa ; and I don't believe we shall go any-
where else this summer, mamma's so taken
up with building. We do nothing but talk
house ; and Pen says we eat and sleep house.
She says it would be a sort of relief to go and
live in tents for a while."
" She seems to have a good deal of humor,"
the young man ventured, upon the slender
evidence.
The others had gone to the back of the
house a moment, to look at some suggested
change. Irene and Corey were left standing
in the doorway. A lovely light of happiness
played over her face and etherealized its de-
licious beauty. She had some ado to keep
herself from smiling outright, and the effort
deepened the dimples in her cheeks ; she
trembled a little, and the pendants shook in
the tips of her pretty ears.
The others came back directly, and they
all descended the front steps together. The
Colonel was about to renew his invitation,
but he caught his wife's eye, and, without be-
ing able to interpret its warning exactly, was
able to arrest himself, and went about gather-
ing up the hitching-weight, while the young
man handed the ladies into the phaeton. Then
•he lifted his hat, and the ladies all bowed,
and the Laphams drove off, Irene's blue rib-
bons fluttering backward from her hat, as if
they were her clinging thoughts.
" So that's young Corey, is it ? " said the
Colonel, letting the stately stepping, tall coupe
horse make his way homeward at will with
the phaeton. " Well, he aint a bad-looking
fellow, and he's got a good, fair and square,
honest eye. But I don't see how a fellow
like that, that's had every advantage in this
world, can hang round home and let his
father support him. Seems to me, if I had
his health and his education, I should want
to strike out and do something for myself."
The girls on the back seat had hold of each
other's hands, and they exchanged electrical
pressures at the different points their father
made.
" I presume," said Mrs. Lapham, " that he
was down in Texas looking after something."
" He's come back without finding it, I
guess."
" Well, if his father has the money to sup-
port him, and don't complain of the burden,
I don't see why we should."
" Oh, I know it's none of my business; but
I don't like the principle. I like to see a man
act like a man. I don't like to see him taken
care of like a young lady. Now, I suppose
that fellow belongs to two or three clubs, and
hangs around 'em all day, lookin' out the
window, — I've seen 'em, — instead of tryin'
to hunt up something to do for an honest
livin'."
" If I was a young man," Penelope struck
in, " I would belong to twenty clubs, if I could
find them, and I would hang around them all,
and look out the window till I dropped."
" Oh, you would, would you ? " demanded
her father, delighted with her defiance, and
twisting his fat head around over his shoulder
to look at her. " Well, you wouldn't do it on
my money, if you were a son of mine, young
lady."
" Oh, you wait and see," retorted the girl.
This made them all laugh. But the Colonel
recurred seriously to the subject that night,
as he was winding up his watch preparatory
to putting it under his pillow.
" I could make a man of that fellow, if I
had him in the business with me. There's
stuff in him. But I spoke up the wray I did
because I didn't choose Irene should think I
would stand any kind of a loafer 'round —
I don't care who he is, or how well educated
or brought up. And I guess, from the way
Pen spoke up, that 'Rene saw what I was
driving at."
The girl, apparently, was less anxious about
her father's ideas and principles than about
the impression which he had made upon the
young man. She had talked it over and over
with her sister before they went to bed, and
she asked in despair, as she stood looking at
Penelope brushing out her hair before the glass,
" Do you suppose he'll think papa always
talks in that bragging way ? "
" He'll be right if he does," answered her
250
THE RISE OF SILAS LAPHAM.
sister. " It's the way father always does talk.
You never noticed it so much, that's all.
And I guess if he can't make allowance for
father's bragging, he'll be a little too good,
/enjoyed hearing the Colonel go on."
" I know you did," returned Irene in dis-
tress. Then she sighed. " Didn't you think
he looked very nice ? "
" Who ? The Colonel ? " Penelope had
caught up the habit of calling her father so
from her mother, and she used his title in all
her jocose and perverse moods.
" You know very well I don't mean papa,"
pouted Irene.
" Oh ! Mr. Corey ! Why didn't you say Mr.
Corey if you meant Mr. Corey ? If I meant
Mr. Corey, I should say Mr. Corey. It isn't
swearing ! Corey, Corey, Co "
Her sister clapped her hand over her mouth.
"Will you hush, you wretched thing ?" she
whimpered. " The whole house can hear you."
" Oh, yes, they can hear me all over the
square. Well, I think he looked well enough
for a plain youth, who hadn't taken his hair
out of curl-papers for some time."
" It was clipped pretty close," Irene ad-
mitted ; and they both laughed at the drab
effect of Mr. Corey's skull, as they remem-
bered it. " Did you like his nose ? " asked
Irene, timorously.
" Ah, now you're coming to something,"
said Penelope. " I don't know whether, if I
had so much of a nose, I should want it all
Roman."
" I don't see how you can expect to have
a nose part one kind and part another,"
argued Irene.
" Oh, I do. Look at mine ! " She turned
aside her face, so as to get a three-quarters
view of her nose in the glass, and crossing
her hands, with the brush in one of them,
before her, regarded it judicially. " Now,
my nose started Grecian, but changed its
mind before it got over the bridge, and con-
cluded to be snub the rest of the way."
" You've got a very pretty nose, Pen," said
Irene, joining in the contemplation of its
reflex in the glass.
" Don't say that in hopes of getting me to
compliment his, Mrs." — she stopped, and
then added deliberately — " C. ! "
Irene also had her hair-brush in her hand,
and now she sprang at her sister and beat
her very softly on the shoulder with the flat
of it. " You mean thing! " she cried, between
her shut teeth, blushing hotly.
" Well, D., then," said Penelope. " You've
nothing to say against D. ? Though I think
C. is just as nice an initial."
"Oh!" cried the younger, for all expres-
sion of unspeakable things.
" I think he has very good eyes," admitted
Penelope.
" Oh, he has / And didn't you like the way
his sack-coat set ? So close to him, and yet
free — kind of peeling away at the lapels?"
" Yes, I should say he was a young man
of great judgment. He knows how to choose
his tailor."
Irene sat down on the edge of a chair. " It
was so nice of you, Pen, to come in, that way,
about clubs."
" Oh, I didn't mean anything by it except
opposition," said Penelope. " I couldn't have
father swelling on so, without saying some-
thing."
" How he did swell ! " sighed Irene. "Wasn't
it a relief to have mamma come down, even
if she did seem to be all stocking at first ? "
The girls broke into a wild giggle and hid
their faces in each other's necks. " I thought
I should die," said Irene.
" ' It's just like ordering a painting,' " said
Penelope, recalling her father's talk, with an
effect of dreamy absent-mindedness. " ' You
give the painter money enough, and he can
afford to paint you a first-class picture. Give
an architect money enough, and he'll give
you a first-class house, every time.' "
" Oh, wasn't it awful ! " moaned her sister.
" No one would ever have supposed that he
had fought the very idea of an architect for
weeks, before he gave in."
Penelope went on. " ' I always did like
the water side of Beacon — long before I
owned property there. When you come to
the Back Bay at all, give me the water side
of Beacon.' "
" Ow-w-w-w !" shrieked Irene. "Z^stop!"
The door of their mother's chamber opened
below, and the voice of the real Colonel called,
" What are you doing up there, girls ? Why
don't you go to bed ? "
This extorted nervous shrieks from both of
them. The Colonel heard a sound of scurry-
ing feet, whisking drapery, and slamming
doors. Then he heard one of the doors opened
again, and Penelope said, " I was only repeat-
ing something you said when you talked to
Mr. Corey."
" Very well, now," answered the Colonel.
" You postpone the rest of it till to-morrow
at breakfast, and see that you're up in time
to let me hear it."
v.
At the same moment young Corey let
himself in at his own door with his latch-key,
and went to the library, where he found his
father turning the last leaves of a story in the
" Revue des Deux Mondes." He was a white-
THE RISE OF SILAS LAPHAM.
251
mustached old gentleman, who had never
been able to abandon his pince-nez for the
superior comfort of spectacles, even in the
privacy of his own library. He knocked the
glasses off as his son came in, and looked up
at him with lazy fondness, rubbing the two
red marks that they always leave on the side
of the nose.
" Tom," he said, " where did you get such
good clothes ? "
" I stopped over a day in New York," re-
plied the son, finding himself a chair. " I'm
glad you like them."
" Yes, I always do like your clothes, Tom,"
returned the father thoughtfully, swinging his
glasses. " But I don't see how you can afford
'em. /can't."
" Well, sir," said the son, who dropped the
sir into his speech with his father, now and
then, in an old-fashioned way that was rather
charming, "you see I have an indulgent
parent."
" Smoke ? " suggested the father, pushing
toward his son a box of cigarettes, from which
he had taken one.
" No, thank you," said the son. " I've
dropped that."
" Ah, is that so ? " The father began to
feel about on the table for matches, in the
purblind fashion of elderly men. His son rose,
lighted one, and handed it to him. " Well,
— oh, thank you, Tom ! — I believe some
statisticians prove that if you will give up
smoking you can dress very well on the money
your tobacco costs, even if you haven't got
an indulgent parent. But I'm too old to try.
Though, I confess, I should rather like the
clothes. Whom did you find at the club ? "
" There were a lot of fellows there," said
young Corey, watching the accomplished fu-
migation of his father in an absent way.
" It's astonishing what a hardy breed "the
young club-men are," observed his father.
"All summer through, in weather that sends
the sturdiest female flying to the sea-shore,
you find the clubs filled with young men, who
don't seem to mind the heat in the least."
" Boston isn't a bad place, at the worst, in
summer," said the son, declining to take up
the matter in its ironical shape.
" I dare say it isn't, compared with Texas,"
returned the father, smoking tranquilly on.
" But I don't suppose you find many of your
friends in town outside of the club."
" No ; you're requested to ring at the rear
door, all the way down Beacon street and
up Commonwealth Avenue. It's rather a
blank reception for the returning prodigal."
" Ah, the prodigal must take his chance
if he comes back out of season. But I'm glad
to have you back, Tom, even as it is, and I
hope you're not going to hurry away. You
must give your energies a rest."
" I'm sure you never had to reproach me
with abnormal activity," suggested the son,
taking his father's jokes in good part.
" No, I don't know that I have," admitted
the elder. " You've always shown a fair
degree of moderation, after all. What do you
think of taking up next ? I mean after you
have embraced your mother and sisters at
Mount Desert. Real estate ? It seems to me
that it is about time for you to open out as a
real-estate broker. Or did you ever think of
matrimony ? "
" Well, not just in that way, sir," said the
young man. " I shouldn't quite like to regard
it as a career, you know."
" No, no. I understand that. And I quite
agree with you. But you know I've always
contended that the affections could be made
to combine pleasure and profit. I wouldn't
have a man marry for money, — that would be
rather bad, — but I don't see why, when it
comes to falling in love, a man shouldn't fall
in love with a rich girl as easily as a poor
one. Some of the rich girls are very nice, and
I should say that the chances of a quiet life
with them were rather greater. They've al-
ways had everything, and they wouldn't be so
ambitious and uneasy. Don't you think so ? "
" It would depend," said the son, " upon
whether a girl's people had been rich long
enough to have given her position before she
married. If they hadn't, I don't see how she
would be any better than a poor girl in that
respect."
" Yes, there's sense in that. But the sud-
denly rich are on a level with any of us now-
adays. Money buys position at once. I don't
say that it isn't all right. The world generally
knows what it's about, and knows how to
drive a bargain. I dare say it makes the new
rich pay too much. But there's no doubt but
money is to the fore now. It is the romance,
the poetry of our age. It's the thing that
chiefly strikes the imagination. The English-
men who come here are more curious about
the great new millionaires than about any one
else, and they respect them more. It's all
very well. I don't complain of it."
" And you would like a rich daughter-in-
law, quite regardless, then ? "
" Oh, not quite so bad as that, Tom," said
his father. " A little youth, a little beauty, a
little good sense and pretty behavior — one
mustn't object to those things ; and they go
just as often with money as without it. And
I suppose I should like her people to be
rather grammatical."
" It seems to me that you're exacting, sir,"
said the son. " How can you expect people
252
THE RISE OF SILAS LATHAM.
who have been strictly devoted to business to
be grammatical ? Isn't that rather too much ? "
" Perhaps it is. Perhaps you're right. But
I understood your mother to say that those
benefactors of hers, whom you met last sum-
mer, were very passably grammatical."
" The father isn't."
The elder, who had been smoking with his
profile toward his son, now turned his face full
upon him. " I didn't know you had seen him ? "
" I hadn't until to-day," said young Corey,
with a little heightening of his color. " But I
was walking down street this afternoon, and
happened to look round at a new house some
one was putting up, and I saw the whole
family in the window. It appears that Mr.
Lapham is building the house."
The elder Corey knocked the ash of his
cigarette into the holder at his elbow. " I am
more and more convinced, the longer I know
you, Tom, that we are descended from Giles
Corey. The gift of holding one's tongue
seems to have skipped me, but you have it
in full force. I can't say just how you would
behave under peine forte et dure, but under
ordinary pressure you are certainly able to keep
your own counsel. Why didn't you mention
this encounter at dinner ? You weren't asked
to plead to an accusation of witchcraft."
" No, not exactly," said the young man.
" But I didn't quite see my way to speaking
of it. We had a good many other things be-
fore us."
" Yes, that's true. I suppose you wouldn't
have mentioned it now if I hadn't led up to
it, would you ? "
" I don't know, sir. It was rather on my mind
to do so. Perhaps it was I who led up to it."
His father laughed. " Perhaps you did,
Tom ; perhaps you did. Your mother would
have known you were leading up to some-
thing, but I'll confess that I didn't. What
is it ? "
" Nothing very definite. But do you know
that in spite of his syntax I rather liked
him ? "
The father looked keenly at the son ; but
unless the boy's full confidence was offered,
Corey was not the man to ask it. " Well ? "
was all that he said.
" I suppose that in a new country one gets
to looking at people a little out of our tradi-
tion ; and I dare say that if I hadn't passed a
winter in Texas I might have found Colonel
Lapham rather too much."
" You mean that there are worse things in
Texas ? "
" Not that exactly. I mean that I saw it
wouldn't be quite fair to test him by our stan-
dards."
" This comes of the error which I have
often deprecated," said the elder Corey. " In
fact I am always saying that the Bostonian
ought never to leave Boston. Then he knows
— and then only — that there can be no stan-
dard but ours. But we are constantly going
away, and coming back with our convictions
shaken to their foundations. One man goes
to England, and returns with the conception
of a grander social life ; another comes home
from Germany with the notion of a more
searching intellectual activity ; a fellow just
back from Paris has the absurdest ideas of art
and literature; and you revert to us from the
cowboys of Texas, and tell us to our faces
that we ought to try Papa Lapham by a jury
of his peers. It ought to be stopped — it ought,
really. The Bostonian who leaves Boston
ought to be condemned to perpetual exile."
The son suffered the father to reach his
climax with smiling patience. When he asked
finally, " What are the characteristics of Papa
Lapham that place him beyond our jurisdic-
tion ? " the younger Corey crossed his long
legs, and leaned forward to take one of his
knees between his hands.
" Well, sir, he bragged, rather."
" Oh, I don't know that bragging should
exempt him from the ordinary processes. I've
heard other people brag in Boston."
" Ah, not just in that personal way — not
about money."
" No, that was certainly different."
" I don't mean," said the young fellow, with
the scrupulosity which people could not help
observing and liking in him, " that it was
more than an indirect expression of satisfac-
tion in the ability to spend."
" No. I should be glad to express some-
thing of the kind myself, if the facts would
justify me."
The son smiled tolerantly again. " But if
he was enjoying his money in that way, I
didn't see why he shouldn't show his pleasure
in it. It might have been vulgar, but it wasn't
sordid. And I don't know that it was vulgar.
Perhaps his successful strokes of business
were the romance of his life "
The father interrupted with a laugh. "The
girl must be uncommonly pretty. What did
she seem to think of her father's brag ? "
" There were two of them," answered the
son evasively.
" Oh, two ! And is the sister pretty, too ? "
" Not pretty, but rather interesting. She is
like her mother."
"Then the pretty one isn't the father's
pet ? "
" I can't say, sir. I don't believe," added
the young fellow, " that I can make you see
Colonel Lapham just as I did. He struck me
as very simple-hearted and rather wholesome.
THE RISE OF SILAS LATHAM.
253
Of course he could be tiresome; we all can;
and I suppose his range of ideas is limited.
But he is a force, and not a bad one. If he
hasn't got over being surprised at the effect
of rubbing his lamp "
" Oh, one could make out a case. I sup-
pose you know what you are about, Tom.
But remember that we are Essex County
people, and that in savor we are just a little
beyond the salt ofMhe earth. I will tell you
plainly that I don't like the notion of a man
who has rivaled the hues of nature in her
wildest haunts with the tints of his mineral
paint; but I don't say there are not worse
men. He isn't to my taste, though he might
be ever so much to my conscience."
"I suppose," said the son, . " that there is
nothing really to be ashamed of in mineral
paint. People go into all sorts of things."
His father took his cigarette from his mouth
and once more looked his son full in the face.
" Oh, is that it ? "
" It has crossed my mind," admitted the son.
" I must do something. I've wasted time and
money enough. I've seen much younger men
all through the West and Southwest taking care
of themselves. I don't think I was particularly
fit for anything out there, but I am ashamed to
come back and live upon you, sir."
His father shook his head with an ironical
sigh. " Ah, we shall never have a real aris-
tocracy while this plebeian reluctance to live
upon a parent or a wife continues the animat-
ing spirit of our youth. It strikes at the root
of the whole feudal system. I really think
you owe me an apology, Tom. I supposed
you wished to marry the girl's money, and
here you are, basely seeking to go into busi-
ness with her father."
Young Corey laughed again like a son who
perceives that his father is a little antiquated,
but keeps a filial faith in his wit. " I dQn't
know that it's quite so bad as that ; but the
thing had certainly crossed my mind. I don't
know how it's to be approached, and I don't
know that it's at all possible. But I confess
that I ' took to ' Colonel Lapham from the
moment I saw him. He looked as if he ' meant
business,' and I mean business too."
The father smoked thoughtfully. " Of
course people do go into all sorts of things,
as you say, and I don't know that one thing
is more ignoble than another, if it's decent,
and large enough. In my time you would
have gone into the China trade or the India
trade — though I didn't; and a little later
cotton would have been your manifest destiny
— though it wasn't mine ; but now a man may
do almost anything. The real-estate business
is pretty full. Yes, if you have a deep inward
vocation for it, I don't see why mineral paint
shouldn't do. I fancy it's easy enough ap-
proaching the matter. We will invite Papa
Lapham to dinner, and talk it over with him."
" Oh, I don't think that would be exactly
the way, sir," said the son, smiling at his
father's patrician unworldliness.
"No? Why not?"
" I'm afraid it would be a bad start. I don't
think it' would strike him as business-like."
" I don't see why he should be punctilious,
if we're not."
"Ah, we might say that if he were making
the advances."
" Well, perhaps you are right, Tom. What
is your idea ? "
"I haven't a very clear one. It seems to
me I ought to get some business friend of
ours, whose judgment he would respect, to
speak a good word for me."
" Give you a character ? "
" Yes. And of course I must go to Colonel
Lapham. My notion would be to inquire
pretty thoroughly about him, and then, if I
liked the look of things, to go right down to
Republic street and let him pee what he could
do with me, if anything."
" That sounds tremendously practical to
me, Tom, though it may be just the wrong
way. When are you going down to Mount
Desert ? "
" To-morrow, I think, sir," said the young
man. " I shall turn it over in my mind while
I'm off."
The father rose, showing something more
than his son's height, with a very slight stoop,
which the son's figure had not. " Well," he
said, whimsically, " I admire your spirit, and
I don't deny that it is justified by necessity.
It's a consolation to think that while I've been
spending and enjoying, I have been prepar-
ing the noblest future for you — a future of
industry and self-reliance. You never could
draw, but this scheme of going into the min-
eral-paint business shows that you have in-
herited something of my feeling for color."
The son laughed once more, and waiting
till his father was well on his way upstairs,
turned out the gas and then hurried after him
and preceded him into his chamber. He
glanced over it, to see that everything was
there, to his father's hand. Then he said,
" Good-night, sir," and the elder responded,
" Good-night, my son," and the son went to
his own room.
Over the mantel in the elder Corey's room
hung a portrait which he had painted of his
own father, and now he stood a moment and
looked at this as if struck by something novel
in it. The resemblance between his son and
the old India merchant, who had followed
the trade from Salem to Boston when the
254
THE RISE OF SILAS LAPHAM.
larger city drew it away from the smaller,
must have been what struck him. Grand-
father and grandson had both the Roman
nose which appears to have nourished chiefly
at the formative period of the republic, and
which occurs more rarely in the descendants
of the conscript fathers, though it still charac-
terizes the profiles of a good many Boston
ladies. Bromfield Corey had not inherited it,
and he had made his straight nose his defense
when the old merchant accused him of a want
of energy. He said, " What could a man do
whose unnatural father had left his own nose
away from him ? " This amused but did not
satisfy the merchant. "You must do some-
thing," he said ; " and it's for you to choose.
If you don't like the India trade, go into
something else. Or, take up law or medi-
cine. No Corey yet ever proposed to do
nothing." " Ah, then, it's quite time one of
us made a beginning," urged the man who
was then young, and who was now old, look-
ing into the somewhat fierce eyes of his
father's portrait. He had inherited as little
of the fierceness as of the nose, and there was
nothing predatory in his son either, though
the aquiline beak had come down to him in
such force. Bromfield Corey liked his son
Tom for the gentleness which tempered his
energy.
" Well, let us compromise," he seemed to
be saying to his father's portrait. " I will
travel." " Travel ? How long ? " the keen
eyes demanded. " Oh, indefinitely. I wont
be hard with you, father." He could see the
eyes soften, and the smile of yielding come
over his father's face; the merchant could
not resist a son who was so much like his dead
mother. There was some vague understand-
ing between them that Bromfield Corey was
to come back and go into business after a
time, but he never did so. He traveled
about over Europe, and traveled handsomely,
frequenting good society everywhere, and get-
ting himself presented at several courts, at a
period when it was a distinction to do so. He
had always sketched, and with his father's leave
he fixed himself at Rome, where he remained
studying art and rounding the being inherited
from his Yankee progenitors, till there was
very little left of the ancestral angularities. Af-
ter ten years he came home and painted that
portrait of his father. It was very good, if a lit-
tle amateurish, and he might have made him-
self a name as a painter of portraits if he had
not had so much money. But he had plenty of
money, though by this time he was married
and beginning to have a family. It was ab-
surd for him to paint portraits for pay, and
ridiculous to paint them for nothing ; so he
did not paint them at all. He continued a
dilettante, never quite abandoning his art,
but working at it fitfully, and talking more
about it than working at it. He had his
theory of Titian's method ; and now and then
a Bostonian insisted upon buying a picture of
him. After a while he hung it more and more
inconspicuously, and said apologetically, " Oh,
yes ! that's one of Bromfield Corey's things.
It has nice qualities, but it's amateurish."
In process of time the money seemed less
abundant. There were shrinkages of one
kind and another, and living had grown much
more expensive and luxurious. For many
years he talked about going back to Rome,
but he never went, and his children grew up in
the usual way. Before he knew it his son
had him out to his class-day spread at Har-
vard, and then he had his son on his hands.
The son made various unsuccessful provisions
for himself, and still continued upon his
father's hands, to their common dissatisfac-
tion, though it was chiefly the younger who
repined. He had the Roman nose and the
energy without the opportunity, and at one
of the reversions his father said to him, " You
ought not to have that nose, Tom j then you
would do very well. You would go and
travel, as I did."
Lapham and his wife lay awake talking
after he had quelled the disturbance in his
daughters' room overhead ; and their talk
was not altogether of the new house.
" I tell you," he said, " if I had that fellow
in the business with me I would make a man
of him."
" Well, Silas Lapham," returned his wife,
" I do believe you've got mineral paint
on the brain. Do you suppose a fellow like
young Corey, brought up the way he's been,
would touch mineral paint with a ten-foot
pole ? "
" Why not ? " haughtily asked the Colonel.
" Well, if you don't know already, there's
no use trying to tell you."
(To be continued.)
THE PRINCIPLES AND PRACTICE OF HOUSE-DRAINAGE.— II.
DETAILS OF THE WORK.
THE MAIN LINE.
In arranging the details of house-drainage
the main line is always first to be consid-
I ered. It begins at the sewer, or flush-tank,
] or — in barbarous instances — at the cess-pool;
passes through the house by such a course as
may be indicated by a judicious compromise
j between directness and convenience, past the
location of the highest fixture that is to dis-
charge into it ; then it passes out through the
roof for free ventilation.
TRAPS ON MAIN DRAINS.
The question of a main trap between the
house and a public sewer has been much
discussed, and is still determined by no rule.
There should always be such a trap between
the house and a flush-tank or a cess-pool. I
am inclined to the belief that there should not
be such a trap in the case of discharge into a
sewer, unless it be especially foul. If it is only
a great cess-pool, holding the accumulated
deposits of a street or larger district, or if its
interior atmosphere is at all comparable in
offensiveness with that of a cess-pool, then a
trap will be necessary ; but if it has such an
atmosphere as will admit of the entrance of
workmen, and if its contents are carried
forward in its current with reasonable com-
pleteness, I incline to the opinion that, even
if no other house connected with it aids in
its ventilation, it will be better that the single
house under consideration should be con-
nected without a trap.
I have reached this conclusion slowly
and in opposition to the opinion of many
of the best engineers. The objection ordi-
narily raised against the practice is that by
it "the sewer-gas is laid on" to the house;
that contagious diseases existing in other
houses connected with the sewer will com-
municate their infection directly to any house
not so cut off; and that, as a matter of com-
mon policy, one man alone should not venti-
late a sewer that is used without ventilation
by neighbors. There are two arguments
against this, and they seem to be controlling
ones, (a.) The purpose to be secured is the
greatest practicable purity of the drains and
pipes of the particular house, and, while it is
true that a trap will shut off the air of the
sewer, it is also true that the trap itself, unless
the course of the drain is very steep and its
flushing Very copious, may not only form a
seat of decomposing filth, but will so set back
the flow as to cause a deposit of foul mate-
rial for some distance along the house side of
the drain. If the sewer is not extremely of-
fensive,— more offensive than a critical inves-
tigation made a few years ago showed most
sewers in New York city to be, — there will be
less stench coming from a current of air flowing
from the sewer without a trap than will be
developed in the house-drain itself with a trap.
The absence of the trap will secure a pretty
constant and effective current of air from the
sewer through to the top of the soil-pipe.
Without the trap, a sufficient current can be
established by the use of a well-placed fresh-
air inlet; but the immediate seat of decom-
position in and behind the trap will continue
active, {b.) All the cry about sewer-gas be-
ing "laid on," and about the intercommunica-
tion of diseases from one house to another by
means of the sewer, is the outgrowth of a
condition that is now hardly tolerated, and
that certainly is not contemplated in this
paper. In the older work, there was either no
ventilation whatever to the drainage system, or
it was very inefficient. The water used, though
perhaps not less in amount then than now,
was not so used as to secure a good flushing
effect, while the stability of traps was then
little thought of. Pressure of any sort being
brought to bear on the atmosphere of the
sewer, foul air escaped into house-drains and
found no other means of relief than by forcing
traps or by working its way out at defective
joints. Under such circumstances, the argu-
ment in favor of the trap was a strong one.
Now, house-drain and soil-pipe are tight, ven-
tilation is very free and complete, the effect of
a pressure on the air of the sewer is not to be
feared, traps are reliable, and, in the best work,
joints are absolutely tight. Under such con-
ditions the safeguard supposed to be fur-
nished by the exterior trap is not needed, —
assuming always that the sewer is a reasonably
clean one. Its condition will always be im-
proved by the ventilation furnished by the
untrapped drain.
FRESH-AIR INLETS.
In the case of country houses, not discharg-
ing into sewers, the trap is a necessity.
256 THE PRINCIPLES AND PRACTICE OF HOUSE-DRAINAGE.
Wherever a trap is used, there must be on the
house side of it an inlet for fresh air. There
can be no real ventilation of the drainage
system if it is open only at its top. A bottle
cannot be ventilated by removing its cork,
nor will a chimney draw if it has no opening
at the bottom. A copious inlet for fresh air,
working in conjunction with a wide opening
at the top of the soil-pipe, will insure a free
movement throughout the whole system that
will accomplish an adequate ventilation, not
only of the main channel itself, but, by the
diffusion of gases, of short branches con-
necting fixtures with it. Most of the directions
given in sanitary journals and books for the
arrangement of fresh-air inlets, especially in
cities, seem to have been made without due
regard to their liability to become obstructed
by rubbish, and especially to become entirely
closed by accumulations of snow. Many
such inlets in New York, at the edge of the
pavement or at the face of the curb, are
sometimes blocked for days together in bad
winter weather. Becoming obstructed "from
any cause, their efficiency stops, and for the
time being the security that they should
afford is withdrawn. There is really no good
reason for placing this opening at a distance
from the house. I have never known of
annoyance resulting from the inlet pipe being
brought out at the face of the foundation
wall, preferably, of course, not too near to
windows and doors. With well-flushed pipes,
the constant though often slow movement
of air through them so reduces the offensive-
ness, which a few years since was thought to
be inevitable, that, although there might be
a slight outward puff when closets or baths
are discharged, no annoyance results.
' MATERIAL AND CONSTRUCTION.
Whether the soil-pipe passes through or
under the foundation of the house, unless the
wall be old enough for all danger of settle-
ment to have passed, it should be carried
through an arched opening to prevent its dis-
turbance if settlement does occur. In any case,
the iron pipe should be continued for nearly
or quite a full length (five feet) outside of
the foundation wall. It may be continued
farther with advantage. Although thus laid
in the ground and used as a drain, iron pipe
is not, like earthenware pipe, imperishable ;
still the greater certainty of tightness and
correct grading, if due only to the better
class of workmen by whom it is done, is a
strong argument in its favor. After reaching
solid ground that has not been disturbed in
excavating for the foundation, a carefully laid
and rigidly inspected earthenware drain is to
be preferred. After the drain passes inside
of the foundation wall it is better, where it
is not necessary to connect with fixtures in
the cellar, that it should be carried in full
sight, along the face of the cellar wall or sus-
pended from the floor-beams, to the point
where it is to turn up as a vertical soil-pipe.
This is advisable because here, as much as
anywhere else in the house, it is important to
be able to inspect the joints, and . to know
always the condition of the work. If, how-
ever, it should be necessary to make connec-
tion with a water-closet or other fixture in
the cellar, it is better that the main channel
should run under the floor to or near the
location of such fixture, in order that all or
nearly all of its length may constitute a part
of the main line, thoroughly flushed and
thoroughly ventilated, like the rest of the
system. If there are several vertical soil-pipes,
it will suffice, of course, if one of them is
carried down for the cellar connection, and
the others ' can be carried together above
ground and connected with the main line be-
fore leaving the house. A branch only ten or
twelve feet long, running to a servants' closet
in the cellar, even if provided with adequate
upward ventilation, is not likely to keep in
nearly so good condition as it would if
carrying also the discharge of closets and
baths above. Wherever it becomes neces-
sary to lay the drain under the cellar floor,
I should not counsel the following of the
usual recommendation to lay an iron pipe
in a mason-work trench, with a cover that
may be removed for inspection, as before set
forth. It should be protected as hereinafter
described.
THE SOIL-PIPE.
It is a generally accepted rule, and a good
one where space suffices, to use no short
turns — technically, " T branches " and " quar-
ter bends." Two one-eighth bends, or a Y
branch and a single one-eighth bend, give a
more gradual and therefore better change of
direction. So, in the attachment of water-
closets to vertical soil-pipes, it is usual and
better to make the connection with Y branches.
Where space does not suffice, however, a half
Y answers a sufficiently good purpose, and
even a T branch (right angles) is less objec-
tionable than it was when flushing was less
copious than it now is. The soil-pipe through-
out its whole length, horizontal as well as
vertical, should be so secured with hangers
and clamps or hooks and with supporting
posts that it will be rigidly fixed in its posi-
tion. From the beginning of the work, every
joint should be made with a view to being
tested under hydraulic pressure. If the work-
THE PRINCIPLES AND PRACTICE OF HOUSE-DRAINAGE. 257
man has this in view, the test will generally
discover few leaks. As ordinarily made, es-
pecially where the whole circumference of the
pipe is not easily accessible to the calking
tool, a test will almost invariably disclose
serious leakage. In every case the test should
be made, and every semblance of a leak
should be calked until thoroughly tight un-
der pressure. In making this test, the sim-
plest way is to close all openings into the
pipe with disks of india-rubber compressed
between two plates of iron forced together
with a screw. Such plugs can be fastened so
tightly as to hold a head of fifty feet. There
is no special advantage, however, in applying
this force; for if joints are to leak at all, they
will leak usually under a head of a few inches,
and always under a head of a few feet. It is
generally most convenient to test the verti-
cal pipes story by story, the plugs being in-
serted through the water-closet branches.
Another satisfactory test which may be ap-
plied after all fixtures are attached is made
with an air-pump and pressure-gauge, such
as gas-fitters use. If the gauge stands firm
even under a slight pressure for an hour to-
gether, the work may be accepted as tight.
The principal drawback is that, if the work is
not tight, it is much more difficult to locate a
slight leak than when the water test is used.
I think it may be accepted as a well-grounded
rule that no prudent owner should receive
and pay for his plumbing work until all of the
iron waste-pipe has been tested, by one or
the other of these methods, under the personal
observation of the architect or his plumbing
expert. There is probably no occasion to
fear that work once made tight will develop
leaks for many years, the tendency to rust
after a time, even with tar-coated or enam-
eled pipe, being rather to close such slight
leaks as may exist.
The fear has sometimes been felt that sand-
holes and slight imperfections in cast-iron
soil-pipe may lead to the permanent injury
of the work. Ordinarily, this is not a real
danger. Where pipes have been tested before
erection by being filled with water in single
lengths and rejected because of slight leaks,
it has been found that a few hours later such
leaks have become entirely closed with rust.
Doubtless a rust closure is a permanent one.
There are two grades of soil-pipe known
to the trade, " common 'i and " extra-heavy."
If common pipe has sufficiently strong hubs
to stand heavy calking, and if the outer and
inner circumferences are concentric, there is no
reason why it may not be trusted for very
long service ; but it is difficult to maintain
the core in a perfectly concentric position,
and even in the best pipe there is generally a
Vol. XXIX.— 25.
slight difference of thickness between one
side and another. A very slight difference is
a very serious matter in common pipe. In
extra-heavy pipe, unless the eccentricity is
very obvious, even the thinner portion will
be thick enough for safety. This thicker pipe,
however, is sometimes weakened by air bub-
bles in the mass. To detect these, the whole
pipe should be tested by sharp hammering
over its whole surface.
In ordinary work in private houses, a diam-
eter of four inches has been adopted as suf-
ficient for the soil-pipe. So far as the mere
water-way is concerned, this diameter is am-
ple, even when roof water is admitted from very
large houses. Indeed, for most cases a diam-
eter of three inches will furnish a sufficient
water-way ; then, again, the smaller the pipe
the more thoroughly it is flushed by the stream
discharged through it. There is, however, an-
other consideration that is important. The
siphonic action, or suction, produced upon
lateral branches by the discharge of water
through the main shaft, is in inverse propor-
tion to the diameter of the pipe. The sudden
discharge of a water-closet using three or four
gallons of water through the three-inch soil-
pipe might, under favorable circumstances,
produce an almost complete vacuum in
the branches. The same volume flowing
through a four-inch pipe would have a less
effect, and through a five-inch pipe still less.
Practically, where there are no fixtures higher
than the fourth story, and where the admis-
sion of air from the top of the soil-pipe is very
free, four inches may generally be regarded
as a safe size.
VENTILATION OF THE SOIL-PIPE.
The upward extension of soil-pipe for com-
plete ventilation is a matter of much impor-
tance, and one that has been considerably
bedeviled by invention. Experiments insti-
tuted to demonstrate the utility of different
caps or ventilating cowls have not yet been
carried to a complete scientific result; but
they have sufficed to establish two important
points. One is, that every ventilating cowl of
whatever kind, and of whatever effectiveness
during positive winds, — when no cowl is
needed, — is invariably an obstructor of the
movement of air during calms or under light
winds; also, that every deviation from the
straight line obstructs the current. Therefore,
the cap or bend or cowl, one or another
of which is almost always used, is of no real
utility in a high wind, and is an absolute ob-
structor at other times. The best result will
always be obtained by running the soil-pipe
straight up to a certain elevation above the
258 THE PRINCIPLES AND PRACTICE OF HOUSE-DRAINAGE.
roof, — more or less according to the exposure,
— and leaving it entirely open at the top. To
prevent the intentional or accidental introduc-
tion of obstructing objects, it is a good practice
to insert, and to secure, into the open mouth
the ordinary spherical wire-
basket that is used to keep
leaves from obstructing the
outlets of roof gutters. The
other point is, that a univer-
sally effective increase of the
movement of air is secured
by increasing the diameter
of the pipe at its upper end.
Theoretically , the lower down
the enlargement begins, and
the greater it becomes at the
top, the better will be the
current produced. Practi-
cally, it seems to suffice to
increase the diameter of the
single upper length of pipe.
This is most conveniently
done by using an "increaser,"
from four inches to six inches,
just under the roof, and to
set a length of six-inch pipe
at the top.
The owner and the archi-
tect, and all who are in-
terested in securing good
work, should bear constantly
in mind the importance of
making this main channel
for ventilation and for drain-
age absolutely and perma-
nently good from bottom to top. This being
assured and tested, the various fixtures or
plumbing appliances may be connected with
its branches.
THE WATER-SEAL AND OTHER TRAPS,
Constituting one of the most essential ele-
ments of plumbing work, have for some
time past occupied the careful attention
of all who are interested in the improvement
of house-drainage. Few who have applied
their ingenuity to the subject have failed to
invent and patent a "sewer-gas" trap. I took
out a patent for a trap of this sort myself some
years ago, — probably one of the least success-
ful of the whole list. The best of the efforts
of others, thus far, have been only measurably
successful. I am still using one or two of
them in my own work, because they are pass-
ably good, and because nothing else has
offered that seemed better. The successful
accomplishment of the object in view offers
probably the most hopeful field to which sani-
tary inventors can now turn their attention.
Devices intended to meet existing difficulties
THE TOP FINISH OF
A SOIL-PIPE.
have not all been confined to the form and
construction of the trap itself. Much the most
widely recommended and successfully enforced
effort to meet the difficulty has been to sup-
ply what is known as the " back ventilation "
of traps. Having known of the early failure
of this device, before it was generally rec-
ommended to the public and taken up in the
compulsory regulations of health boards,
I have never been able to look upon it with
favor. There is no doubt that under many
circumstances it does good, but I believe that
on the whole it does more harm.
Not only as confirming my own view, but
as an illustration of very thorough and care-
ful experimental work, attention may properly
be called to an investigation carried on for
the City Board of Health of Boston, by J.
Pickering Putnam, Esq., an architect of that
city. These investigations have been set forth
quite fully in illustrated communications to
the " American Architect," which papers cer-
tainly mark a very important step forward in
sanitary literature. The deductions to be
drawn from these investigations are these :
While a sufficient vent-hole at the crown
of a trap will prevent its contents from being
withdrawn by siphonage (suction), insuffi-
ciency in such an opening, resulting from
whatever cause, defeats the purpose for which
it was made. Insufficiency may be due to
several things, (a.) The opening may origi-
nally be made too small, (b.) It may, and very
often does, become reduced in size, or en-
tirely closed by the accumulation of foul mat-
ter thrown into it during the use of the trap.
[c.) As its efficiency is due entirely to the ad-
mission of air fast enough to supply the de-
mand for air to fill the vacuum caused by
water flowing through some portion of the
pipe beyond the trap, it is not only a question
of having an opening large enough to admit
the air, but of having an adequate current led
freely to the opening. As the opening is into
a portion of the drainage system that is unpro-
tected by a trap, it cannot, of course, com-
municate with the interior atmosphere of the
house ; it must be connected by a pipe either
with the open air outside of the house, or with
the air of the upper part of the soil-pipe, above
all fixtures. The ability of this pipe to transmit
air in the volume required depends on its size
and on its directness. A one-inch pipe, one foot
long, for example, may admit air fast enough,
Avhile a longer pipe of the same diameter, or
a smaller pipe of the same length, would not do
so. One or other of the defects above indicated
may very easily defeat the object, and, in so
far as the opening may be decreased by the
accumulation of waste matters, the object,
which is fully secured while the work is new,
THE PRINCIPLES AND PRACTICE OE HOUSE-DRAINAGE.
;59
may be permanently defeated by a condition
that occurs after a little use. What seemed
originally to be adequate security may be-
come untrustworthy in time.
Then, again, the trap to which such back
ventilation is applied depends for its efficiency
on the permanence of its water-seal. A water-
seal which has no other exposure to the air
than it gets under ordinary circumstances,
will not be so reduced by evaporation as to
lose its value for a considerable period ; but
with back ventilation, a current of air is es-
tablished through the pipe in the immediate
vicinity of the trap, and evaporation becomes
more rapid, destroying the seal by removing
the water in a very short time. It was an
unsealing due to evaporation that first
caused me to discard the method. I believe,
most firmly, that when the system of back
ventilation, as now practiced, is applied to
all the traps of a house, the destruction of the
seal by evaporation will be much more to be
feared than it would be in the same set of
traps by siphonage only if not vented.
Traps are also frequently emptied of their
water by capillary attraction. When a rag, a
bit of string, a matting of hair, or any other
porous substance having one end immersed
in the trap, has the other end extending over
the bend and leading into the discharge pipe,
traps having a seal of only the ordinary depth
may be emptied in a short time by this action
alone. In other cases, and even where the
traps are considerably deeper, the capillary
material, by increasing the evaporating sur-
face, greatly increases the liability to evapora-
tion in the presence of the current of air pro-
duced by the venting-pipe. While, therefore,
this capillary action is not an infrequent
source of the failure of a trap which is not
ventilated, it is also an aid to the destruction
of the seal when it is ventilated.
Mr. Putnam's experiments were conducted
in logical order. He first demonstrated that
the air rushing through the trap to supply a
vacuum caused by a flow in the piping be-
yond carries the water with it as a matter of
course. Some of this water, striking against
the walls of the trap, is thrown back to its
original position, so that the whole volume of
sealing-water is rarely removed with a single
motion, whatever the form of the trap. How-
ever, he found that, sooner or later, under a
sufficiently continued movement of air, the
whole of the water, even in a deep trap,
might be so withdrawn as to break the seal
permanently. The time required for this de-
pends very much upon the number of surfaces
of the wall of the trap tending to throw the
water back into it. It was found that, of the
common traps, the ordinary "pot" or "bottle"
trap offered the greatest obstacle to siphon-
age. It was assumed that " the' severest test
for siphonage to which a trap could possibly
be subjected in practice would be that which
would be sufficient to siphon out an eight-inch
pot-trap or a ventilated S trap constructed
in the usual manner." The apparatus used
was strong enough to destroy in one second
the seal of a one and one-quarter inch S trap,
having a one and one-quarter inch vent-open-
ing at the crown, having a one and one-
quarter inch smooth lead pipe, sixteen feet
long, connected with it, and to siphon out an
unventilated pot-trap eight inches in diameter,
having a seal four inches deep. It was shown
by this apparatus that a reduction of diameter
of the vent-pipe, or an increase of its length,
lessened the stability of the trap. It made a
marked difference whether the pipe was straight
or was bent into a coil three feet in diame-
ter. It would seem from the description that
the vent-opening was as large, and the vent-
pipe described above as large, as short, and
as straight, as would ordinarily be found in
practice ; and it was shown that the seal was,
in nearly every case, easily destroyed. The
experiments demonstrated that none of the
ordinary traps can withstand a not unusual
siphonic action, even with what would be
considered adequate ventilation. These ex-
periments were repeated in a great variety of
ways with the same general result.
In tests of capillary action, the following
results were obtained : Strips of hair-felt,
closely resembling the matted accumulation
of short hairs which forms so large a propor-
tion of deposit in traps and pipes, were used,
having one end immersed in the water of the
trap and the other hanging over the bend.
Other materials were similarly used. The re-
sult of the experiments, as affecting the ques-
tion of ventilation, is thus set forth :
" To test the loss by capillary attraction on
ventilated S traps, as compared with the loss
on the same where unventilated, an S trap
having a seal of four and five-eighths inches
was arranged as before with jute, half filling
the trap. With a trap attached to the waste-
pipe, and connected with the drain in the or-
dinary manner, but unventilated, the loss by
capillary attraction was as follows : In the
first five minutes, one-half inch ; in the
first forty-five minutes, one inch; in twenty-
four hours, three inches; in three days, three
and one-quarter inches; in four days, three
and three-eighths inches. Thereafter no per-
ceptible change took place. It made no per-
ceptible difference whether the basin side of
the trap was opened or closed, showing
that evaporation in an unventilated trap is
practically almost imperceptible. The ex-
26o THE PRINCIPLES AND PRACTICE OF HOUSE-DRAINAGE.
periment was then repeated on the same trap
ventilated at the crown into a cold flue, with
the following result: in one hour, one and
one-eighth inch had been removed; in five
hours, one and seven-eighths inch ; in twenty-
two hours, two and a half inches; in two
days, three and one-quarter inches; in three
days, three and a half inches; in four days,
three and three-quarters inches ; in five days,
four inches. Thus the loss continued at
the rate of about one-quarter inch a day
by evaporation, after the outer end of the jute
mass had entirely dried up. This rate of
evaporation was nearly double what it would
have been had it not been assisted by the capil-
lary attraction. From this we see that venti-
lation greatly increases the danger arising
from capillary attraction, often rendering the
latter dangerous in cases where, without ven-
tilation, the seal would not have been broken."
tendency of the current thus produced is to
carry the sealing-water with it. In a perfectly
smooth curved trap the removal of the water
may be complete and almost instantaneous ;
in traps of irregular form, where the water in
its course strikes against the wall of the trap,
it is thrown back or deflected from its course;
when so thrown back a portion of the water
is still carried on by the current of air, but
another portion falls away from the current
and resumes its position in the trap. If a suf-
ficient number of deflecting surfaces are pre-
sented in the course of the current of air, the
whole of the water, after a certain portion of
the seal has been removed, is retained, and the
complete unsealing of the trap cannot occur.
Mr. Putnam's trap, the form of which is illus-
trated herewith, stands, in its normal condition,
entirely full of water. Under strong siphonic
action about one-half of this water follows the
PUTNAM S TRAP.
The complete trap is shown at a. Its different parts are shown in the cuts b, c, and d.
The parts c and d may easily be removed for cleansing without the aid of a plumber.
Another curious experiment was tried to de-
termine the influence of the ventilating open-
ing in retarding the flow through the trap by
friction. The retardation was found, as a gen-
eral result, to be about thirty per cent. This
is, of course, a reduction to that extent of the
power of the stream flowing through a trap
to overcome the tendency to form deposits.
Putnam's trap.
air toward the drain ; this amount being re-
moved, the deflecting surfaces of that portion
of the apparatus thus emptied suffice to rob
the air-current of its spray, and under no test
that has yet been applied, with an open-topped
soil-pipe, can the seal be broken. The interior
of the trap is well exposed to view, and the
arrangement for cleaning in case of need is
simple. The trouble of an occasional un-
screwing of the glass cap to remove an ob-
struction would be a very small price to pay
As an incidental result of his experiments for the absolute security which Mr. Putnam
on siphonage, Mr. Putnam, by gradual stages, seems to have achieved.*
arrived at the invention of a trap which seems
to be a practical one, and which, subjected to
tests that were sufficient to break the seal of
any ordinary trap even with fair back ventila-
tion, maintained its seal undisturbed. The
theory followed is this : Siphonage is due to
the rapid movement through the trap of air
driven in by atmospheric pressure, to fill the
partial vacuum formed by the withdrawal of
air from the pipe beyond the trap by the
inductive effect of flowing water; the first
* Since the above was written, I have tested Mr. Putnam's trap, finding it effective, in withstanding siphon-
age, and substantially self-cleansing. It seems to me the best trap that I have seen.
This trap or something like it may probably
come into universal use for wash-stands, baths,
and laundry-tubs, — for urinals, also, where
separate urinals are used. For water-closets
it cannot take the place of the exposed trap
of which the bowl constitutes one arm. For
kitchen and pantry sinks I believe my own
device is better.
I have been using for some years past one
form or other of mechanical trap, usually
Bower's or Cudell's. They seem to be the best
THE PRINCIPLES AND PRACTICE OF HOUSE-DRAINAGE. 261
heretofore available, but they have never been
entirely satisfactory. If the Putnam trap is
not the success that I expect, these perhaps
will remain our best resource for a time.
Whether compelled by local law to ventilate
traps or not, I should not depend on ventila-
tion in the conviction that the simple S trap,
as ordinarily constructed and as ordinarily
ventilated, is totally unreliable.
PLUMBING APPLIANCES.
Concerning patented apparatus, it is
proper for me to explain the fact that in the
following pages, among other things, I set
forth somewhat in detail inventions of my own,
which are patented, and by the sale of which
I should profit. Such a course is naturally
open to criticism, and such a position is al-
ways one of embarrassment. It is the usual
course to describe the various appliances,
mentioning one's own only incidentally, and
this would doubtless seem to many persons to
be the proper one for me to pursue.
It seems to me on reflection, however, that
the only justification for the writing of this
paper is to communicate to the public the
best advice I have to offer. My attention
has been given for many years to details of
house-drainage as a matter of business, not
of philanthropy. I have had occasion to study
closely, and to adopt and discard, one after
another, along series of plumbing appliances, —
things that have come up and gone down in
the rapidly improving art which ten years
ago was an extremely crude one, and in which
perfection has as yet by no means been at-
tained. I might describe this succession of im-
provements, and indicate the quality, promise,
and defect of each. Such information may be
found, by those who desire it, very well set
forth in the rather copious modern literature
of the subject. The space at my disposal here
1 would hardly suffice for a bare cataloguing
[ of plumbing improvements. My own devices
j were in no case invented with a view to se-
I curing a valuable patent, nor for any purpose
but to improve my own professional practice.
I The few of these devices which have ap-
[ proved themselves to my later judgment, and
which I am now introducing in my work, I
have patented to secure an incidental com-
j mercial advantage. I shall therefore describe
; them without hesitation and without further
, comment, treating them exactly as I treat
I such of the inventions of others as commend
! themselves to my judgment. I shall trust to
; the good sense of the reader not to misunder-
stand my motive.
Special appliances for carrying out the
plumber's art in the drainage of houses are
to be numbered by hundreds. Invention has
taken advantage of a growing demand for
the attainment of additional security against
the invasion of drain-air, and has literally
run wild. "Sewer-gas" has been made to
do full duty as a cause of public alarm.
The shops and the catalogues and the
professional papers and books are full of an
embarrassing variety of all manner of devices.
Many of these inventions are great improve-
ments on their predecessors, but many are*
their predecessors under new names and with
new complications. Few of them have been'
made with regard for what seems to be the-
most imperative need of the work — simplic-
ity. We should especially seek the greatest pos-
sible simplicity, not only in detail but in general
scheme. While the market offers a separate
vessel for each possible separate use, the wis-
est course seems to be to reduce the number
of vessels and to concentrate the various uses
as much as may be. For example, I should,
wherever possible, avoid the need for urinals,
slop-sinks, and hoppers, by constructing the
water-closet in such a manner as to supply
all of these demands in a convenient and ac-
ceptable way, thus securing incidentally the
most frequent change of its trapping-water
and the most frequent flushing of its outlet.
The urinal is almost invariably the most odor^1
ous vessel in the house. The slop-hopper is
generally a receptacle for rags and rubbish,
in a dark, out-of-the-way, uninspected closet ;
and the sink for drawing water is, in less de-
gree, open to similar objection. With a self-
closing faucet for drawing water, there need
be provided for the protection of the ceiling
below only such simple means of outlet —
like a safe-pipe opening through the ceiling
of the basement or into a sink or a water-
closet cistern — as will carry the slight drip
that may come from an accidental leak. Or-
dinarily there is no serious objection to
arranging to draw water through the bath-
cock, if this is placed, as it should be, at the
top of the tub.
Objections to this concentration of uses,
and to the abolition of a separate vessel for
each separate use, are confined mainly to
trade journals, published in the interest of
manufacturers and plumbers whose profits
it is thought might be affected by the
reduction. Their argument is that cost is
secondary to ample convenience. While it
is important to avoid unnecessary cost, the
economical argument is the least of all the
reasons for what is here proposed. The real
and controlling argument is based on the great
advantage of having the fewest possible
points requiring inspection and care, and to
262 THE PRINCIPLES AND PRACTICE OE HOUSE-DRAINAGE.
secure the most frequent possible use of every
inlet into the drainage system. Reasonable
convenience being always kept in view, three
water-closets in an ordinary house are much
better than half a dozen ; and the same prin-
ciple holds throughout the whole range of
plumbing appliances.
WASH-STANDS.
Stationary wash-stands, where they should
be used at all — in bath-rooms and lavato-
ries mainly — should, like all other fixtures of
the kind, have the space under the slab fully
exposed to view, so that the trap and all pipes
may be seen at all times, and so that neither
by accident nor by stealth may there be cre-
ated the hidden untidy condition which is
almost universal with the tight, unventilated
inclosed spaces generally used. The basin itself
as now constructed has a hidden overflow
which it is very difficult, if not impossible, to
cleanse, and it has generally either a plug and
chain to close its outlet, or a side plug oper-
ated by a knob above the slab. Both of these
are wholly objectionable. The links of the
chain and the ring and attachments of the
plug become fouled with soapy matters,
and it is difficult to cleanse them. Prac-
tically they are generally nasty. To shake
a filthy chain in a basin of clear water would
be a very untidy preliminary to ablution.
This is substantially what we do when we
let water with some force directly into
a basin in which a dirty chain is hanging.
The side plug seems to be much nicer ; it is
really less nice. There is a befouled waste-
pipe leading from the outlet to the plug,
in communication with a slime-coated over-
flow channel rising above the plug. This pipe
it is practically impossible to cleanse. Its
filth is constantly undergoing decomposition.
Whenever the bowl is emptied it becomes
filled with air; when the plug is closed and
the bowl is filled, this air is driven in bubbles
with some violence into the bowl. Not in-
frequently flakes of the sliming matter come
with it. The only really cleanly device that I
have yet seen is what is known as " Weaver's
Waste," where the plug fits closely into the
outlet, forming part of the bottom of the ba-
sin, and is opened by being raised from below.
It does not get over, and it may slightly ag-
gravate, the objection to the hidden overflow;
but it does enable us to wash in a clean ves-
sel. I am now experimenting with a small
fixed basin which is simply an earthenware
funnel without plug or overflow. At its top
stands a movable wash-bowl to be filled from
the supply-cocks in the usual manner. The
bowl is emptied by pouring its contents into
the funnel. That this will prove a practical
success is not yet demonstrated.
WATER-CLOSETS.
Water-closets have naturally been the sub-
ject of more ingenuity, and of more argument,
than anything else connected with the whole
subject of house-drainage. It is hardly nec-
essary at this late date to say anything to
the limited public which reads on such sub-
jects about the absolute inadmissibility of the
almost universal pan-closet, which is still the
great favorite of landlords and of builders,
and which, in spite of its complication and
intricacy, is still, owing to the great demand
for it, sold more cheaply, and therefore more
widely, than any other. It is enough to say
that those who care for safety in drain-
age works will neither adopt it in new con-
struction nor retain it where it already exists.
It is not, and it cannot be made, a safe water-
closet. To a greater or less degree, the ob-
jections to it hold in the case of every other
closet in the market which has anywhere in
the course of its outlet anything of the nature
of a valve or moving part.
It is not an overstatement of the universal
conviction of skillful sanitarians to say that
the range of unexceptionable water-closets is
limited to such as have a free water-way from
the bowl to the soil-pipe, depending for their
trapping, and in some cases for their holding
of a bowlful of water, on an elevation of the
overflow point. These may be classed in a
general way as " hopper " closets. The sim-
plest form of this closet is a funnel-shaped vase
reaching from the floor to the seat. At the
bottom it is connected with an S trap, having a
depth of seal generally of from three-fourths of
an inch to an inch and a half. This is a cheap
and good utensil for the commoner uses. It is
made of earthenware or of enameled iron,
and in its best form its rear portion is nearly
or quite vertical. What is known as the
" short hopper," made of iron or of earthen-
ware, has a shallow bowl, with a trap rising at
its side and entirely above the floor.
Pursuing the plan already announced, to
avoid anything like a cataloguing of plumb-
ers' supplies, and referring to what has al-
ready been said about my own inventions, I
give herewith, as an illustration of the better
class of closets, a vertical cross-section of the
Dececo closet with its trap and discharging
siphon. In this closet I have tried to over-
come the objections to the mechanical or
valve closets, while retaining the advantages
of a deep bowlful of water for the reception
of deposits and the suppression of odor. It
THE PRINCIPLES AND PRACTICE OF HOUSE-DRAINAGE. 263
has a seal about four inches deep, a depth
of water of nearly seven inches, disposed in
the most useful way, and a sufficient submer-
sion of the main part of the bowl. While it is
possible under strong siphonage to reduce the
depth of its water considerably, it is not pos-
sible, under any conditions that can occur in
practice, to break its seal, the rising limb
being sufficiently large to give an adequate
passage to a continuous stream of air without
removing the water to such a point as to
unseal the trap. It has the further advantage
that its seal is in full view and is always under
control. When it seems to be right it is right.
The peculiar operation on which it depends
for its discharge is due to the use of an outlet
weir below the floor, which is the invention
of Mr. Rogers Field, an English engineer.
It is, in fact, a modified Field's flush-tank.
THE DECECO WATER-CLOSET.
The outer or discharging limb of the siphon
reaches down into the weir-chamber. The
depth of seal is the distance from the surface
of the water in the bowl to the top of the
intake X, and this is regulated by the height
of the overflow point O. The closet is sup-
plied with water through an ordinary flushing-
rim, connected with a service-box or cistern
overhead. The cistern is operated by a pen-
dent pull. When the pull is drawn down, a
copious supply of water flows into all parts
of the bowl through the flushing-rim, washing
it completely and raising the level of its water
rapidly. The surplus overflows at O faster
than it can be discharged over the weir-top
T, without rising so high as to close the open-
ing at Y. This closure shuts off" the air in the
siphon from the air in the soil-pipe, with which
it is ordinarily in communication. The water
flowing through the long limb of the siphon,
in an irregular stream, carries the air with it,
and there is soon established a strong siphon
action, which continues until the water in the
bowl descends below the top of the intake X.
Then air is admitted at this point, and the
flow through the siphon is checked. The dis-
charge at T continuing, the water in the weir-
chamber soon falls sufficiently to allow air to
enter at Y and empty the siphon. The con-
tents of that part of the siphon between X
and O fall back and establish an immediate
hydraulic seal at the intake. The service-box
is so arranged that after the main supply is
stopped a small stream continues to be dis-
charged into the bowl until it is filled to the
height of the overflow point.
It was evident from long and suc-
cessful experience with Field's flush-
tank, that the principle on which this
closet is constructed is a perfectly cor-
rect one. It has undergone few changes
since its original construction three
years ago, and the several hundred
closets now in use are invariably satis-
factory. So far as I can see, it accom-
plishes perfectly every purpose for
which a water-closet, slop-hopper, or
urinal is required. In practice, it uses
at each operation over two and a half
gallons of water, which gives a thor-
ough flushing to the soil-pipe and drain,
while it has the great advantage of
sending a good part of its discharge
through the soil-pipe in advance of the
foul matters, lubricating their passage
through the whole drainage system.
Although this considerable volume of
water is essential to its complete effi-
ciency, the closet may be emptied by
pouring into it suddenly less than two
quarts of water. A large pail of slops
thrown into the closet as rapidly as pos-
sible fails to overflow it, and barrels of
water might be poured through it in succes-
sion as fast as the three-inch outlet can dis-
charge it.
The setting of water-closets in the best
manner is most easily secured when hopper or
other plain closets are used. By the best man-
ner, I mean such setting as requires the mini-
mum of carpentry, preferably nothing whatever
but a single well-finished hard-wood plank
with a hole through it, resting on cleats at the
sides and hinged to be turned back out of
the way. It is better that there should not
even be a cover to the hole. The entire closet,
inside and out, should be as thoroughly exposed
to view, to ventilation, and to perfect cleansing
264 THE PRINCIPLES AND PRACTICE OF HOUSE-DRAINAGE.
as possible. If the floor and back and side
walls be covered with glazed tiles, — preferably
white, — so much the better ; but a cheap and
satisfactory setting is secured by a slate floor-
ing with hard-wood finish around the sides.
Even oil-cloth on the floor, and the ordinary
base-board and plaster at the sides and back,
answer a very good purpose ; the great thing
is to have a perfect exposure to sight and air.
The costly housing-in of the closet by a close
seat and cover and a close riser in front may
serve a very good purpose as an ornamental
piece of cabinet-work, but this too often cov-
ers a condition of things that no fastidious
housekeeper would knowingly tolerate. Slop-
page,leakage, andthe tainted air rising through
the irregular holes left for the soil-pipe, unite
to make this space untidy and in every way ob-
jectionable. Some sort of housing-in is neces-
sary with closets which have machinery about
them, but the whole class of hopper closets
may be entirely free from anything or any con-
dition to make such concealment desirable.
SINKS AND OTHER DETAILS.
Kitchen and pantry sinks are used for
the discharge of matters which in their origi-
nal condition are not offensive, so that they
are, in the popular estimation, of much less
serious consequence to the sanitary condition
of the house than are water-closets. This tem-
porary different condition, however, of the mat-
ters which they receive, very soon gives place
to a similar condition of the matters which
they have discharged. After a little retention,
putrefaction sets in, and the refuse food of the
sink becomes as offensive and objectionable
as does the digested food of the water-
closet. In the one case as in the other, it is
very important to secure a complete removal
of all foul matters well beyond the house be-
fore putrefaction. The liability to detention
and deposit is much greater in the case of the
sink than in the case of the closet, for the
reason that, with much less flushing, there is
discharged through its waste-pipe a consider-
able amount of heated and temporarily lique-
fied grease. This grease passes the strainer of
the sink and is unnoticed, but, as it cools along
its course, it attaches itself to the sides of the
pipe in constantly increasing accumulations,
until the channel is often nearly or quite ob-
structed. It is by no means pure grease that is
thus attached. In its congelation there are in-
volved particles of highly putrescible matters,
and the ordinary kitchen-sink waste-pipe is
the seat of a constant decomposition, —
mostly beyond the trap, and for this reason
not especially noticeable.
Not to get rid of the putrefaction, but to
prevent the obstruction of the pipe, there
have been invented various forms of grease-
trap, having for their purpose the hardening
of the grease under conditions which will
allow it to be removed. These grease- traps
would answer a better purpose than they do
if we could depend on their being regularly
attended to ; but so long as water will flow
from the sink, servants will give themselves
but little trouble about such accumulations.
I have employed a device that has now
been in considerable use for several years,
which seems to meet the requirements of the
THE DECECO FLUSH-POT FOR SINKS.
case quite completely. There is built beneath
the sink, and in connection with it, a " flush-
pot " large enough to hold several gallons of
water. Its top is covered by a strainer, about
eight inches in diameter, and pierced with
large holes. This constitutes a portion of the
floor of the sink. The outlet of the flush-pot
is closed with a plug like a wash-basin plug,
which is attached to a spindle rising through
the strainer. The outlet is connected with
the drain by a small pipe, having a common
trap, which is useful only during the short
periods when the plug is withdrawn. Ordi-
narily the outlet stands closed. Water thrown
HIDDEN OVERFLOW OF BATH.
THE PRINCIPLES AND PRACTICE OE HOUSE-DRAINAGE. 265
into the sink flows through the strainer, leav-
ing all coarser substances to be brushed up
and burned in the range* Little by little, the
flush-pot becomes rilled, and during this slow
process most of the grease becomes congealed.
When it is nearly full the water can be seen,
even before it reaches the strainer. Then the
spindle and plug are raised and held up until
the gurgling of air through the trap indicates
that the pot is empty. Then the outlet is
closed and the filling begins again. The
strainer and spindle may be lifted out to-
gether, exposing the whole interior of the
flush-pot, which may thus be given a daily
cleansing and kept in as good order as any
iron vessel in the kitchen. The theory of the
success of this apparatus is very simple.
There is absolutely nothing running through
the waste-pipe except during the moment
when the flush-pot is being discharged, and
then the whole mass flows with such force
as to carry everything with it.
At my own house, having occasion to in-
spect the main drain (diameter three inches),
I found that neither a copiously supplied
water-closet nor a bath-tub had such flushing
effect as had the discharge of the flush-pot in
the kitchen. Its flow filled the drain more
than half full with a stream of good velocity.
overflows.
Overflows, intended for the safe removal
of surplus water from bath-tubs, wash-bowls,
etc., are necessarily on the house side of the
trap. They are practically never reached by
a strong flushing stream, and their walls ac-
cumulate filth and slime to a degree that would
hardly be believed. They constitute the nas-
tiest element of modern house-drainage of the
better order. Perhaps they are not a serious
source of danger, but they are, more often than
any other part of the plumbing work, except
the urinal, the source of the offensive drain-
smell so often observed on first coming into a
house from the fresh air.
In the stationary wash-basin as at present
arranged, there seems to be no easy way to
get over the difficulty, a difficulty which of
itself should be a sufficient reason for exclud-
ing these fixtures from sleeping-rooms. The
basin overflow is. objectionable for substan-
tially the same reason that the bath-tub over-
flow is objectionable, though perhaps to a
slighter degree owing to the smaller surface
exposed to the accumulation of deposits.
The concealed overflow of the bath-tub
may, fortunately, be dispensed with, and in
this case the difficulty inseparable from the
arrangement may be obviated. It will, per-
haps, be instructive to illustrate by a diagram
the reason why the usual hidden overflow is
so objectionable. In this cut, A is the waste-
pipe at the bottom of the tub, by which its con-
tents are discharged on the withdrawal of the
plug. B is the overflow pipe, its connection with
the tub being through a perforated screen. C
is the trap by which the waste-pipe is shut off
from the drainage system, and which has in-
cidentally the effect of retarding the flow of
water through the waste-pipe. If we suppose
the tub to be filled to the level of the overflow
and its waste-plug to be removed, the water
will immediately rise in the overflow pipe to
very nearly its height in the tub. It is of
course impregnated with the impurities of the
water in the bath. Furthermore, the lighter
particles of organic matter flowing through
the waste will, some of them, rise by their
levity into the overflow pipe. The water
rushes up into this pipe with much force, but
it descends only very slowly as the level in
the bath descends, so that at each operation
there is a tendency to deposit adhesive mat-
ters to the walls of the pipe. What is so de-
posited decomposes and escapes little by little
in a gaseous form through the perforated screen
into the air of the room. The amount of these
decomposing matters is somewhat increased,
though probably not very much, by floating
particles passing through the screen when the
overflow is performing its legitimate function.
This is the simplest statement of the prop-
osition, and this is perhaps the least objection-
able form of hidden overflow. Where the
* This simple cremation of the worst elements of house-garbage costs no money and little trouble. It
Solves one of the difficult domestic problems.
266 THE PRINCIPLES AND PRACTICE OF HOUSE-DRAINAGE.
waste-pipe is closed at the bottom of the over-
flow by a plug or valve attached to a spindle
rising through the overflow-pipe, — a very
favorite device with some plumbers, — the diffi-
culty is in every way aggravated and the
amount of fouled surface is much increased.
The inherent defect here illustrated attaches
to every overflow of this general character
connected with any part of the plumbing
STANDING OVERFLOW AND PLUG FOR BOTH.
work. In the case of a bath-tub it may very
easily be avoided, as shown in the next dia-
gram, by doing away entirely with the over-
flow-pipe B and its perforated screen, and using
for the closure of the waste-outlet A, as a
substitute for the ordinary plug, a pipe fitting
into the outlet and rising to the height desired
for the water in the bath. If the upper end of
this pipe be given a trumpet-shaped opening,
its capacity will be increased. Unfortunately,
such a substitute for the ordinary overflow is
not applicable to wash-bowls as now made. It
may be made available for pantry sinks if the
pipe can be so placed in a corner as not to
interfere with the proper use of the vessel. If
its universal adoption for bath-tubs could be
secured, a very wide-spread source of mild nui-
sance would be done away with. Fortunately,
it is far cheaper than any arrangement for
which it is a substitute. It is one of its inci-
dental uses that it enables us to get rid of the
dirty chain attached to the ordinary bath-plug.
Weaver's waste, which is one of the best de-
vices for closing the outlet of an ordinary
wash-basin, is also arranged for the bath. In
neither case does it in any respect modify the
objection to a foul overflow.
Stop-cocks need no especial notice in this
paper, except in connection with bath-tubs.
Most, if not all, of the English earthenware
bath-tubs imported into this country, and
many even of the planished, copper, and
enameled iron tubs made here, are furnished
with an ingenious device for delivering the
supply near the bottom of the tub in such a
manner as to mix the hot and cold water at
the delivery and to admit the supply with
little noise. The last may be an advantage.
The first may be perfectly accomplished by
delivering the hot and cold water through a
single nozzle at the top of the tub in a con-
venient position for drawing water for other
uses. There are doubtless many cases where
the bottom delivery of the supply may be free
from sanitary objections, but they are fewer
than would be supposed, and it seems strange
that the frequent serious objection to the ar-
rangement should have been so generally over-
looked. This bottom delivery is substantially
a cock for drawing water, and all who use
such cocks for filling wash-bowls must have
noticed a frequent indraft of air when the cock
is open. Water being drawn from the lower
part of the supply-pipe, the head in the upper
part is annihilated, and if a cock is opened the
water falls in the supply-pipe, air rushing in to
take its place. The indraft of air is not of
much consequence, but the indraft of a pipe-
ful of dirty water from a bath-tub does not
suggest a pleasant modification of the quality
of the water-supply of the house. In this case,
as in many others, an apparent mechanical
improvement, securing only incidental bene-
fits, should be discouraged. In my judgment
the only perfectly safe and satisfactory ar-
rangement for baths thus far devised is one
by which the water is drawn through a faucet
above the water-line, and by which the outlet
is closed by a stand-pipe serving as the only
overflow of the tub.
Laundry Trays, as they are now almost
universally arranged, are hardly to be regarded
as a conspicuous element of the sanitary works
of a house. There are few cases in which we
find anything about them that is seriously ob-
jectionable. With them, as with sinks, water-
closets, and wash-basins, it is best to avoid all
unnecessary carpentry. It is, of course, best
that they should be made of some other ma-
terial than wood, — either slate, cement, or
earthenware. Earthenware tubs, supported
on galvanized iron legs and surrounded by a
simple border of hard wood, seem to ask for
no improvement.
AN EXAMPLE.
Simplicity in house-drainage and a
marked contrast to the multiplication and
complication so often found in the better class
of houses, are illustrated in the case of a very
THE DREAM OF DREAMS.
267
fine and costly house of which I am now
superintending the plumbing work. It has
in the basement one kitchen-sink with the
flush-pot, and four laundry-tubs. The main
soil-pipe runs under the basement floor near
both of these ; it is of extra-heavy iron, leaded
and tested under pressure to absolute tight-
ness. It is then, so far as it lies below the
floor, completely encased in Portland cement
mortar, and this, again, in well-made concrete ;
it turns up near the laundry-tubs, and near
the ceiling it receives a branch pipe coming
from a lavatory on the first floor, twenty-five
feet away; it then passes through the floor
and receives the waste of the flush-pot of the
pantry sink ; rising to the ceiling, it receives
the waste of a bath-tub and wash-stand on
one side, and on the other the waste of a
Dececo water-closet and wash-stand ; passing
through the next floor, it receives the wastes
of the fixtures in the servants' bath-room, — a
straight hopper closet and bath-tub and a
wash-stand ; above the ceiling of that room its
four inches size is increased to six inches, and
it passes with this larger diameter a short dis-
tance through the roof, its top being closed
by a large wire basket inserted in the hub of
the six-inch pipe ; the branch pipe under the
ceiling of the cellar is connected with a Dececo
closet and a wash-stand in the lavatory, and is
continued up, without other connections, to
its increaser and a six- inch top joint through
the roof. This is the full complement of the
drainage appliances which, in accordance with
modern ideas, it was thought necessary and
wise to introduce into a house which, even
five years ago, would have had twice as many
closets and baths, and at least four times as
many wash-basins, to say nothing of two or
three urinals and one or two house-maid's
sinks. The whole cost of the work to be done,
including all water-supply and heating, and
the outside connection with the sewer of six
roof-water conductors, is just about one thou-
sand dollars. Under the old method, suppos-
ing the same material and workmanship to be
used, and considering the long lateral waste-
pipes and hot and cold water and circulation
pipes of the different baths and basins, the
cost would hardly have been less than twenty-
five hundred dollars. The saving of cost
effected is, in my judgment, of much less
consequence than the simplicity secured.
In the foregoing remarks, it has by no
means been attempted to give full directions
for the guidance of house-drainage work, but
rather to set forth certain points for the in-
formation of house-builders. The plumber is,
and, with the general public, will long re-
main, the final authority in the decision of
all questions arising. The better plumbers —
those who keep themselves intelligently in-
formed as to improvements in their art — will
be a very useful authority; all plumbers,
when brought face to face with the average
householder, are a masterful authority, and
their control is generally complete. The in-
formation given in these two papers may,
now and then, either aid them to better judg-
ment, or enable their clients to modify their
practices in some important respects.
George E. Waring, Jr.
■0 »<*
THE DREAM OF DREAMS.
"We are such stuff as dreams are made of."
Behold an image of the dream of dreams ; —
A child woke in a meadow garlanded
With many a flower, the tired bee's balmy bed
And nectarous feast ; oft-interlaced streams
Through green leaves smiled with blue, alluring gleams
Of liquid light ; the birds sang overhead,
And on the land the lavish sun-god shed
The gold wherewith his Eldorado teems.
But when, grown gray, the child, with weary feet,
Pressed near the meadow's heart, to take his rest,
Song lulled, intoxicate with odors sweet,
An earthquake shock uptore its bloomy breast,
And lo ! a gulf ! fierce blasts of poisonous heat,
And all that beauty by black death possessed !
C. T. Dazey,
AN ADVENTURE OF HUCKLEBERRY FINN:
WITH AN ACCOUNT OF THE FAMOUS GRANGERFORD-SHEPHERDSON FEUD.
BY MARK TWAIN.
[The following episode is taken from an
unpublished book called "The Adventures
of Huckleberry Finn, Tom Sawyer's Com-
rade." A word will explain the situation : The
negro Jim is escaping from slavery in Missouri,
and Huck Finn is running away from a drunk-
en father, who maltreats him. The two fugitives
are floating down the Mississippi on a frag-
ment of a lumber-raft, doing their voyaging by
night and hiding themselves and the raft in
the day-time. When this chapter opens they
have already floated four hundred miles — a
trip which has occupied ten or twelve adven-
turous nights. Readers who have met Huck
Finn before (in " Tom Sawyer ") will not be
surprised to note that whenever Huck is
caught in a close place and is obliged to
explain, the truth gets well crippled before
he gets through. — M. T.]
Here is the way we put in the time. It was
a monstrous big river down there — some-
times a mile and a half wide. We run nights,
and laid up and hid day-times ; soon as night
was most gone, we stopped navigating and
tied up — nearly always in the dead water
under a tow-head ; and then cut young cotton-
woods and willows and hid the raft with them.
Then we set out the lines. Next we slid into
the river and had a swim, so as to freshen up
and cool off; then we set down on the sandy
bottom where the water was about knee-deep,
and watched the daylight come. Not a sound
anywheres — perfectly still — just like the whole
world was asleep, only sometimes the bull-
frogs a-cluttering, may be. The first thing to
see, looking away over the water, was a kind of
dull line — that was the woods on t'other
side — you couldn't make nothing else out;
then a pale place in the sky ; then more pale-
ness, spreading around ; then the river soft-
ened up, away off, and warn't black any more,
but gray; you could see little dark spots
drifting along, ever so far away — trading
scows, and such things; and long black
streaks — rafts ; sometimes you could hear a
sweep screaking, or jumbled-up voices, it was
so still, and sounds come so far; and by and by
you could see a streak on the water which you
know by the look of the streak that there's a
snag there in a swift current which breaks on it
and makes that streak look that way ; and you
see the mist curl up offof the water, and the east
reddens up, and the river, and you make out
a log cabin in the edge of the woods, away
on the bank on t'other side of the river, being
a wood-yard, likely, and piled by them cheats
so you can throw a dog through it anywheres ;
then the nice breeze springs up, and comes
fanning you from over there, so cool and fresh,
and sweet to smell, on account of the woods
and the flowers ; but sometimes not that way,
because they've left dead fish laying around,
gars, and such, and they do get pretty rank ;
and next you've got the full day, and every-
thing smiling in the sun, and the song-birds
just going it !
A little smoke couldn't be noticed now,
so we would take some fish off of the lines
and cook up a hot breakfast. And afterward
we would watch the lonesomeness of the river,
and kind of lazy along, and by and by lazy
off to sleep. Wake up by and by, and look
to see what done it, and may be see a steam-
boat, coughing along up stream, so far off
toward the other side you couldn't tell nothing
about her only whether she was stern-wheel
or side- wheel ; then for about an hour there
wouldn't be nothing to hear nor nothing to see
— just solid lonesomeness. Next you'd see a
raft sliding by, away off yonder, and may be a
galoot on it chopping, because they're most
always doing it on a raft ; you'd see the axe
flash, and come down — you don't hear
nothing ; you see that axe go up again, and by
the time it's above the man's head, then you
hear the K chunk ! — it had took all that time
to come over the water. So we would put in
the day, lazying around, listening to the still-
ness. Once there was a thick fog, and the rafts
and things that went by was beating tin pans so
the steam-boats wouldn't run over them. A
scow or a raft went by so close we could hear
them talking and cussing and laughing —
heard them plain; but we couldn't see no
sign of them; it made you feel crawly, it
was like spirits carrying on that way in the
air.
We shoved out, after dark, on the raft.
AN ADVENTURE OE HUCKLEBERRY EINN.
:6g
The place to buy canoes is off of rafts lay-
ing up at shore. But we didn't see no rafts
laying up; so we went along during three
hours and more. Well, the night got gray,
and ruther thick, which is the next meanest
thing to fog. You can't tell the shape of the
river, and you can't see no distance. It got
to be very late and still, and then along comes
a steam-boat up the river. We lit the lantern
and judged she would see it. Up-stream
boats didn't generly come close to us ; they
go out and follow the bars and hunt for easy
water under the reefs ; but nights like this
they bull right up the channel against the
whole river.
We could hear her pounding along, but we
didn't see her good till she was close. She
aimed right for us. Often they do that, and
try to see how close they can come without
touching; sometimes the wheel bites off a
sweep, and then the pilot sticks his head out
and laughs, and thinks he's mighty smart.
Well, here she comes, and we said she was
going to try to shave us ; but she didn't seem
to be sheering off a bit. She was a big one,
and she was coming in a hurry, too, looking
like a black cloud with rows of glow-worms
around it ; but all of a sudden she bulged out,
big and scary, with a long row of wide-open
furnace doors shining like red-hot teeth, and
her monstrous bows and guards hanging right
over us. There was a yell at us, and a jingling
of bells to stop the engines, a pow-wow of
cussing, and whistling of steam — and as Jim
went overboard on one side and I on the
other, she come smashing straight through
the raft.
I dived — and I aimed to find the bottom, too,
for a thirty-foot wheel had got to go over me,
and I wanted it to have plenty of room. I
could always stay under water a minute ; this
time I reckon I staid under water a minute
and a half. Then I bounced for the top in a
hurry, for I was nearly busting. I popped
out to my arm-pits and blowed the water out
of my nose, and puffed a bit. Of course there
was a booming current ; and of course that
boat started her engines again ten seconds
after she stopped them, for they never cared
much for raftsmen ; so now she was churning
along up the river, out of sight in the thick
weather, though I could hear her.
I sung out for Jim about a dozen times, but
I didn't get any answer ; so I grabbed a plank
that touched me while I was treading water,
and struck out for shore, shoving it ahead of
me. But I made out to see that the drift of
the current was toward the left-hand shore,
which meant that I was in a crossing; so I
changed off and went that way.
It was one of these long, slanting, two-mile
crossings ; so I was a good long time in get-
ting over. I made a safe landing and clum
up the bank. I couldn't see but a little ways,
but I went poking along over rough ground
for a quarter of a mile or more, and then I
run across a big old-fashioned double log house
before I noticed it. I was going to rush by
and get away, but a lot of dogs jumped out
and went to howling and barking at me, and
I knowed better than to move another peg.
iV'.fC
who's there ? "
In about half a minute somebody spoke
out of a window, without putting his head
out, and says :
" Be done, boys ! Who's there ? "
I says :
" It's me."
" Who's me ? "
" George Jackson, sir."
" What do you want ? "
" I don't want nothing, sir. I only want to
go along by, but the dogs wont let me."
" What are you prowling around here this
time of night for — hey ? "
" I warn't prowling around, sir ; I fell over-
board off of the steam-boat."
" Oh, you did, did you ? Strike a light
there, somebody. What did you say your
name was ? "
" George Jackson, sir. I'm only a boy."
" Look here ; if you're telling the truth, you
needn't be afraid — nobody'll hurt you. But
don't try to budge; stand right where you
270
AN ADVENTURE OF HUCKLEBERRY FINN.
are. Rouse out Bob and Tom, some of you,
and fetch the guns. George Jackson, is there
anybody with you ? "
" No, sir; nobody."
I heard the people stirring around in the
house now, and see a light. The man sung
out:
" Snatch that light away, Betsy, you old
fool — aint you got any sense ? Put it on the
floor behind the front door. Bob, if you and
Tom are ready, take your places."
"All ready."
" Now, George Jackson, do you know the
Shepherdsons ? "
" No, sir — I never heard of them."
" Well, that may be so, and it mayn't.
Now, all ready. Step forward, George Jack-
son. And mind, don't you hurry — come
mighty slow. If there's anybody with you,
let him keep back ; if he shows himself he'll
be shot. Come along, now. Come slow;
push the door open yourself — just enough
to squeeze in, d'you hear ? "
I didn't hurry ; I couldn't if I'd 'a' wanted
to. I took one slow step at a time, and there
warn't a sound, only I thought I could hear
my heart. The dogs were as still as the
humans, but they followed a little behind
me. When I got to the three log door-steps,
I heard them unlocking and unbarring and
unbolting. I put my hand on the door and
pushed it a little and a little more, till some-
body said, "There, that's enough — put your
head in." I done it, but I judged they would
take it off.
The candle was on the floor, and there
they all was, looking at me, and me at them,
for about a quarter of a minute. Three big
men with guns pointed at me, which made
me wince, I tell you; the oldest, gray and
about sixty, the other two thirty or more —
all of them fine and handsome — and the
sweetest old gray-headed lady, and back of
her two young women, which I couldn't see
right well. The old gentleman says :
"There — I reckon it's all right. Come
in."
As soon as I was in, the old gentleman he
locked the door and barred it and bolted it,
and told the young men to come in with
their guns, and they all went in a big parlor
that had a new rag carpet on the floor, and
got together in a corner that was out of range
of the front windows — there warn't none on
the side. They held the candle, and took a
good look at me, and all said, " Why, he aint
a Shepherdson — no, there aint any Shep-
herdson about him." Then the old man said
he hoped I wouldn't mind being searched
for arms, because he didn't mean no harm by
it — it was only to make sure. So he didn't
pry into my pockets, but only felt outside
with his hand, and said it was all right. He
told me to make myself easy and at home,
and tell all about myself; but the old lady
says:
" Why, bless you, Saul, the poor thing's as
wet as he can be; and don't you reckon it
may be he's hungry ? "
"True for you, Rachel — I forgot."
So the old lady says :
" Betsy " (this was a nigger woman), " you
fly around and get him something to eat, as
quick as you can, poor thing ; and one of you
girls go and wake up Buck and tell him —
Oh, here he is himself. Buck, take this little
stranger and get the wet clothes off from himy
and dress him up in some of yours that's
dry."
Buck looked about as old as me — thirteen
or fourteen or along there, though he was a
little bigger than me. He hadn't on anything
but a shirt, and he was very frowsy-headed.
He come in gaping, and digging one fist into
his eyes, and he was dragging a gun along
with the other one. He says :
" Aint they no Shepherdsons around ? "
They said, no, 'twas a false alarm.
" Well," he says, " if they'd 'a' b'en some. I
reckon I'd 'a' got one."
They all laughed, and Bob says :
" Why, Buck, they might have scalped us
all, you've been so slow in coming."
" Well, nobody come after me, and it aint
right. I'm always kep' down; I don't get no
show."
" Never mind, Buck, my boy," says the old
man, " you'll have show enough, all in good
time; don't you fret about that. Go 'long
with you now, and do as your mother told
you."
When we got upstairs to his room he got
me a coarse shirt and a roundabout and pants
of his, and I put them on. While I was at it
he asked me what my name was, but before
I could tell him he started to telling me about
a blue jay and a young rabbit he had catched
in the woods day before yesterday, and he
asked me where Moses was when the candle
went out. I said I didn't know ; I hadn't
heard about it before, noway.
" Well, guess," he says.
"How'm I going to guess," says I, " when
I never heard tell about it before ? "
" But you can guess, can't you ? It's just as
easy."
" Which candle ? " I says.
" Why, any candle," he says.
" I don't know where he was," says I ;
" where was he ? "
" Why, he was in the dark ! That's where
he was ! "
AN ADVENTURE OE HUCKLEBERRY FINN.
271
" Well, if you knowed where he was, what
did you ask me for ? "
" Why, blame it, it's a riddle, don't you
see ? Say, how long are you going to stay
here ? You got to stay always. We can just
have booming times — they don't have no
school now. Do you own a dog ? I've got a
dog — and he'll go in the river and bring out
chips that you throw in. Do you like to comb
up Sundays, and all that kind of foolishness ?
You bet I don't, but ma she makes me. Con-
found these ole britches ! I reckon I'd better
put 'em on, but I'd ruther not, it's so warm.
Are you all ready ? All right — come along,
old hoss."
Cold corn-pone, cold corn-beef, butter and
butter-milk — that is what they had for me
down there, and there aint nothing better
that ever I've come across yet. Buck and his
ma and all of them smoked cob pipes, except
the nigger woman, which was gone, and the
two young women. They all smoked and
talked, and I eat and talked. The young
women had quilts around them, and their hair
down their backs. They all asked me ques-
tions, and I told them how pap and me and
all the family was living on a little farm down
at the bottom of Arkansaw, and my sister
Mary Ann run off and got married and never
was heard of no more, and Bill went to hunt
them and he warn't heard of no more, and
Tom and Mort died, and then there warn't
nobody but just me and pap left, and he was
just trimmed down to nothing on account of
his troubles ; so when he died I took what
there was left, because the farm didn't belong
to us, and started up the river, deck passage,
and fell overboard ; and that was how I come
to be here. So they said I could have a home
there as long as I wanted it. Then it was
most daylight, and everybody went to bed,
and I went to bed with Buck, and when I
waked up in the morning, drat it all, I had
forgot what my name was. So I laid there
about an hour trying to think, and when Buck
waked up, I says :
" Can you spell, Buck ? "
" Yes," he says.
" I bet you can't spell my name," says I.
" I bet you what you dare I can," says he.
" All right," says I ; " go ahead."
" G-o-r-g-e J-a-x-o-n — there now," he
says.
" Well," says I, " you done it, but I didn't
think you could. It aint no slouch of a name
to spell — right off without studying."
I set it down, private, because somebody
might want me to spell it next, and so I wanted
to be handy with it and rattle it off like I was
used to it.
It was a mighty nice family, and a mighty
nice house, too. I hadn't seen no house out in
the country before that was so nice and had
so much style. It didn't have an iron latch
on the front door, nor a wooden one with a
buckskin string, but a brass knob to turn, the
same as houses in a town. There warn't no
bed in the parlor, not a sign of a bed ; but
heaps of parlors in towns has beds in them.
There was a big fire-place that was bricked on
the bottom, and the bricks was kept clean
and red by pouring water on them and scrub-
bing them with another brick ; sometimes
they washed them over with red water-paint
that they call Spanish-brown, same as they
do in town. They had big brass dog-irons
that could hold up a saw-log. There was a
clock on the middle of the mantel-piece, with
a picture of a town painted on the bottom
half of the glass front, and a round place in
the middle of it for the sun, and you could
see the pendulum swing behind it. It was
beautiful to hear that clock tick ; and some-
times when one of these peddlers had been
along and scoured her up and got her in good
shape, she would start in and strike a hundred
and fifty before she got tuckered out. They
wouldn't took any money for her.
Well, there was a big outlandish parrot on
each side of the clock, made out of some-
thing like chalk, and painted up gaudy. By
one of the parrots was a cat made of crock-
ery, and a crockery dog by the other; and
when you pressed down on them they
squeaked, but didn't open their mouths nor
look different nor interested. They squeaked
through underneath. There was a couple of
big wild-turkey-wing fans spread out behind
those things. On a table in the middle of the
room was a kind of a lovely crockery basket
that had apples and oranges and peaches and
grapes piled up in it which was much redder
and yellower and prettier than real ones is,
but they warn't real, because you could see
where pieces had got chipped off and showed
the white chalk or whatever it was under-
neath.
This table had a cover made out of beau-
tiful oil-cloth, with a red and blue spread-eagle
painted on it, and a painted border all around.
It come all the way from Philadelphia, they
said. There was some books too, piled up
perfectly exact, on each corner of the table.
One was a big family Bible, full of pictures.
One was " Pilgrim's Progress," about a man
that left his family it didn't say why. I read
considerable in it now and then. The state-
ments was interesting, but tough. Another
was " Friendship's Offering," full of beautiful
stuff and poetry ; but I didn't read the poetry.
Another was Henry Clay's Speeches, and
another was Dr. Gunn's Family Medicine,
27:
AN ADVENTURE OF HUCKLEBERRY FINN.
which told you all about what to do if a body
was sick or dead. There was a Hymn Book,
and a lot of other books. And there was nice
split-bottom chairs, and perfectly sound, too —
not bagged down in the middle and busted,
like an old basket.
They had pictures hung on the walls —
mainly Washingtons and Lafayettes, and bat-
tles, and Highland Marys, and one called
"Signing the Declaration." There was some
that they called crayons, which one of the
daughters which was dead made her own
self when she was only fifteen years old.
They was different from any pictures I ever
see before — blacker, mostly, than is common.
One was a woman in a slim black dress, belted
small under the arm-pits, with bulges like a
cabbage in the middle of the sleeves, and a
large black scoop-shovel bonnet with a black
veil, and white slim ankles crossed about
with black tape, and very wee black slippers,
like a chisel, and she was leaning pensive on
a tombstone on her right elbow, under a
weeping willow, and her other hand hanging
down her side holding a white handkerchief
and a reticule ; and underneath the picture it
said " Shall I Never See Thee More Alas."
Another one was a young lady with her hair
all combed up straight to the top of her head,
and knotted there in front of a comb like a
chair-back, and she was crying into a hand-
kerchief, and had a dead bird laying on its
back in her other hand with its heels up, and
underneath the picture it said " I Shall Never
Hear Thy Sweet Chirrup More Alas." There
was one where a young lady was at a window
looking up at the moon, and tears running
down her cheeks ; and she had an open letter
in one hand, with black sealing-wax showing
on one edge of it, and she was mashing a
locket with a chain to it against her mouth;
and underneath the picture it said " And Art
Thou Gone Yes Thou Art Gone Alas."
These was all nice pictures, I reckon, but I
didn't somehow seem to take to them, be-
cause if ever I was down a little, they always
give me the fan-tods. Everybody was sorry
she died, because she had laid out a lot more
of these pictures to do, and a body could see
by what she had done what they had lost.
But I reckoned that, with her disposition, she
was having a better time in the graveyard.
She was at work on what they said was her
greatest picture when she took sick, and
every day and every night it was her prayer
to be allowed to live till she got it done, but
she never got the chance. It was a picture
of a young woman in a long white gown,
standing on the rail of a bridge all ready to
jump off, with her hair all down her back,
and looking up to the moon, with the tears
running down her face, and she had two arms
folded across her breast, and two arms
stretched out in front, and two more reaching
up towards the moon — and the idea was to
see which pair would look best and then
scratch out all the other arms ; but, as I was
saying, she died before she got her mind
made up, and now they kept this picture over
the head of the bed in her room, and every
time her birthday come they hung flowers on
it. Other times it was hid with a little curtain.
The young woman in the picture had a kind
of a nice sweet face, but there was so many
arms it made her look too spidery, seemed
to me.
This young girl kept a scrap-book when
she was alive, and used to paste obituaries
and accidents and cases of patient suffering
in it out of the " Presbyterian Observer," and
write poetry after them out of her own head.
It was very good poetry.
If Emmeline Grangerford could make
poetry like that before she was fourteen, there
aint no telling what she could 'a' done by and
by. Buck said she could rattle off poetry like
nothing. She didn't ever have to stop to think.
He said she would slap down a line, and if
she couldn't find anything to rhyme with it
she would just scratch it out and slap down
another one, and go ahead. She warn't par-
ticular ; she could write about anything you
choose to give her to write about, just so it
was sadful. Every time a man died, or a
woman died, or a child died, she would be on
hand with her " tribute" before he was cold.
She called them tributes. The neighbors said
it was the doctor first, then Emmeline, then
the undertaker. The undertaker never got
in ahead of Emmeline but once, and then she
hung fire on a rhyme for the dead person's
name, which was Whistler. She warn't ever
the same after that; she never complained,
but she kind of pined away and did not live
long. Poor thing! many's the time I made
myself go up to the little room that used to
be hers, and get out her poor old scrap-book
and read in it when her pictures had been
aggravating me and I had soured on her a
little. I liked all that family, dead ones and
all, and warn't going to let anything come
between us. Poor Emmeline made poetry
about all the dead people when she was alive,
and it didn't seem right that there warn't
nobody to make some about her, now she was
gone ; so I tried to sweat out a verse or two
myself, but I couldn't seem to make it go,
somehow. They kept Emmeline's room trim
and nice, and all the things fixed in it just the
way she liked to have them when she was alive,
and nobody ever slept there. The old lady
took care of the room herself, though there
AN ADVENTURE OF HUCKLEBERRY FINN.
273
COLONEL GRANGERFORD.
was plenty of niggers, and she sewed there
a good deal and read her Bible there,
mostly.
Well, as I was saying about the parlor, there
was beautiful curtains on the windows : white,
with pictures painted on them, of castles with
vines all down the walls, and cattle coming
down to drink. There was a little old piano,
too, that had tin pans in it, I reckon, and
nothing was ever so lovely as to hear the
young ladies sing "The Last Link is Broken,"
and play "The Battle of Prague" on it. The
walls of all the rooms was plastered, and most
had carpets on the floors, and the whole house
was whitewashed on the outside.
It was a double house, and the big open
place betwixt them was roofed and floored,
and sometimes the table was set there in the
middle of the day, and it was a cool, com-
fortable place. Nothing couldn't be better.
And warn't the cooking good, and just
bushels of it, too !
Colonel Grangerford was a gentleman,
you see. He was a gentleman all over ; and
so was his family. He was well-born, as the
saying is, and that's worth as much in a man
as it is in a horse, so the widow Douglass
said, and nobody ever denied that she was of
the first aristocracy in our town ; and pap he
always said it, too, though he warn't no more
quality than a mud-cat, himself. Colonel
Grangerford was very tall and very slim, and
had a darkish-paly complexion, not a sign of
red in it anywheres ; he was clean-shaved every
morning, all over his thin face, and he had the
Vol. XXIX.— 26.
thinnest kind of lips, and the thinnest kind of
nostrils, and a high nose, and heavy eyebrows,
and the blackest kind of eyes, sunk so deep
back that they seemed like they was looking
out of caverns at you, as you may say. His
forehead was high, and his hair was black and
straight, and hung to his shoulders. His
hands was long and thin, and every day of
his life he put on a clean shirt and a full suit
from head to foot, made out of linen so white
it hurt your eyes to look at it ; and on Sun-
days he wore a blue tail-coat with brass but-
tons on it. He carried a mahogany cane with
a silver head to it. There warn't no frivolish-
ness about it, not a bit, and he warn't ever
loud. He was as kind as he could be — you
could feel that, you know, and so you had
confidence. Sometimes he smiled, and it was
good to see; but when he straightened himself
up like a liberty-pole, and the lightning begun
to flicker out from under his eyebrows, you
wanted to climb a tree first and find out what
the matter was afterward. He didn't ever
have to tell anybody to mind their manners
— everybody was always good-mannered
where he was. Everybody loved to have him
around, too; he was sunshine most always — I
mean he made it seem like good weather. When
he turned into a cloud-bank it was awful dark
for half a minute, and that was enough ; there
wouldn't nothing go wrong again for a
week.
When him and the old lady come down in
the morning, all the family got up out of
their chairs and give them good-day, and
didn't set down again till they had set down.
Then Tom and Bob went to the sideboard
where the decanters was, and mixed a glass
of bitters and handed it to him, and he held
it in his hand and waited till Tom's and Bob's
was mixed, and then they bowed and said,
" Our duty to you, sir, and madam " ; and
they bowed the least bit in the world and said
thank you, and so they drank, all three, and
Bob and Tom poured a spoonful of water on
the sugar and the mite of whisky or apple
brandy in the bottom of their tumblers, and
give it to me and Buck, and we drank to the
old people, too.
Bob was the oldest, and Tom next — tall,
beautiful men, with very broad shoulders
and brown faces, and long black hair and
black eyes. They dressed in white linen from
head to foot, like the old gentleman, and wore
broad Panama hats.
Then there was Miss Charlotte; she was
twenty-five, and tall and proud and grand,
but as good as she could be when she warn't
stirred up ; but when she was, she had a look
that would make you wilt in your tracks, like
her father. She was beautiful.
274
AN ADVENTURE OF HUCKLEBERRY FINN
HARNEY SHEPHERDSON.
So was her sister, Miss Sophia, but it was
a different kind. She was gentle and sweet,
like a dove, and she was only twenty.
Each person had their own nigger to wait
on them — Buck, too. My nigger had a
monstrous easy time, because I warn't used
to having anybody do anything for me, but
Buck's was on the jump most of the time.
This is all there was of the family now ;
but there used to be more — three sons; they
got killed; and Emmeline that died.
The old gentleman owned a lot of farms,
and over a hundred niggers. Sometimes a
stack of people would come there, horse-
back, from ten or fifteen miles around, and
stay five or six days, and have such junket-
ings round about and on the river, and dances
and picnics in the woods, day-times, and
balls at the house, nights. These people was
mostly kin-folks of the family. The men
brought their guns with them. It was a
handsome lot of quality, I tell you.
There was another clan of aristocracy
around there — five or six families — mostly
of the name of Shepherdson. They was as
high-toned, and well-born, and rich, and
grand, as the tribe of Grangerfords. The
Shepherdsons and the Grangerfords used the
same steam-boat landing, which was about
two mile above our house ; so sometimes,
when I went up there with a lot of our folks,
I used to see a lot of the Shepherdsons
there, on their fine horses.
One day Buck and me was away in the
woods, hunting, and heard a horse com-
ing. We was crossing the road. Buck says:
" Quick ! Jump for the woods ! "
We done it, and then peeped down the
woods through the leaves. Pretty soon a
splendid young man come galloping down
the road, setting his horse easy and look-
ing like a soldier. He had his gun across
his pommel. I had seen him before. It
was young Harney Shepherdson. I heard
Buck's gun go off at my ear, and Harney's
hat tumbled off from his head. He grab-
bed his gun, and rode straight to the place
where we was hid. But we didn't wait.
We started through the woods on a run.
The woods warn't thick, so I looked over
my shoulder to dodge the bullet, and
twice I seen Harney cover Buck with his
gun ; and then he rode away the way he
come — to get his hat, I reckon, but I
couldn't see. We never stopped running
till we got home. The old gentleman's
eyes blazed a minute, — 'twas pleasure,
mainly, I judged, — then his face sort
of smoothed down, and he says, kind
of gentle :
" I don't like that shooting from behind
a bush. Why didn't you step into the road, I
my boy ? "
" The Shepherdsons don't, father. They
always take advantage."
Miss Charlotte she held her head up like
a queen while Buck was telling his tale, and
her nostrils spread and her eyes snapped.
The two young men looked dark, but never
said nothing. Miss Sophia she turned pale,
but the color come back when she found the
man warn't hurt.
Soon as I could get Buck down by the
corn-cribs under the trees by ourselves, I
says :
" Did you want to kill him, Buck ? "
" Well, I bet I did."
" What did he do to you ? "
" Him ? He never done nothing to me."
" Well, then, what did you want to kill
him for ? "
" Why, nothing — only it's on account of
the feud."
"What's a feud?"
" Why, where was you raised ? Don't you
know what a feud is ? "
" Never heard of it before — tell me about
it."
" Well," says Buck, " a feud is this way.
A man has a quarrel with another man, and
kills him ; then that other man's brother kills
him; then the other brothers, on both sides,
goes for one another; then the cousins chip
in — and by and by everybody's killed off,
AN ADVENTURE OE HUCKLEBERRY FINN.
275
and there aint no more feud. But it's kind
of slow, and takes a long time."
" Has this one been going on long, Buck ? "
" Well, I should reckon ! it started thirty
year ago, or som'ers along there. There was
trouble 'bout something, and then a lawsuit
to settle it ; and the suit went ag'in' one of
the men, and so he up and shot the man that
won the suit — which he would naturally do,
of course. Anybody would."
" What was the trouble about, Buck ? —
land ? "
" I reckon, may be — I don't know."
" Well, who done the shooting ? — was it a
Grangerford or a Shepherdson ? "
" Laws, how do I know ? it was so long
ago."
" Don't anybody know ? "
" Oh, yes, pa knows, I reckon, and some
of the other old folks ; but they don't know
now what the row was about in the first
place."
" Has there been many killed, Buck ? "
MISS CHARLOTTE.
" Yes — right smart chance of funerals.
But they don't always kill. Pa's got a few
buck-shot in him; but he don't mind it, 'cuz
he don't weigh much, anyway. Bob's been
carved up some with a bowie, and Tom's
been hurt once or twice."
" Has anybody been killed this year,
Buck?" y
" Yes, we got one and they got one. 'Bout
three months ago, my cousin Bud, fourteen
year old, was riding through the woods on
t'other side of the river, and didn't have no
weapon with him, which was blame' foolish-
ness; and in a lonesome place he hears a
horse a-coming behind him, and sees old
Baldy Shepherdson a-linkin' after him with
his gun in his hand, and his white hair a-flying
in the wind ; and 'stead of jumping off and
taking to the brush, Bud 'lowed he could
outrun him ; so they had it, nip and tuck,
for five mile or more, the old man a-gaining
all the time. So at last Bud seen it warn't any
use, so he stopped and faced around so as
to have the bullet-holes in front, you know,
and the old man he rode up and shot him
down. But he didn't git much chance to enjoy
his luck, for inside of a week our folks laid
him out."
" I reckon that old man was a coward,
Buck."
" I reckon he warn't a coward — not by a
blame' sight. There aint a coward amongst
them Shepherdsons — not a one. And there
aint no cowards amongst the Grangerfords,
either. Why, that old man kep' up his end
in a fight one day, for half an hour, against
three Grangerfords, and come out winner.
They was all a-horseback ; he lit off his horse
and got behind a little wood-pile, and kep'
his horse before him to stop the bullets; but
the Grangerfords staid on their horses and
capered around the old man, and peppered
away at him, and he peppered away at them.
Him and his horse both went home pretty
leaky and crippled, but the Grangerfords had
to be fetched home — and one of 'em was dead,
and another died the next day. No, sir; if a
body's out hunting for cowards, he don't
want to fool away any time amongst them
Shepherdsons, becuz they don't breed any
of that kind."
Next Sunday we all went to church, about
three mile, everybody a-horseback. The men
took their guns along, so did Buck, and kept
them between their knees or stood them
handy against the wall. The Shepherdsons
done the same. It was pretty ornery preach-
ing — all about brotherly love, and such-like
tiresomeness ; but everybody said it was a
good sermon, and they all talked it over go-
ing home, and had such a powerful lot to say
about faith, and good works, and free grace,
and preforeordestination, and I don't know
what all, that it did seem to me to be one of
the roughest Sundays I had run across yet.
About an hour after dinner everybody was
dozing around, some in their chairs and some
in their rooms, and it got to be pretty dull.
Buck and a dog was stretched out on the
grass in the sun, sound asleep. I went up to
our room, and judged I would take a nap
276
AN ADVENTURE OE HUCKLEBERRY FINN.
myself. I found that sweet Miss Sophia
standing in her door, which was next to
ours, and she took me in her room and shut
the door very soft, and asked me if 1 liked
her, and I said I did; and she asked me if
I would do something for her and not tell
anybody, and I said I would. Then she said
she'd forgot her Testament, and left it in the
seat at church, between two other books, and
would I slip out quiet and go there and fetch
it to her, and not say nothing to nobody ? I
said I would. So I slid out and slipped off
up the road, and there warn't anybody at
the church, except may be a hog or two;
for there warn't any lock on the door, and
hogs likes a puncheon floor in summer-time,
because it's cool. If you notice, most folks
don't go to church only when they've got to ;
but a hog is different.
Says I to myself, something's up — it aint
natural for a girl to be in such a sweat about
a Testament ; so I give it a shake, and out
drops a little piece of paper with "Half-past
two " wrote on it with a pencil. I ransacked
it, but couldn't find anything else. I couldn't
make anything out of that, so I put the paper
in the book again, and when I got home and
upstairs, there was Miss Sophia in her door
waiting for me. She pulled me in and shut
the door ; then she looked in the Testament
till she found the paper, and as soon as she
read it she looked glad ; and before a body
could think she grabbed me and give me a
squeeze, and said I was the best boy in the
world, and not to tell anybody. She was
mighty red in the face for a minute, and her
eyes lighted up, and it made her powerful
pretty. I was a good deal astonished, but
when I got my breath I asked her what the
paper was about, and she asked me if I had
read it, and I said no, and she asked me if I
could read writing, and I told her " no, only
coarse-hand," and then she said the paper
warn't anything but a book-mark to keep her
place, and I might go and play now.
I wen t off do wn to the river, study ing over this
thing, and pretty soon I noticed that my nig-
ger was following along behind. When we was
out of sight of the house, he looked back and
around a second, and then comes a-running,
and says :
" Mars Jawge, if you'll come down into de
swamp, I'll show you a whole stack o' water-
moccasins."
Thinks I, that's mighty curious; he said
that yesterday. He oughter know a body
don't love water-moccasins enough to go
around hunting for them. What is he up to,
anyway ? So I says :
" All right, trot ahead."
I followed a half a mile, then he struck out
over the swamp and waded ankle-deep as
much as another half-mile. We come to a
little flat piece of land, which was dry and
very thick with trees and bushes and vines,
and he says :
" You shove right in dah, jist a few steps,
Mars Jawge, dah's whah dey is. I's seed 'em
befo', I don't k'yer to see 'em no mo'."
Then he slopped right along and went
away, and pretty soon the trees hid him. I
poked into the place a-ways, and come to a
little open patch as big as a bedroom, all hung
around with vines, and found a man laying
there asleep — and by jings it was my old Jim !
I waked him up, and I reckoned it was
going to be a grand surprise to him to see
me again, but it warn't. He nearly cried, he
was so glad, but he warn't surprised. Said he
swum along behind me that night, and heard
me yell every time, but dasn't answer, because
he didn't want nobody to pick him up, and
take him into slavery again. Says he :
" I got hurt a little, en couldn't swim fas',
so I wuz a considable ways behine you to-
ward the las' ; when you landed I reck'ned I
could ketch up wid you on de Ian' 'dout hav-
in' to shout at you, but when I see dat house I
begin to go slow. I 'uz off too fur to hear what
dey say to you — I wuz afraid o' de dogs —
but when it 'uz all quiet ag'in, I knowed you's in
de house, so I struck out for de woods to wait
for day. Early in de mawnin' some er de
niggers come along, gwine to de fields, en
dey tuck me en showed me dis place, whah
de dogs can't track me on accounts o' de
water, en dey brings me truck to eat every
night, en tells me how you's a-gitt'n along."
" Why didn't you tell my Jack to fetch me
here sooner, Jim ? "
" Well, 'twarn't no use to 'sturb you, Huck,
tell we could do sumfn — but we's all right
now. I b'en a-buyin' pots en pans en vittles,
as I got a chanst, en a-patchin' up de raf,
nights, when "
" Whatra.it, Jim?"
" Our ole raf."
" You mean to say
smashed all to flinders ? "
" No, she warn't. She was tore up a good
deal — one en' of her was — but dey warn't
no great harm done, on'y our traps was mos'
all los'. Ef we hadn' dive' so deep en swum
so fur under water, en de night hadn' b'en so
dark, en we warn't so sk'yerd, en be'n sich
punkin-heads, as de sayin' is, we'd 'a' seed de
raf. But it's jis' as well we didn't, 'kase now
she's all fixed up ag'in mos' as good as new,
en we's got a new lot o' stuff, too, in de place
o' what 'uz los'."
" Why, how did you get hold of the raft
again, Jim — did you catch her? "
our old raft warn't
AN ADVENTURE OF HUCKLEBERRY FINN
277
" How I gwine to ketch her, en I out in
de woods ? No ; some er de niggers foun' her
ketched on a snag, along heah in de ben', en
dey hid her in a crick, 'mongst de willows,
en dey wuz so much jawin' 'bout which un
'urn she b'long to de mos', dat I come to
heah 'bout it pooty soon, so I ups en settles
de trouble by tellin' um she don't b'long to
none uv um, but to you en me ; en I ast um
if dey gwine to grab a young white gen'l'man's
propaty, en git a hid'n' for it ? Den I gin um
ten cents apiece, en dey 'uz mighty well sat-
isfied, en wisht some mo' raf 's 'ud come along
en make um rich ag'in. Dey's mighty good to
me, dese niggers is, en whatever I wants um
to do fur me, I doan' have to ast 'm twice,
honey. Dat Jack's a good nigger, en pooty
smart."
" Yes, he is. He aint ever told me you was
here ; told me to come, and he'd show me a
lot of water-moccasins. If anything happens,
he ain't mixed up in it. He can say he never
seen us together, and it'll be the truth."
I don't want to talk much about the next
day. I reckon I'll cut it pretty short. I
waked up about dawn, and was a-going to
turn over and go to sleep again, when I no-
ticed how still it was — didn't seem to be
anybody stirring. That warn't usual. Next I
noticed that Buck was up and gone. Well, I
gets up, a- wondering, and goes downstairs —
nobody around; everything as still as a
mouse. Just the same outside ; thinks I, what
does it mean ? Down by the wood-pile I
comes across my Jack, and says :
" What's it all about ? "
Says he :
" Don't you know, Mars Jawge ? "
" No," says I, " I don't."
"Well, den, Miss Sophia's run off! 'deed
she has. She run off in de night, some time —
nobody don't know jis' when — run off to get
married to dat young Harney Shepherdson,
you know — leastways, so dey 'spec'. De
fambly foun' it out 'bout half an hour ago, —
may be a little mo', — en' I tell you dey warn't
no time los'. Sich another hurryin' up guns
en horses you never see ! De women folks
has gone for to stir up de relations, en old
Mars Saul en de boys tuck dey guns en rode
up de river road for to try to ketch dat young
man en kill him 'fo' he kin git acrost de river
wid Miss Sophia. I reck'n dey's gwine to be
mighty rough times."
" Buck went off 'thout waking me up."
" Well, I reck'n he did ! Dey warn't gwine
to mix you up in it. Mars Buck he loaded
up his gun en 'lowed he's gwine to fetch
home a Shepherdson or bust. Well, dey'll be
plenty un 'm dah, I reck'n, en you bet you
he'll fetch one ef he gits a chanst."
I took up the river road as hard as I could
put. By and by I began to hear guns a good
ways off. When I come in sight of the log
store and the wood-pile where the steam-boats
lands, I worked along under the trees and
brush till I got to a good place, and then I
dumb up into the forks of a cotton- wood that
was out of reach, and watched. There was a
wood-rank four foot high, a little ways in
front of the tree, and first I was going to hide
behind that; but may be it was luckier I didn't.
There was four or five men cavorting around
on their horses in the open place before the
log store, cussing and yelling, and trying to
get at a couple of young chaps that was
behind the wood-rank alongside of the steam-
boat landing — but they couldn't come it.
Every time one of them showed himself on
the river side of the wood-pile he got shot at.
The two boys was squatting back to back
behind the pile, so they could watch both
ways.
By and by the men stopped cavorting
around and yelling. They started riding
toward the store; then up gets one of the
boys, draws a steady bead over the wood-
rank, and drops one of them out of his saddle.
All the men jumped off of their horses and
grabbed the hurt one and started to carry
him to the store ; and that minute the two
boys started on the run. They got half-way
to the tree I was in before the men noticed.
Then the men see them, and jumped on their
horses and took out after them. They gained
on the boys, but it didn't do no good, the boys
had too good a start; they got to the wood-
pile that was in front of my tree, and slipped
in behind it, and so they had the bulge on the
men again. One of the boys was Buck, and
the other was a slim young chap about nine-
teen years old.
The men ripped around awhile, and then
rode away. As soon as they was out of sight,
I sung out to Buck and told him. He didn't
know what to make of my voice coming out
of the tree at first. He was awful surprised.
He told me to watch out sharp and let him
know when the men come in sight again ; said
they was up to some devilment or other —
wouldn't be gone long. I wished I was out
of that tree, but I dasn't come down. Buck
begun to cry and rip, and 'lowed that him and
his cousin Joe (that was the other young chap)
would make up for this day yet. He said his
father and his two brothers was killed, and two
or three of the enemy. Said the Shepherdsons
laid for them in ambush. Buck said his father
and brothers ought to waited for their rela-
tions— the Shepherdsons was too strong for
them. I asked him what was become of young
Harney and Miss Sophia. He said they'd
278
AN ADVENTURE OE HUCKLEBERRY FINN.
got across the river and was safe. I was glad of
that ; but the way Buck did take on because he
didn't manage to kill Harney that day he shot
at him — I haint ever heard anything like it.
All of a sudden, bang ! bang ! bang ! goes
three or four guns — the men had slipped
around through the woods and come in
from behind Avithout their horses ! The boys
BEHIND THE WOOD-PILE.
jumped for the river — both of them hurt —
and as they swam down the current the men
run along the bank shooting at them and sing-
ing out, " Kill them, kill them ! " It made me
so sick I most fell out of the tree. I aint
a-going to tell all that happened — it would
make me sick again if I was to do that.
I wished I hadn't ever come ashore that night,
to see such things. I aint ever going to get shut
of them — lots of times I dream about them.
I staid in the tree till it begun to get dark,
afraid to come down. Sometimes I heard
guns away off in the woods ; and twice I seen
little gangs of men gallop past the log store
with guns; so I reckoned the trouble was
still a-going on. I was mighty downhearted,
so I made up my mind I wouldn't ever go
anear that house again, because I reckoned I
was to blame, somehow. I judged that that
piece of paper meant that Miss Sophia was
to meet Harney somewheres at half-past two
and run off; and I judged I ought to told
her father about that paper and the curious
1 way she acted, and then may be he would 'a'
locked her up, and this awful mess wouldn't
ever happened.
When I got down out of the tree, I crept
along down the river bank a piece, and found
the two bodies laying in the edge of the water,
and tugged at them till I got them ashore ;
then I covered up their faces, and got away
as quick as I could. I cried a little when I
was covering up Buck's face, for he was
mighty good to me.
It was just dark now. I never went near
the house, but struck through the woods and
made for the swamp. Jim warn't on his
island, so I tramped off in a hurry for the
crick, and crowded through the willows, red-
hot to jump aboard and
get out of that awful coun-
try. The raft was gone!
My souls, but I was scared !
I couldn't get my breath
for most a minute. Then
I raised a yell. A voice
not twenty-five foot from
me says :
" Good Ian' ! is dat your
honey ? Doan' make no
noise."
It was Jim's voice —
nothing ever sounded so
good before. I run along
the bank a piece and got
aboard, and Jim he grab-
bed me and hugged me,
he was so glad to see me.
He says :
" Laws bless you, chile,
I 'uz right down sho' you's
dead ag'in. Jack's been heah ; he say he reck'n
you's be'n shot, kase you didn' come home no
mo'; so I's jes' dis minute a-startin' de raP down
towards de mouf er de crick, so's to be all ready
for to shove out en leave soon as Jack comes
ag'in en tells me for certain you is dead. Lawsy,
I's mighty glad to git you back ag'in, honey."
I says :
"All right — that's mighty good; they wont
find me, and they'll think I've been killed,
and floated down the river — there's some-
thing up there that'll help them to think so ;
so don't you lose no time, Jim, but just shove
off for the big water as fast as ever you can."
I never felt easy till the raft was two mile
below there and out in the middle of the Mis-
sissippi. Then we hung up our signal lantern,
and judged that we was free and safe once
more. I hadn't had a bite to eat since yester-
day ; so Jim he got out some corn-dodgers
and buttermilk, and pork and cabbage, and
greens — there aint nothing in the world so
good, when it's cooked right — and whilst I
eat my supper we talked, and had a good
time. I was powerful glad to get away from
the feuds, and so was Jim to get away from
the swamp. We said there warn't no home
like a raft, after all. Other places do seem so
cramped up and smothery, but a raft don't.
You feel mighty free and easy and comfort-
able on a raft.
Mark Twain.
RECOLLECTIONS OF A PRIVATE.— II*
CAMPAIGNING TO NO PURPOSE.
YI/'HILE we were in camp at Washington
VV in February, 1862, we were drilled to an
extent which to the raw " thinking soldier "
seemed unnecessary. Our colonel was a strict
disciplinarian. His efforts to drill out of us the
methods of action and thought common to cit-
izens, and to substitute in place thereof blind,
unquestioning obedience to military rules, were
not always appreciated at their true value. In
my company there was an old drill-sergeant (let
us call him Sergeant Hackett) who was in
sympathetic accord with the colonel. He had
occasion to reprove me often, and finally to
inflict a blast of profanity at which my self-
respect rebelled. Knowing that swearing was
a breach of discipline, I waited confidently
upon the colonel, with the manner of one
gentleman calling upon another. After the
usual salute, I opened complaint by saying : order in reality came at last, to the distress
example to the men with your soiled gloves.
Why do you ? "
" I've had no pay, sir, since entering the
service, and can't afford to hire washing."
The colonel drew from his pocket a pair
of gloves spotlessly white, and handing them
to the corporal said: " Put on those; I washed
them myself! "
This was an unforgotten lesson to the
whole regiment that it was a soldier's duty to
attend himself to his personal neatness.
In a camp of soldiers, rumor, with her
thousand tongues, is always speaking. The
rank and file and under-ofncers of the line are
not taken into the confidence of their supe-
riors. Hence the private soldier is usually
in ignorance as to his destination. What he
lacks in information is usually made up in
surmise and conjecture ; every hint is caught
at and worked out in possible and impossible
combinations. He plans and fights imaginary
battles. He maneuvers for position, with pen-
cil and chalk, on fanciful fields, at the same
time knowing no more of the part he is actu-
ally performing in some great or little plan
than the knapsack he bears. He makes some
shrewd guesses (the Yankee's birthright), but
he knows absolutely nothing. It is this which
makes the good-will and confidence of the
rank and file in the commander so important
a factor in the morale of an army.
How we received the report or whence it
came I know not, but it was rumored one
morning that we were about to move. The
" Colonel, Mr. Hackett has
The colonel interrupted me angrily,
and
the
I began apologet-
with fire in his eye, exclaimed :
" :i Mister' ? There are no misters in
army."
" I thought, sir
ically.
" Think ? think ? " he cried. " What right
have you to think ? / do the thinking for this
regiment ! Go to your quarters ! "
I did not tarry. There seemed to be no
common ground on which he and I could
argue questions of personal etiquette. But I
should do injustice to his character as a com
mander if I failed to illustrate another manner
of reproof which he sometimes applied.
One day, noticing a corporal in soiled
gloves, he said : " Corporal, you set a bad
* Copyright, 1884, by The Century Co.
and dismay of the sutlers and the little Ger-
man woman who kept the grocery round the
corner, We left her disconsolate over the
cakes, pies, and goodies liberally purchased,
but which were yet unpaid for when we
fell into two ranks, were counted off, and
marched to conquer the prejudices of other
sutlers.
We took the cars (early in March, I think),
and were hurried through Hagerstown and
other little sleepy-looking villages of Mary-
land. The next morning found us at Sandy
Hook, about half a mile from Harper's Ferry ;
thence, after about three hours' delay, we
marched to a place opposite the promontory
on and around which is situated the pictur-
esque village of Harper's Ferry, at the con-
fluence of the Potomac and Shenandoah
All rights reserved.
28o
RECOLLECTIONS OF A PRIVATE.
rivers. It was cold at our camping-place, be-
tween the canal and the river. There were no
rations awaiting our arrival, and we were suf-
fering from the hunger so common to soldiers.
Who ever saw one off duty who was not in
pursuit of something to eat? We couldn't get
anything for love or money. We had at last
reached a place where the people showed
some of the distress incidental to war, and a
strong disinclination to feed or believe in us.
We were grieved, but it couldn't be helped.
Their reception was as frosty as the weather.
Our genial and winning address made no im-
fitted with a claw, one of which held the gun-
wale of the boat, the other the shore abut-
ment. Twenty men now came down on the
left with planks, one inch thick, six inches
wide, and fifteen feet long, narrowed at each
end > these they laid across the five joists or
balks, and returned on the right. Another
party meanwhile moored another boat, which
dropped down-stream opposite the one already
bridged; five joists, each twenty feet long,
were laid upon the gunwale by five men ;
these were fastened by those in the boat, by
means of ropes, to cleats or hooks provided
A SUTLER S TENT.
pression on these Yankee-hating Maryland-
ers, and their refusal to feed us threw a shadow
over us as uncomfortable as the shadow of
their hills. No wonder John Brown failed in
such a place as this.
The bridge from the Maryland to the Vir-
ginia or Harper's Ferry shore had been de-
stroyed by fire, leaving only the granite
abutments (which were afterward built upon
again), and we were soon set at work convey-
ing some flat-bottomed scows from Sandy
Hook to Harper's Ferry. As early as nine
o'clock about one hundred men came down
opposite the ferry, just above the old bridge,
and broke into little groups, in military pre-
cision. Four or five with spades and other
implements improvised a wooden abutment
on the shore; another party rowed against
the stream, moored a scow, and let it drift
down until it was opposite the wooden abut-
ment; then a party of ten advanced, each
two men carrying a claw-balk, or timbers
for the purpose on the side of the scows, which
were shoved off from the shore until the shore
end of the balk rested upon the shore boat.
These were covered with planks in the same
manner as before; side-rails of joists were
lashed down with ropes to secure the whole.
So one after another of the boats was drop-
ped into position until a bridge several hun-
dred feet long reached from the Maryland
to the Virginia shore, for the passage of ar-
tillery and every description of munitions
for an army. Owing to the force of the cur-
rent, a large rope cable was stretched from
shore to shore fifty feet above the bridge,
and the upper end of each boat was stayed to
the cable by a smaller rope. The clock-like
precision with which these men worked showed
them to be the drilled engineers and pon-
toniers of the regular army. After the bridge
was built, a slight, short man, with sandy hair,
in military dress, came out upon it and con-
gratulated the engineers on their success.
RECOLLECTIONS OF A PRIVATE.
281
WJR&OJ0N
r^V#|A#^
^M*m,
CONFEDERATE PRISONERS. (AFTER A PHOTOGRAPH.)
».>.' ""«
This unassuming man was George B. McClel-
lan, commander of the Army of the Poto-
mac.
It was the first boat-bridge thrown out in
active service of the army of the United
States, and it was on this that the army of
General Banks crossed to the Virginia shore
in 1862. Hour after hour this frail-looking
bridge, which by force of the current swung
almost in a semicircle between the two shores,
was crowded with men and the material of
an army. Officers were not allowed to trot
their horses; troops in crossing were given
the order, " Route step," as the oscillation
of the cadence step or trotting horse is dan-
gerous to the stability of a bridge of any kind,
much more of the seemingly frail structure of
boats and timbers, put together with ropes,
here described.
I crossed the bridge soon after it was laid ;
visited Jefferson Rock, the ruins of the burned
armory, and the town in general. The occa-
sional crack of a musket among the hills on
the other side of the Shenandoah told that
the rebel scouts were still there. Colonel
Geary's men were engaged in driving them
from the hills, preparatory to the advance of
General Banks. During the day fifteen or
twenty were captured and marched through
the town, presenting a generally shabby and
unmilitary appearance. They did not impress
me as they did afterward when charging on
our lines, with their unmusical yell and daunt-
less front.
The craggy heights about Harper's Ferry
are exceedingly picturesque. Here, around
this promontory, the waters of the Shenan-
doah and Potomac meet with murmurs of con-
Vol. XXIX.— 27.
gratulation, and go dancing on joyfully, hand
in hand, to the ocean. The headland, around
which the village of Harper's Ferry is built,
is noticeable for its ruggedness, but its bold
outlines are subdued into something like pas-
toral beauty by contrast with the huge, irregu-
lar heights which rise grandly above on either
side, and look down upon it. Maryland
Heights, precipitous, rock-ribbed, and angu-
lar, frown, as it were, at their rougher rival,
Loudon Heights, on the opposite Virginia
side below, while Harper's Ferry lies demure
and modest between them.
The ruins of the burned armory of the
United States were noticeable from the Mary-
land shore; also the masses of men moving in
ceaseless tramp over the long and almost
crescent-like bridge. The murmur of many
voices, the mellow, abrupt call of the negro
drivers to their mules, the glistening arms
of the infantry reflected in the sunlight, the
dull rumble of artillery-wheels and baggage-
wagons, live in memory to-day, after a lapse
of years, as one of the pictures of " war's
wrinkled front,'' framed in the routine of more
ordinary scenes of army life.
One of my early army passions was collect-
ing mementos of historic interest. For weeks
I carried in my knapsack a brick taken from
the old engine-house where John Brown so
coolly fought, while his sons lay dying by his
side. Near the ruins of the armory was a
rough, extemporized barricade across the rail-
road which ran around the northern shore,
upon a foundation built on solid masonry, ris-
ing from the river's edge. The barricade was
made of broken and fire-bruised machinery,
twisted muskets and bayonets, the debris of
282
RECOLLECTIONS OF A PRIVATE.
the armory. I had obtained a pass, and, pros-
pecting around the village, had wandered
along the shore to the barricade described.
Among its material was a hand-car without
driving machinery or brake — simply a plat-
form on wheels. I succeeded, after laboring
a long time, in getting the car upon the rail-
road, and pushed it forward up the incline of
the track about a mile. Blocking the wheels,
I visited a cave near there, obtaining speci-
mens of minerals and stalagmites, and loading
them upon my chariot, started on the down-
grade, with a strong wind as assistant motive-
season to see the climax. My carriage struck
the barricade with such force as to send it
over, with a dull crash, into the river below !
It cured me forever of any desire to ride
where no provision has been made for stop-
ping the vehicle. I tell this incident as a spec-
imen of the scrapes an idle soldier may fall
into.
The next day we were sent by rail back to
Washington, and into camp upon our old
grounds. A few mornings afterward an in-
spection was ordered. It came with the usual
hurry and parade. Knapsacks and equipments
LONG BRIDGE EXAMINING A PASS.
power. My car soon began to obtain a rapid-
ity of motion that astonished me. The farther
I went the greater the speed. I had no idea
so much momentum could be obtained on
a slight down-grade. I rushed on like the
wind. Blue-coated comrades shouted in de-
rision as I passed them. I remember saluting
two or three officers, who gazed at me with
dazed and amused countenances, as I rushed
at break-neck speed along the track toward
the barricade from which I had started. I
was rather confused, but could see dis-
tinctly enough that there was soon to be
a smash-up. I saw discord ahead unless I
could avoid the collision ; and as that seemed
impracticable, I jumped and struck on the
softest spot I could find in my hasty survey.
The knees of my trowsers were badly torn,
and I was bruised in more spots than one
would deem possible, but got to my feet in
were in shining order; every musket, bayonet,
and button, boot and belt, as bright as rub-
bing and fear of censure or police duty could
make them. Inspection over, the last jingle of
ramrod in resounding musket was heard, and
we were dismissed, with an intimation that
on the morrow we were to go on a march.
The sun rose through the mists of the morn-
ing,— one of those quiet mornings when every
sound is heard with distinctness. The waters
of the Potomac were like a sheet of glass as
we took up our line of march across the Long
Bridge, making the old structure shake with
our cadence step. Our moods varied : some
laughed and joked ; some, in suppressed tones,
talked with their comrades as to their desti-
nation. Not much was said about lighting,
but I, for one, did a great deal of thinking
on that tender subject.
After we passed the fort, which commanded
RECOLLECTIONS OF A PRIVATE.
283
LOUDON
HEIGHTS.
MARYLAND HEIGHTS.
the bridge on the Virginia side, we encount-
ered one of the most powerful allies of the
Rebel hosts, particularly during the winter and
spring campaigns in Virginia, — mud. No
country can beat a Virginia road for mud.
We struck it thick. It was knee-deep. It was
verily " heavy marching." The foot sank very
insidiously into the mud, and reluctantly came
out again ; it had to be coaxed, and while
you were persuading your reluctant left, the
willing right was sinking into unknown depths;
it came out of the mud like the noise of a
suction-pump when the water is exhausted.
The order was given, "Route step"; we
climbed the banks of the road in search of firm
earth, but it couldn't be found, so we went on
pumping away, making about one foot in depth
to two in advance. Our feet seemingly weighed
twenty pounds each. We carried a number
six into the unknown depths of mud, but it
came out a number twelve, elongated, yellow,
and nasty; it had lost its fair proportions, and
would be mistaken for anything but a foot, if
not attached to a leg. It seemed impossible
that we should ever be able to find our feet
in their primitive condition again. Occasion-
ally a boot or shoe would be left in the mud,
and it would take an exploring expedition to
find it. Oh, that disgusting, sticking mud !
Wad Rider declared that if Virginia was once
in the Union, she was now in the mud. A
big Irish com-
rade, Jim O'Brien,
, facetiously took up
the declension of
mud, — mud, mudder,
murder, — pulling a
foot out at each vari-
ation for emphasis. Jack E.
declared it would be impossible
to dislodge an enemy stuck in the
mud as we were.
The army resembled, more than anything
else, a congregation of flies making a pilgrim-
age through molasses. The boys called their
feet " pontons," " mud-hooks," " soil-excava-
tors," and other names not quite so polite.
When we halted to rest by the wayside, our feet
were in the way of ourselves and everybody
else. " Keep your mud-hooks out of my way,"
" Save your pontoons for another bridge,"
were heard on all sides, mingled with all the
reckless, profane, and quaint jokes common
to the army, and which are not for print.
The mud was in constant league with the
enemy; an efficient ally in defensive warfare;
equivalent to reinforcements of twenty thou-
sand infantry. To realize the situation, spread
tar a foot deep all over your back-yard, and
then try to walk through it ; particularly is this
experiment recommended to those citizens
who were constantly crying, " Why doesn't
the army move ? " It took the military valor
all out of a man. Any one would think,
from reading the Northern newspapers, that
we soldiers had macadamized roads to charge
over at the enemy. It would have pleased
us much to have seen those " On to Rich-
mond " fellows put over a five-mile course in
the Virginia mud, loaded with a forty-pound
knapsack, sixty rounds of cartridges, and hav-
ersacks filled with four days' rations.
Without exaggeration, the mud has never
got full credit for the immense help it af-
284
THE CAPTURE OE EORT DONELSON.
forded the enemy, as it prevented us from
advancing upon them. The ever-present foe,
winter and spring, in Old Virginia was Mud.
Summer and fall it was Dust, which was pref-
erable ; though marching without water, with
dust filling one's nostrils and throat, was not
a pleasant accompaniment with our " salt
horse " and " hard-tack."
That first night out we went into camp near
a small brook, where we washed off enough
of the mud to recognize our feet. We had
hard-tack and coffee for supper. And didn't
it " go good " ! What sauce ever equaled
that of hunger ? Truly the feast is in the pal-
ate. How we slept ! Feet wet, boots for a
pillow, the mud oozing up around our rubber
blankets, but making a soft bed withal, and
we sleeping the dreamless sleep of tired men.
I would be willing, occasionally, to make an-
other such march, through the same mud,
for such a sleep.
At early daylight we fell in for rations of
hot coffee and hard-tack. Immediately after
we took up our line of march, or, as Wad
Rider expressed it, " began to pull mud."
With intervals of rest, we " pulled mud " un-
til about four o'clock in the afternoon, when
we halted near Manassas Junction. It was
strange that the enemy could not have been
chivalrous enough to meet us half-way, and
save us the trials and troubles of wallowing
through all that mud. Then the Quaker guns !
Who has not heard of the " Quaker guns " at
Manassas ? We met the logs, mounted on
wheels, around the fortifications of Manassas,
and can assure you they were not so formi-
dable as the mud.
After thoroughly inspecting our enemies, —
the logs, — we re-formed our ranks and took
the back track for Washington. The rain soon
began to fall, coming down literally in sheets; it
ran down our backs in rivulets, and we should
have run had we met the enemy about that
time — that is, if the mud had permitted ; for
there is nothing which will so take the courage
out of a soldier as to wet the seat of his trow-
sers. On we went, pumping and churning up
and down in the mud, till about ten o'clock,
when we pitched camp near the road-side, as
wet and bedraggled a set of men as ever
panted for military glory, or pursued the
bubble reputation at the wooden cannon's
mouth. We arrived at our old camp near
Washington the following evening.
Virginia mud has never been fully compre-
hended ; but I hope those who read these
pages will catch a faint glimmering of the
reality. To be fully understood, one must
march in it, sleep in it, be encompassed
round about by it. Great is mud — Virginia
mud !
Warren Lee Goss.
THE CAPTURE OF FORT DONELSON.
FEBRUARY I2-l6, 1862.
ON THE SKIRMISH LINE.
The village
of Dover was —
and for that mat-
ter yet is — what
our English cous-
unknown to fame, meager in population, archi-
tecturally poor. There was a court-house in
the place, and a tavern, remembered now as
double-storied, unpainted, and with windows
of eight-by-ten glass, which, if the panes may
be likened to eyes, were both squint and cat-
aractous. Looking through them gave the
street outside the appearance of a sedgy
slough of yellow backwater. The entertain-
ment furnished man and beast was good of
the kind; though at the time mentioned a
sleepy traveler, especially if he were of the
North, might have been somewhat vexed by
the explosions which spiced the good things
of a debating society that nightly took posses-
sion of the bar-room, to discuss the relative
fighting qualities of the opposing sections.
The pertinency of the description lies in the
fact that on these occasions the polemicists
of Dover, even the wisest of them, little
dreamed how near they were to a day when
ins would call the shire-town of the county of trial of the issue would be had on the hills
Stewart, Tennessee. In i860 it was a village around them, and at their very doors, and
THE CAPTURE OF FORT DONELSON.
285
THE TOWN OF DOVER FROM ROBINSON S HILL.
[This view was taken from the site of a house on Mc demand's right, which was destroyed for
camp purposes after the surrender. The house is said to have been used by McClernand as
headquarters. It was near the Wynn's ferry road, which reaches the river perhaps a quarter of
a mile to the right of the picture.]
that another debating society assembled in
the same tavern would shortly pass upon the
same question under circumstances to give
its decision a real sanction, and clothe the
old town, obscure as it was, with an abiding
historical interest.
If there was little of the romantic in Dover
itself, there was still less of poetic quality in
the country |pund about it. The only beauti-
ful feature was the Cumberland river, which,
in placid current from the south, poured its
waters, ordinarily white and pure as those
of the springs that fed it, past the village on
the east. Northward there was a hill, then a
small stream, then a bolder hill round the foot
of which the river swept to the west, as if
courteously bent on helping Hickman's creek
out of its boggy bottom and cheerless ravine.
North of the creek all wras woods. Taking in
the ravine of the creek, a system of hollows,
almost wide and deep enough to be called
valleys, inclosed the town and two hills, their
bluffest ascents being on the townward side.
Westward of the hollows there were woods
apparently interminable. From Fort Henry,
twelve miles north-west, a road entered the
village, stopping first to unite itself with an-
other wagon-way, now famous as the Wynne's
Ferry road, coining more directly from the
west. Still another road, leading off to Char-
lotte and Nashville, had been cut across the
low ground near the river on the south. These
three highways were the chief reliances of the
people of Dover for communication with the
country, and as they were more than supple-
mented by the river and its boatage, the three
were left the year round to the guardianship
of the winds and rains.
However, when at length the Confederate
authorities decided to erect a military post at
Dover, -the town entered but little into con-
sideration. The real inducement was the
second hill on the north ; more properly it
might be termed a ridge. Rising about a
hundred feet above the level of the inlet at its
feet, the reconnoitering engineer, seeking to
control the navigation of the river by a forti-
fication, adopted it at sight. And for that
purpose the bold bluff was in fact a happy
gift of nature, and we shall see presently how
it was taken in hand and made terrible.
FORT DONELSON.
It is of little moment now who first enun-
ciated the idea of attacking the rebellion by
way of the Tennessee river ; most likely the
conception was simultaneous with many
minds. The trend of the river; its navigability
for large steamers ; its offer of a highway to
the rear of the Confederate hosts in Kentucky
and the State of Tennessee ; its silent sugges-
tion of a secure passage into the heart of the
belligerent land, from which the direction of
movement could be changed toward the
Mississippi, or, left, toward Richmond; its
many advantages as a line of supply and of
286
THE CAPTURE OE EORT DONELSON.
i , i I '■' ,i if;
GENERAL SIMON B. BUCKNER. (AFTER A PHOTOGRAPH BY E. ANTHONY.)
general communication, must have been dis-
cerned by every military student who, in the
summer of 1861, gave himself to the most
cursory examination of the map. It is thought
better and more consistent with fact to con-
clude that its advantages as a strategic line,
so actually obtrusive of themselves, were ob-
served about the same time by sensible men
on both sides of the contest. With every
problem of attack there goes a counter prob-
lem of defense.
A peculiarity of the most democratic peo-
ple in the world is their hunger for heroes.
The void in that respect had never been so
gaping as in 1861. General Scott was then
old and passing away, ancT'the North caught
eagerly at the promise held out by George
B. McClellan; while the South, with as much
precipitation, pinned its faith and hopes on
Albert Sidney Johnston. There is little doubt
that up to the surrender of Fort Donelson
the latter was considered the foremost soldier
of all who chose rebellion for their part.
When the shadow of that first great failure
fell upon the veteran, President Davis made
haste to re-assure him of his sympathy and
unbroken confidence. In the official corre-
spondence which has survived the Confeder-
acy there is nothing so pathetic, and at the
same time so indicative of the manly great-
ness of Albert Sidney Johnston, as his letter
in reply to that of his chief.
When General Johnston assumed command
of the Western Department, the war had
ceased to be a new idea. Battles had been
fought. Preparations for battles to come were
far advanced. Already it had been accepted
that the North was to attack and the South
to defend. The Mississippi river was a cen-
tral object ; if opened from Cairo to Fort Jack-
son (New Orleans), the Confederacy would be
broken into halves, and good strategy required
THE CAPTURE OF FORT DONELSON.
287
GENERAL JOHN B. FLOYD. (AFTER A PHOTOGRAPH BY
E. ANTHONY.)
it to be broken. The question was whether
the effort would be made directly or by turn-
ing, its defended positions. Of the national
gun-boats afloat above Cairo, some were for-
midably iron-clad. Altogether the flotilla was
strong enough to warrant the theory that a
direct descent would be attempted; and to
meet the movement the Confederates threw
up powerful batteries, notably at Columbus,
Island No. 10, Memphis, and Vicksburg. So
fully were they possessed of that theory that
they measurably neglected the possibilities of
invasion by way of the Cumberland and Ten-
nessee rivers. Not until General Johnston
established his headquarters at Nashville was
serious attention given to the defense of those
streams. A report to his chief of engineers
of November 21, 1861, establishes that at
that date a second battery on the Cumber-
land at Dover had been completed ; that a
work on the ridge had been laid out, and two
guns mounted; and that the encampment
was then surrounded by an abatis of felled
timber. Later, Brigadier-general Lloyd Tilgh-
man was sent to Fort Donelson as comman-
dant, and on January 25th he reports the
batteries prepared, the entire field-works built
with a trace of two thousand nine hundred
feet, and rifle-pits guarding the approaches
commenced. The same officer speaks further
of reinforcements housed in four hundred log-
cabins, and adds that while this was being
done at Fort Donelson, Forts Henry and
Heiman, over on the Tennessee, were being
thoroughly strengthened. January 30th, Fort
Donelson was formally inspected by Lieuten-
ant-colonel Gilmer, chief engineer of the
Western Department, and the final touches
ordered to be given it.
It is to be presumed that General Johnston
was satisfied with the defenses thus provided
for the Cumberland river. From observing
General Buell at Louisville, and the stir and
movement of multiplying columns under Gen-
eral U. S. Grant in the region of Cairo, he
suddenly awoke determined to fight for Nash-
ville at Donelson. To this conclusion he
came as late as the beginning of February ;
and thereupon the brightest of the Southern
leaders proceeded to make a capital mistake.
The Confederate estimate of the Union force
at that time in Kentucky alone was one
hundred and nineteen regiments. The force
at Cairo, St. Louis, and the towns near the
mouth of the Cumberland river was judged
to be about as great. It was also known
that we had unlimited means of transporta-
tion for troops, making concentration a work
of but few hours. Still General Johnston per-
sisted in fighting for Nashville, and for that
purpose divided his thirty thousand men. Four-
teen thousand he kept in observation of Buell at
Louisville. Sixteen thousand he gave to defend
Fort Donelson. The latter detachment he
himself called " the best part of his army." It
is difficult to think of a great master of
strategy making an error so perilous.
Having taken the resolution to defend
Nashville at Donelson, he intrusted the
operation to three chiefs of brigade — John
B. Floyd, Gideon J. Pillow, and Simon B.
THE LOWER TENNESSEE AND CUMBERLAND REGION.
288
THE CAPTURE OF FORT DONELSON.
GENERAL GIDEON J. PILLOW. (AFTER A PHOTOGRAPH BY GEORGE S. COOK.)
Buckner. Of these, the former was ranking
officer, and he was at the time under indict-
ment by a grand jury at Washington for
malversation as Secretary of War under
President Buchanan, and for complicity in
an embezzlement of public funds. As will
be seen, there came a crisis when the recol-
lection of the circumstance exerted an un-
happy influence over his judgment. The
second officer had a genuine military record;
but it is said of him that he was of a jealous
nature, insubordinate, and quarrelsome. His
bold attempt to supersede General Scott in
Mexico was green in the memories of living
men. To give pertinency to the remark,
there is reason to believe that a personal mis-
understanding between him and General
Buckner, older than the rebellion, was yet
unsettled when the two met at Donelson.
All in all, therefore, there is little doubt
that the junior of the three commanders was
the fittest for the enterprise intrusted to them.
He was their equal in courage ; while in de-
votion to the cause and to his profession of
arms, in tactical knowledge, in military bear-
ing, in the faculty of getting the most service
out of his inferiors, and inspiring them with
confidence in his ability, — as a soldier in all
the higher meanings of the word, he was
greatly their superior.
FORT DONELSON READY FOR BATTLE.
The 6th of February, 1862, dawned darkly
after a thunder-storm. Pacing the parapets
of the work ' on the hill above the inlet
formed by the junction of Hickman's creek
and the Cumberland river, a sentinel, in the
serviceable butternut jeans uniform of the
Confederate army of the West, might that
day have surveyed Fort Donelson almost
ready for battle. In fact, very little was after-
ward done to it. There were the two water
batteries sunk in the northern face of the
bluff, about thirty feet above the river; in
the lower battery nine thirty-two-pounder
guns and one ten-inch Columbiad, and in
the upper another Columbiad, bored and
THE CAPTURE OE EORT DONELSON.
289
rifled as a thirty-two-pounder, and two
thirty-two-pounder carronades. These guns
lay between the embrasures, in snug revet-
ment of sand in coffee-sacks, flanked right
and left with stout traverses. The satisfac-
tion of the sentry could have been nowise
diminished at seeing the backwater lying
log-houses of the garrison. Here and there
groups of later comers, shivering in their wet
blankets, were visible in a bivouac so cheerless
that not even morning fires could relieve it.
A little music would have helped their sinking
spirits, but there was none. Even the pic-
turesque effect of gay uniforms was wanting.
1 Mm ',: 1*111
'' • " ' '. ' >') 111 I I 111 v'^Pilft, 1* >, ','
'im v i mM P ill ?-M\ ,- mm
is -! aiiii'te ' -- <'" ' kill
fi , |j|! i 'j|
DOVER TAVERN — GENERAL BUCKNER's HEADQUARTERS AND THE SCENE OF THE SURRENDER.
deep in the creek ; a more perfect ditch
against assault could not have been con-
structed. The fort itself was of good profile,
and admirably adapted to the ridge it
crowned. Around it, on the landward side,
ran the rifle-pits, a continuous but irregular
line of logs, covered with yellow clay. From
Hickman's Creek they extended far around
to the little run just outside the town on
the south. If the sentry thought the pits
looked shallow, he was solaced to see that
they followed the coping of the ascents,
seventy or eighty feet in height, up which a
foe must charge, and that, where they were
weakest, they were strengthened by trees
felled outwardly in front of them, so that the
interlacing limbs and branches seemed im-
passable by men under fire. At points inside
the outworks, on the inner slopes of the hills,
defended thus from view of an enemy as
well as from his shot, lay the huts and
Vol. XXIX.— 28.
In fine, the Confederate sentinel on the
ramparts that morning, taking in the whole
scene, knew the jolly rollicking picnic days
of the war were over.
To make clearer why the 6th of February is
selected to present the first view of the fort,
about noon that day the whole garrison was
drawn from their quarters by the sound of
heavy guns, faintly heard from the direction
of Fort Henry, a token by which every man
of them knew that a battle was on. The oc-
currence was in fact expected, for two days
before a horseman had ridden to General
Tilghman with word that at 4:30 o'clock
in the morning rocket signals had been ex-
changed with the picket at Bailey's Landing,
announcing the approach of gun-boats. A
second courier came, and then a third ; the
latter, in great haste, requesting the general's
presence at Fort Henry. There was quick
mounting at headquarters, and, before the
290
THE CAPTURE OF FORT DONELSON.
MAJOR-GENERAL C. F.
SMITH. (FROM PHOTOGRAPH BY
BRADY.)
camp could be taken into confidence, the and was posted to cover the land approaches
general and his guard were out of sight, to the water batteries. A left wing was or-
Occasional guns were heard the day following, ganized into six brigades, commanded respect-
Donelson gave itself up to excitement and con- ively by Colonels Heiman, Davidson, Drake,
Wharton, McCausland, and Baldwin, and
posted from right to left in the order named.
Four batteries were distributed amongst the
left wing. General Bushrod R. Johnson, an
able officer, served the general commanding
as chief-of-staff. Dover was converted into
a depot of supplies and ordnance stores.
These dispositions made, Fort Donelson was
ready for battle.
EN ROUTE TO FORT DONELSON.
It may be doubted if General Grant
called a council of war. The nearest approach
to it was a convocation held on the Tigress,
a steam-boat renowned throughout the Army
of the Tennessee as his headquarters. The
morning of the nth of February, a staff-offi-
cer visited each commandant of division and
brigade with the simple verbal message :
" General Grant sends his compliments, and
requests to see you this afternoon on his boat."
Minutes of the proceedings were not kept;
there was no adjournment; each person retired
when he got ready, knowing that the march
would take place next day, probably in the
forenoon.
There were in attendance on the occasion
some officers of great subsequent notability.
Of these Ulysses S. Grant was first. The
world knows him now ; then his fame was all
before him. A singularity of the volunteer
service in that day was that nobody took ac-
count of even a first-rate record in the Mex-
ican War. The battle of Belmont, though
indecisive, was a much better reference. A
story was abroad that Grant had been the
last man to take boat at the end of that affair,
and the addendum that he had lingered in
face of the enemy until he was hauled aboard
with the last gang-plank, did him great good.
From the first his silence was remarkable.
He knew how to keep his temper. In battle,
as in camp, he went about quietly, speak-
ing in a conversational tone; yet he ap-
peared to see everything that went on, and
was always intent on business. He had a
faithful assistant adjutant-general, and appre-
ciated him; he preferred, however, his own
eyes, word, and hand. His aides were little
more than messengers. In dress he was plain,
even negligent ; in partial amendment of that
his horse was always a good one and well
kept. At the council — calling it such by
grace — he smoked, but never said a word.
In all probability he was framing the orders
of march which were issued that night.
jecture. At noon of the 6th, as stated, there
was continuous and heavy cannonading at
Fort Henry, and greater excitement at Fort
Donelson. The polemicists in Dover became
uneasy, and prepared to get away. In the
evening fugitives arrived in groups, and told
how the gun-boats ran straight upon the fort
and took it. The polemicists hastened their
departure from town. At exactly midnight
the gallant Colonel Heiman marched into
Fort Donelson with two brigades of infantry
rescued from the ruins of Forts Henry and
Heiman. The officers and men by whom
they were received then knew that their turn
was at hand ; and at day-break, with one
mind and firm of purpose, they set about
the final preparation.
Brigadier- General Pillow reached Fort Don-
elson on the 9th ; Brigadier-General Buck-
ner came in the night of the nth ; and Brig-
adier-General Floyd on the 13th. The lat-
ter, by virtue of his rank, took command.
The morning of the 13th — calm, spring-
like, the very opposite of that of the 6th —
found in Fort Donelson a garrison of twenty-
eight regiments of infantry : thirteen from Ten-
nessee, two from Kentucky, six from Missis-
sippi, one from Texas, two from Alabama, four
from Virginia. There were also present two in-
dependent battalions of Kentuckians,one regi-
ment of cavalry, and artillerymen for six light
batteries and seventeen heavy guns, making
a total of quite eighteen thousand effectives.
General Buckner's division — six regiments
and two batteries — constituted the right wing,
THE CAPTURE OF FORT DONELSON
291
Charles F. Smith, of the
regular army, was also
present. He was a per-
son of superb physique,
very tall, perfectly propor-
tioned, straight, square-
shouldered, ruddy-faced,
with eyes of genuine blue,
and long snow-white mus-
taches. He seemed to
know the army regula-
tions by heart, and caught
a tactical mistake, whether
of command or execution,
by a kind of mental coup
d'oeil. He was naturally
kind, genial, communica-
tive, and never failed to
answer when information
was sought of him ; at
the same time he believed
in "hours of service" reg-
ularly published by the
adjutants as a rabbi be-
lieves in the ten tables,
and to call a court-mar-
tial on a " bummer " was
in his eyes a sinful waste
of stationery. On the re-
view he had the look of a marshal of France.
He could ride along a line of volunteers in
the regulation uniform of a brigadier-general,
plume, chapeau, epaulets and all, without ex-
citing laughter — something nobody else could
do in the beginning of the war. He was at first
MAJOR-GENERAL JOHN A. MCCLERNAND.
the cause and his chief. He lived to see the
first triumphant and the latter first in peace
as well as in war. Probably no officer of the
Union was mourned by so many armies.
Fort Henry, it will be remembered, was
taken by Flag-Officer Foote on the 6th of
accused of disloyalty, and when told of it, his February. The time up to the 12th was given
eyes flashed wickedly ; then he laughed, and to reconnoitering the country in the direction
said, " Oh, never mind ! They'll take it back of Fort Donelson. Two roads were dis-
after our first battle." And they did. At the covered : one of twelve miles direct, the other
time of the meeting on the Tigress he was a almost parallel with the first, but, on account
brigadier-general, and commanded the divis- of a slight divergence, two miles longer,
ion which in the land operations against Fort By eight o'clock in the morning, the first
Henry marched up the left bank of the river division, General McClernand commanding,
against Fort Heiman. and the second, under General Smith, were
Another officer worthy of mention was in full march.
John A. McClernand, also a brigadier. By
profession a lawyer, he was in his first of mil-
itary service. Brave, industrious, methodical,
and of unquestioned cleverness, he was
rapidly acquiring the art of war.
McClernand's was composed of Illinois
troops entirely, with the exception of com-
pany C Second United States cavalry and
company I Fourth United States cavalry.
The first brigade, Colonel Richard J. Oglesby,
There was still another in attendance on five regiments of infantry, the Eighth, Eight-
the Tigress that day not to be passed — a eenth, Twenty-ninth, Thirtieth, and Thirty-
young man who had followed General Grant first Illinois ; artillery, batteries A and B,
from Illinois, and was seeing his first of mili- Illinois; cavalry, besides the companies stated,
tary service. No soldier in the least familiar Carmichael's, Dollins',0'Harnett's,and Stew-
with headquarters on the Tennessee can ever art's. The second brigade, Colonel W. H. L.
forget the slender figure, large black eyes, Wallace, four regiments of infantry, the Elev-
hectic cheeks, and sincere, earnest manner of enth, Twentieth, Forty-fifth, and Forty-eighth
John A. Rawlins, then assistant adjutant-gen- Illinois ; artillery, batteries B and D ; cav-
eral, afterward major-general and secretary airy, the Fourth Illinois. Third brigade, Col-
of war. He had two devotions in especial — onel W. R. Morrison, two regiments of in-
292
THE CAPTURE OE EORT DONELSON.
GLIMPSE OF THE
CUMBERLAND RIV-
ER WHERE THE
GUN-BOATS FIRST
APPEARED, LOOK-
ING NORTH FROM
THE HIGHEST
EARTH-WORKS OF
FORT DONELSON.
f fantry, the Seven-
teenth and Forty-
~- „. ninth Illinois. General
\ Smith's division was
more mixed, being com-
posed, first brigade, Colo-
nel John McArthur, of the
Ninth, Twelfth, and Forty-
first Illinois ; third brigade, Colonel John
Cook, the Seventh and Fiftieth Illinois, the
Fifty-second Indiana, Fourteenth Iowa, and
Thirteenth Missouri, with light artillery bat-
teries D, H, and K, Missouri; fourth brigade,
Colonel Jacob G. Lauman, infantry, the
Twenty-fifth Indiana, Second, Seventh, and
Fourteenth Iowa, and Berge's sharp-shooters ;
fifth brigade, Colonel Morgan L. Smith, in-
fantry, the Eighth Missouri and Eleventh
Indiana.
It is to be observed now that the infantry
of the command with which, on the morning
of the 1 2th of February, General Grant set
out to attack Fort Donelson was twenty-five
regiments in all, or three less than those of the
Confederates. Against their six field-batteries
he had seven. In cavalry alone he was ma-
terially stronger. The rule in attacking forti-
fications is five to one ; to save
the Union commander from a
charge of rashness, however,
he had at control a fighting
quantity ordinarily at home on
the sea rather than the land.
After receiving the surrender
of Fort Henry, Flag-Officer
Foote had hastened to Cairo
to make preparation for the
reduction of Fort Donelson.
With six of his boats, he passed
into the Cumberland River; and
on the i2th,while the two divis-
ions of the army were march-
ing across to Donelson, he was
hurrying, fast as steam could
drive him and his following, to
a second trial of iron batteries
afloat against earth batteries
ashore. The Carondelet, Com-
mander Walke, having preced-
ed him, had been in position be-
low the fort since the 12th. By sundown of
the 12th, McClernand and Smith reached the
point designated for them in orders.
On the morning of the 13th of February
General Grant, with about 20,000 men, was
before Fort Donelson.* We have had a view of
the army in the works ready for battle ; a like
view of that outside and about to go into posi-
tion of attack and assault is not so easily to be
given. At dawn the latter host rose up from
the bare ground, and, snatching bread and
coffee as best they could, fell into lines that
stretched away over hills, down hollows, and
through thickets, making it impossible for even
colonels to see their regiments from flank to
flank.
Pausing to give a thought to the situation,
it is proper to remind the reader that h£ is
about to witness an event of more than mere
historical interest ; he is about to see the men
of the North and North-west and of the South
and South-west enter for the first time into a
strife of arms; on one side, the best blood
of Tennessee, Kentucky, Alabama, Missis-
sippi, and Texas, aided materially by fighting
representatives from Virginia; on the other,
the best blood of Illinois, Ohio, Indiana,
Iowa, Missouri, and Nebraska.
THE FEDERALS FIND POSITIONS.
We have now before us a spectacle seldom
witnessed in the annals of scientific war — an
army behind field-works erected in a chosen
* General Grant estimates his available forces at this time at 15,000, and on the last day at 27,000, 5000 or
6000 of whom were guarding transportation trains in the rear. — Ed.
THE CAPTURE OE FORT DONELSON.
293
position waiting quietly while another army
very little its superior in numbers proceeds at
leisure to place it in a state of siege. Such was
the operation General Grant had before him at
day -break of the 13th of February. Let us see
how it was accomplished and how it was resisted.
In a clearing about two miles from Dover
there was a log-house, at the time occupied
Graves commanded the first, Maney the sec-
ond; both were of Tennessee. As always in
situations where the advancing party is igno-
rant of the ground and of the designs of the
enemy, resort was had to skirmishers, who
are to the main body what antennae are to
insects. Theirs it is to unmask the foe. Un-
like sharp-shooters, they act in bodies. Behind
THE CRISP FARM — GENERAL GRAN
by a Mrs. Crisp. As the road to Dover ran [
close by, it was made the headquarters of
the commanding general. All through the
night of the 12th, the coming and going
was incessant. Smith was ordered to find
a position in front of the enemy's right
wing, which would place him face to face
with Buckner. McClernand's order was
to establish himself on the enemy's left,
where he would be opposed to Pillow.
A little before dawn Berge's sharp-shoot-
ers were astir. Theirs was a peculiar ser-
vice. Each was a preferred marksman,
and carried a long-range Henry rifle, with
sights delicately arranged as for target
practice. In action each was perfectly inde-
pendent. They never maneuvered as a corps.
When the time came they were asked, " Can-
teens full ? " " Biscuits for all day ? " Then their
only order, "All right; hunt you holes, boys."
Thereupon they dispersed, and, like Indians,
sought cover to please themselves behind rocks
and stumps, or in hollows. Sometimes they
dug holes ; sometimes they climbed into trees.
Once in a good location, they remained there
the day. At night they would crawl out and
report in camp. This morning, as I have
said, the sharp-shooters dispersed early to find
places within easy range of the breastworks.
The movement by Smith and McClernand
was begun about the same time. A thick
wood fairly screened the former. The latter
had to cross an open valley under fire of two
batteries, one on Buckner's left, the other on
a high point jutting from the line of outworks
held by Colonel Heiman of Pillow's command.
FRONT VIEW OF MRS. CRISP S HOUSE.
the skirmishers, the batteries started out to
find positions, and through the brush and
woods, down the hollows, up the hills the
guns and caissons were hauled. It is nowadays
a very steep bluff, in face of which the good
artillerist will stop or turn back. At Donelson,
however, the proceeding was generally slow
and toilsome. The officer had to find a van-
tage-ground first; then with axes a road to it
was hewn out ; after which, in many instances,
the men, with the prolongs over their shoulders,
helped the horses along. In the gray of the
dawn the sharp-shooters were deep in their
deadly game; as the sun came up, one battery
after another, having found position, opened
fire, and was instantly and gallantly answered;
and all the time behind the hidden sharp-
shooters, and behind the skirmishers, who oc-
casionally stopped to take a hand in the fray,
the regiments marched, route-step, colors fly-
ing, after their colonels.
294
THE CAPTURE OF FORT DONELSON.
300
YA R DS
100
a* CONFEDERATE TENTS
J. OG HUTS
MAP OF FORT DONELSON, AS INVESTED BY GENERAL GRANT ; BASED ON THE OFFICIAL MAP BY GENERAL J. B. MCPHERSON.
About eleven o'clock Commander Walke,
of the Carondelet, engaged the water batteries.
The air was then full of the stunning music
of battle ; though as yet not a volley of mus-
ketry had been heard. Smith, nearest the
enemy at starting, was first in place; and
there, leaving the fight to his sharp-shooters
and skirmishers and to his batteries, he re-
ported to the chief in the log-house, and, like
an old soldier, calmly waited orders. McCler-
nand, following a good road, pushed on rapidly
to the high grounds on the right. The ap-
pearance of his column in the valley covered
by the two Confederate batteries provoked a
furious shelling from them. On the double-
quick his men passed through it ; and when
in the wood beyond, they resumed the route-
step and saw that nobody was hurt, they
fell to laughing at themselves. The real
baptism of fire was yet in store for them.
When McClernand arrived at his appointed
place and extended his brigades, it was dis-
covered that the Confederate outworks of-
fered a front too great for him to envelop.
To attempt to rest his right opposite their ex-
treme left would necessitate a dangerous at-
tenuation of his line and leave him without
reserves. Over on their left, moreover, ran
the road already mentioned as passing from
Dover on the south to Charlotte and Nashville,
which it was of the highest importance to
close hermetically that soon there would be
no communication left General Floyd except
by the river. If the road to Charlotte were
left to the enemy, they might march out at
their pleasure.
The insufficiency of his force was thus made
apparent to General Grant, and whether a
discovery of the moment or not, he set about
its correction. He knew a reenforcement was
THE CAPTURE OF FORT DONELSON.
295
coming up the river under convoy of Foote ;
besides which a brigade, composed of the
Eighth Missouri and the Eleventh Indiana
infantry and Battery A, Illinois, had been left
behind at Forts Henry and Heiman under
myself. A courier was dispatched to me with
an order to bring my command to Donelson.
I ferried my troops across the Tennessee in the
night, and reported with them at headquarters
before noon the next day. The brigade was
transferred to General Smith; at the same
time an order was put into my hand assigning
me to command the third division.
As the regiments marched past me in the
road, I organized them : first brigade, Colonel
Cruft, the Thirty-first Indiana, Seventeenth
Kentucky, Forty-fourth Indiana, and Twenty-
fifth Kentucky; third brigade, Colonel Thayer,
the First Nebraska, and Seventy-sixth and
Sixty-eighth Ohio. Four other regiments, the
Forty-sixth, Fifty-seventh, and Fifty-eighth
Illinois and Twentieth Ohio, intended to con-
stitute the second brigade, came up later, and
were attached to Thayer's command.
My division was thereupon conducted to
a position between Smith and McClernand,
enabling the latter to extend his line well to
the left and cover the road to Charlotte.
Thus on the 14th of February the Con-
federates were completely invested, except
that the river above Dover remained to them.
The supineness of General Floyd all this while
is to this day incomprehensible. A vigorous
attack the morning of the 13th might have
thrown Grant back upon Fort Henry. Such
an achievement would have more than offset
Foote's conquest. The morale to be gained
would have alone justified the attempt. But
with McClernand's strong division on the
right, my own in the center, and Smith's on
the left, the opportunity was gone. On Gen-
eral Grant's side the possession of the river
was all that was wanting; with that he could
force the fighting, or wait the certain approach
of the grimmest enemy of the besieged —
starvation.
ILLINOIS BREAKS A LANCE WITH TENNESSEE.
It is now — morning of the 14th — easy to
see and understand with something more than
approximate exactness the oppositions of the
two forces. Smith is on the left of the Union
army opposite Buckner. My division, in the
center, confronts Colonels Heiman, Drake,
and Davidson, each with a brigade. McCler-
nand, now well over on the right, keeps the
road to Charlotte and Nashville against the
major part of Pillow's left wing. The infantry
on both sides are in cover behind the crests
of the hills or in thick woods, listening to the
ragged fusillade which the sharp-shooters and
skirmishers maintain against each other al-
most without intermission. There is little
pause in the exchange of shells and round
shot. The careful chiefs have required their
men to lie down. In brief, it looks as if each
party was inviting the other to begin.
These circumstances, the sharp-shooting
and cannonading, ugly as they may seem to
one who thinks of them under comfortable
surroundings, did in fact serve a good purpose
the day in question in helping the men to forget
their sufferings of the night before. It must be
remembered that the weather had changed dur-
ing the preceding afternoon : from suggestions
of spring it turned to intensified winter. From
lending a gentle hand in bringing Foote and
his iron-clads up the river, the wind whisked
suddenly around to the north and struck both
armies with a storm of mixed rain, snow, and
sleet. All night the tempest blew mercilessly
upon the unsheltered, fireless soldiers, making
sleep impossible. Inside the works, nobody
had overcoats ; while thousands of those out-
side had marched from Fort Henry as to a
summer fete, leaving coats, blankets, and
knapsacks behind them in camp. More than
one stout fellow has since admitted, with a
laugh, that nothing was so helpful to him that
horrible night as the thought that the wind,
which seemed about to turn his blood into
icicles, was serving the enemy the same way ;
they, too, had to stand out and take the blast.
In the hope now that the reader has a tol-
erable presentment of the situation which the
orators of Dover had, to the extent of their
influence, aided in bringing upon their village
that dreary morning of the 14th of February,
let us go back to the preceding day, and bring
up an incident of McClernand's swing into
position.
About the center of the Confederate out-
works there was a V-shaped hill, marked
sharply by a ravine on its right and another
on its left. This Colonel Heiman occupied
with his brigade of five regiments — all of
Tennessee but one. The front presented was
about twenty-five hundred feet. In the angle
of the V, on the summit of the hill, Captain
Maney's battery, also of Tennessee, had been
planted. Without protection of any kind,
it nevertheless completely swept a large field
to the left, across which an assaulting force
would have to come in order to get at Hei-
man or at Drake, next on the south.
Maney, on the point of the hill, had been
active throughout the preceding afternoon,
and succeeded in drawing the fire of some of
McClernand's guns. The duel lasted until
night. Next morning it was renewed with in-
creased sharpness, Maney being assisted on
THE CAPTURE OE EORT DONELSON.
:97
his right by Graves's battery of Buckner's di-
vision, and by some pieces of Drake's on his
left.
McClernand's advance was necessarily slow
and trying. This was not merely a logical re-
sult of unacquaintance with the country and
the dispositions of the enemy ; he was also
under an order from General Grant to avoid
everything calculated to bring on a general
engagement. In Maney's well-served guns
he undoubtedly found serious annoyance, if
not a positive obstruction. Concentrating
guns of his own upon the industrious Confed-
erate, he at length fancied him silenced and
the enemy's infantry on the right thrown into
confusion — circumstances from which he
hastily deduced a favorable chance to deliver
an assault. For that purpose he reenforced
his third brigade, which was nearest the offend-
ing battery, and gave the necessary orders.
Up to this time, it will be observed, there
had not been any fighting involving infantry
in line. This was now to be changed. Old
soldiers, rich with experience, would have re-
garded the work proposed with gravity; they
would have shrewdly cast up an account of the
chances of success, not to speak of the chances
of coming out alive; they would have measured
the distance to be passed, every foot of it un-
der the guns of three batteries, Maney's in
the center, Graves's on their left, and Drake's
on their right — a direct line of fire doubly
crossed. Nor would they have omitted the
reception awaiting them from the rifle-pits.
They were to descend a hill entangled for
two hundred yards with underbrush, climb
an opposite ascent partly shorn of timber;
make way through an abatis of tree-tops ;
then, supposing all that successfully accom-
plished, they would be at last in face of an
enemy whom it was possible to reenforce with
all the reserves of the garrison — with the
whole garrison, if need be. A veteran would
have surveyed the three regiments selected
for the honorable duty with many misgivings.
Not so the men themselves. They were not
old soldiers. Recruited but recently from
farms and shops, they accepted the assign-
ment heartily and with youthful confidence
in their prowess. It may be doubted if a man
in the ranks gave a thought to the questions,
whether the attack was to be supported while
making, or followed up if successful, or whether
it was part of a general advance. Probably
the most they knew was that the imme-
diate objective before them was the capture
of the battery on the hill.
The line when formed stood thus from the
right: the Forty-ninth Illinois, then the Seven-
teenth, and then the Forty-eighth, Colonel
Haynie. At the last moment, a question of
Vol. XXIX.— 29.
seniority arose between Colonels Morrison
and Haynie. The latter was of opinion that
he was the ranking officer. Morrison replied
that he would conduct the brigade to the
point from which the attack was to be made,
after which Haynie could take the command,
if he desired to do so.
Down the hill the three regiments went,
crashing and tearing through the under-
growth. Heiman, on the lookout, saw them
advancing. Before they cleared the woods,
Maney opened with shells. At the foot of the
descent, in the valley, Graves joined his fire
to Maney's. There Morrison reported to
Haynie, who neither accepted nor refused
the command. Pointing to the hill, he merely
said, " Let us take it together." Morrison
turned away, and rejoined his own regiment.
Here was confusion in the beginning, or
worse, an assault begun without a head.
Nevertheless, the whole line went forward.
On a part of the hill-side the trees were yet
standing. The open space fell to Morrison
and his Forty-ninth, and paying the penalty
of the exposure, he outstripped his associates.
The men fell rapidly ; yet the living rushed
on and up, firing as they went. The battery
was the common target. Maney's gunners, in
relief against the sky, were shot down in quick
succession. His first lieutenant (Burns) was
one of the first to suffer. His second lieuten-
ant (Massie) was mortally wounded. Maney
himself was hit ; still he stayed, and his guns
continued their punishment; and still the
farmer lads and shop boys of Illinois clung to
their purpose. With marvelous audacity they
pushed through the abatis, and reached a
point within forty yards of the rifle-pits. It
actually looked as if the prize were theirs. The
yell of victory was rising in their throats.
Suddenly the long line of yellow breastworks
before them, covering Heiman's five regi-
ments, crackled and turned into flame. The
forlorn hope stopped — staggered — braced
up again — shot blindly through the smoke at
the smoke of the new enemy, secure in his
shelter. Thus for fifteen minutes the Illinois-
ans stood fighting. The time is given on the
testimony of the opposing leader himself.
Morrison was knocked out of his saddle by a
musket-ball, and disabled; then the men went
dowTn the hill. At its foot they rallied round
their flags, and renewed the assault. Pushed
down again, again they rallied, and a third
time climbed to the enemy. This time the
battery set fire to the dry leaves on the
ground, and the heat and smoke became stif-
ling. It was not possible for brave men to
endure more. Slowly, sullenly, frequently
pausing to return a shot, they went back for the
last time ; and in going their ears and souls
298
THE CAPTURE OF FORT DONELSON.
PRESENT APPEARANCE OF PILLOW S DEFENSES IN FRONT OF McCLERNAND, SHOWING WATER IN THE TRENCHES.
were riven with the shrieks of their wounded
comrades, whom the flames crept down upon
and smothered and charred where they lay.
Considered as a mere exhibition of courage,
this assault, long maintained against odds —
twice repulsed, twice renewed — -has been
seldom excelled. One hundred and forty-nine
men of the Seventeenth and Forty-ninth were
killed and wounded. Of Haynie's loss we
have no report.
THE BATTLE OF THE GUN-BOATS.
There are few things connected with the
operations against Fort Donelson so relieved
of uncertainty as this : that when General
Grant at Fort Henry became fixed in the
resolution to undertake the movement, his
primary object was the capture of the force
to which the post was intrusted. To effect
their complete environment, he relied upon
Flag-Ofiicer Foote, whose astonishing success
at Fort Henry justified the extreme of con-
fidence.
Foote arrived on the 14th, and made haste
to enter upon his work. The Carondelet
(Commander Walke) had been in position
since the 12th.* Behind a low outpost of the
shore, for two days, she maintained a fire
from her rifled guns, happily of greater range
than the best of those of the enemy.
At nine o'clock on the 14th, Captain Cul-
bertson, looking from the parapet of the upper
battery, beheld the river below the first bend
* A fuller account of the part the gun-boats took in the attack will be included in an illustrated paper on
the work of Foote and the Western Flotilla, to appear in the next issue of The Century, and to be contributed
by Commander (now Rear- Admiral) Walke, who was one of the chief actors in this important service. The
construction of the fleet will also be described by Captain James B. Eads, who planned and built the iron-
clads.— Ed.
THE CAPTURE OF FORT DONELSON.
299
full of transports, landing troops under cover
of a fresh arrival of gun-boats. The disem-
barkation concluded, Foote was free. He
waited until noon. The captains in the bat-
teries mistook his deliberation for timidity.
The impinging of their shot on his iron armor
was heard distinctly in the fort a mile and a
half away. The captains began to doubt if
he would come at all. But at three o'clock
they took position under fire : the Louisville
on the right, the St. Louis next, then the
Pittsburgh then the Carondelet, all iron-clad.
Five hundred yards from the batteries, and
yet Foote was not content! In the Crimean
war the allied French and English fleets,
of much mightier ships, undertook to engage
the Russian shore batteries, but little stronger
than those at Donelson. The French on that
occasion stood off eighteen hundred yards.
Lord Lyons fought his Agamemnon at a dis-
tance of eight hundred yards. Foote forged
ahead within four hundred yards of his en-
emy, and was still going on. His boat had
been hit between wind and water ; so with the
Pittsburg and Carondelet. About the guns
the floors were slippery with blood, and both
surgeons and carpenters were never so busy.
Still the four boats kept on, and there was
great cheering ; for not only did the fire from
the shore slacken; the lookouts reported
the enemy running. It seemed that fortune
would smile once more upon the fleet, and
cover the honors of Fort Henry afresh at
Fort Donelson. Unhappily, when about three
hundred and fifty yards off the hill, a solid
shot plunged through the pilot-house of the
flag-ship, and carried away the wheel. Near
the same time the tiller-ropes of the Louis-
ville were disabled. Both vessels became
unmanageable, and began floating down the
current. The eddies turned them round like
logs. The Pittsburg and Carondelet closed in
and covered them with their hulls.
Seeing this turn in the fight, the captains
of the batteries rallied their men, who cheered
in their turn, and renewed the contest with
increased will and energy. A ball got lodged
in their best rifle. A corporal and some of his
men took a log fitting the bore, leaped out
on the parapet, and rammed the missile home.*
" Now, boys," said a gunner in Bidwell's bat-
tery, " see me take a chimney ! " The flag
of the boat and the chimney fell with the
shots.
When the vessels were out of range, the
victors looked around them. The fine form
of their embrasures was gone ; heaps of earth
had been cast over their platforms. In a space
of twenty-four feet they picked up as many
shot and shells. The air had been full of fly-
ing missiles. For an hour and a half the brave
fellows had been rained upon; yet their losses
had been trifling in numbers. Each gunner
had selected a ship, and followed her faith-
fully throughout the action, now and then
uniting fire on the Carondelet. The Confed-
erates had behaved with astonishing valor.
Their victory sent a thrill of joy through the
army. The assault on the outworks, the day
before, had been a failure. With the repulse
of the gun-boats the Confederates scored
success number two, and the communication
by the river remained open to Nashville. The
winds that blew sleet and snow over Donelson
that night were not so unendurable as they
might have been.
A DAY OF BATTLE.
The night of the 14th of February fell cold
and dark, and under the pitiless sky the armies
remained in position so near to each other that
neither dared light fires. Overpowered with
watching, fatigue, and the lassitude of spirits
which always follows a strain upon the fac-
ulties of men like that which is the concomi-
tant of battle, thousands on both sides lay
down in the ditches and behind logs, and
whatever else would in the least shelter them
from the cutting wind, and tried to sleep. Very
few closed their eyes. Even the horses, after
their manner, betrayed the suffering they were
enduring.
That morning General Floyd had called a
council of his chiefs of brigades and divisions.
He expressed the opinion that the post was
untenable, except with fifty thousand troops.
He called attention to the heavy reinforce-
ments of the Federals, and suggested an im-
mediate attack upon ther right wing to re-open
land communication with Nashville, by way of
Charlotte. The proposal was agreed to unani-
mously. General Buckner proceeded to make
dispositions to cover the retreat, in the event
the sortie was successful. Shortly after noon,
when the movement should have begun, the
order was countermanded at the instance of
Pillow. Then came the battle with the gun-
boats.
In the night the council was recalled, with
general and regimental officers in attendance.
The situation was again debated, and the
same conclusion reached. According to the
plan resolved upon, Pillow was to move at
dawn with his whole division, and attack the
right of the besiegers. General Buckner was
to be relieved by troops in the forts, and with
his command to support Pillow by assailing the
right of the enemy's center. If he succeeded,
he was to take post outside the entrenchments
One of the gunners is said to have torn up his coat in lieu of wadding. — Ed.
3°°
THE CAPTURE OE EORT DONELSON.
mcallister's battery in action.*
on the Wynn's Ferry road to cover the re-
treat. He was then to act as rear-guard.
Thus early, leaders in Donelson were aware
of the mistake into which they were plunged.
Their resolution was wise and heroic. Let us
see how they executed it.
Preparations for the attack occupied the
night. The troops were for the most part
taken out of the rifle-pits, and massed over
on the left to the number of ten thousand or
more. The ground was covered with ice and
snow ; yet the greatest silence was observed.
It seems incomprehensible that columns
mixed of all arms, infantry, cavalry, and artil-
lery, could have engaged in simultaneous
movement, and not have been heard by some
listener outside. One would think the jolting
and rumble of the heavy gun-carriages would
have told the story. But the character of the
night must be remembered. The pickets of
the Federals were struggling for life against
the blast, and probably did not keep good
watch.
Oglesby's brigade held McClernand's ex-
treme right. Here and there the musicians
were beginning to make the woods ring with
reveille, and the numbed soldiers of the line
were rising from their icy beds, and shaking
the snow from their frozen garments. As yet,
however, not a company had " fallen in."
Suddenly the pickets fired, and with the
alarm on their lips rushed back upon their com-
rades. The woods on the instant became alive.
The regiments formed, officers mounted
and took their places; words of command
rose loud and eager. By the time Pillow's
advance opened fire on Oglesby's right, the
point first struck, the latter was fairly formed
to receive it. A rapid exchange of volleys
ensued. The distance intervening between
the works on one side and the bivouac on the
other was so short that the action began
before Pillow could effect a deployment. His
brigades came up in a kind of echelon, left
in front, and passed " by regiments left into
line," one by one, however; the regiments
* Captain McAllister's battery did good service trie next day. In his report he describes the manner of
working the battery as follows : " I selected a point, and about noon opened on the four-gun battery through
an opening in which I could see the foe. Our fire was promptly returned, with such precision that they cut
our right wheel on howitzer number three in two. I had no spare wheel, and had to take one off the limber
to continue the fight. I then moved all my howitzers over to the west slope of the ridge and loaded under
cover of it, and ran the pieces up by hand until I could get the exact elevation. The recoil would throw the
guns back out of sight, and thus we continued the fight until the enemy's battery was silenced." — Ed.
THE CAPTURE OF FORT DO NELSON.
301
quickly took their places, and advanced the snow with their blood. The smoke, in
without halting. Oglesby's Illinoisans were pallid white clouds, clung to the underbrush
now fully awake. They held their ground, and tree-tops as if to screen the combatants
returning in full measure the fire that they re- from each other. Close to the ground the flame
ceived. The Confederate Forrest rode around of musketry and cannon tinted everything a
as if to get in their rear,* and it was then lurid red. Limbs dropped from the trees on
the heads below, and the thickets were shorn
as by an army of cradlers. The division was
under peremptory orders to hold its position
to the last extremity, and W. H. L. Wallace
give and take, infantry against infantry. The
semi-echelon movement of the Confederates
enabled them, after an interval, to strike
W. H. L. Wallace's brigade, on Oglesby's left.
Soon Wallace was engaged along his whole was equal to the emergency.
front, now prolonged by the addition to his It was now ten o'clock, and over on the
command of Morrison's regiments. The first right Oglesby was beginning to fare badly.
charge against him was repulsed ; whereupon
he advanced to the top of the rising ground
behind which he had sheltered his troops in the
night. A fresh assault followed, but aided
by a battery across the valley to his left,
he repulsed the enemy a second time. His
men were steadfast, and clung to the brow
of the hill as if it were theirs by holy right.
An hour passed, and yet another hour,
without cessation of the fire. Meantime
the woods rang with a monstrous clangor
of musketry, as if a million men were
beating empty barrels with iron hammers.
Buckner flung a portion of his division
on McClernand's left, and supported the
attack with his artillery. The enfilading fell
chiefly on W. H. L. Wallace. McClernand,
watchful and full of resources, sent batteries
The pressure on his front grew stronger. The
" rebel yell," afterward a familiar battle-cry
on many fields, told of ground being gained
against him. To add to his doubts, officers
were riding to him with a sickening story
that their commands were getting out of
ammunition, and asking where they could
PRESENT ASPECT OF THE POSITION OF THE GUN-BOATS AND OF THE WEST BANK.
CFort Donelson is in the farther distance on the extreme left —Hickman's Creek empties into the Cumberland in the middle distance —
Midway are the remains of the obstructions placed in the river by the Confederates — The upper picture, showing Isaac Williams's house, is a con-
tinuation of the right of the lower view.]
to meet Buckner's batteries. To that duty
Taylor rushed with his Company B; and
McAllister pushed his three twenty-four-
pounders into position and exhausted his
ammunition in the duel. The roar never
slackened. Men fell by the score, reddening
go for a supply. All he could say was to take
what was in the boxes of the dead and
wounded. At last he realized that the end
was come. His right companies began to
give way, and as they retreated, holding up
their empty cartridge-boxes, the enemy were
* Colonel John McArthur, originally of General C. F. Smith's division, but then operating with Mc-
Clernand, was there, and though at first discomfited, his men beat the cavalry off, and afterward shared
the full shock of the tempest with Oglesby's troops. — L. W.
3°2
THE CAPTURE OE EORT DONELSON.
emboldened, and swept more fiercely around
his flank, until finally they appeared in his rear.
He then gave the order to retire the division.
W. H. L. Wallace from his position looked
off to his right and saw but one regiment of
Oglesby's in place, maintaining the fight, and
that was John A. Logan's Thirty-first Illinois.
Through the smoke he could see Logan riding
in a gallop behind his line ; through the roar in
THE THIRD DIVISION IN BATTLE.
Without pausing to consider whether the
Confederate general could now have escaped
with his troops, it must be evident that he
should have made the effort. Pillow had dis-
charged his duty well. With the disappear-
ance of W. H. L. Wallace's brigade, it only
remained for the victor to deploy his regiments
VIEW NEAR DOVER TOWARD THE INTERIOR WORKS OF FORT DONELSON HEDGE OF THE NATIONAL CEMETERY ON THE RIGHT.
his front and the rising yell in his rear, he
could hear Logan's voice in fierce entreaty to
his "boys." Near the Thirty-first stood W. H.
L. Wallace's regiment, the Eleventh Illinois,
under Lieutenant-colonel Ransom. The gaps
in the ranks of the two were closed up always
toward the colors. The ground at their feet was
strewn with their dead and wounded; at length
the common misfortune overtook Logan. To
keep men without cartridges under fire sweep-
ing them front and flank would be cruel, if not
impossible ; and seein g it, he too gave the order
to retire, and followed his decimated compa-
nies to the rear. The Eleventh then became
the right of the brigade, and had to go in turn.
Nevertheless, Ransom changed front to rear
coolly, as if on parade, and joined in the gen-
eral retirement. Forrest charged them and
threw them into a brief confusion. The greater
portion clung to their colors, and made good
their retreat. By eleven o'clock Pillow held
the road to Charlotte and the whole of the
position occupied at dawn by the first divis-
ion, and with it the dead and all the wounded
who could not get away.
Pillow's part of the programme, arranged in
the council of the night before, was accomplish-
ed. The country was once more open to Floyd.
Why did he not avail himself of the dearly
bought opportunity, and march his army out ?
into column and march into the country. The
road was his. Buckner was in position to pro-
tect Colonel Head's withdrawal from the
trenches opposite General Smith on the right ;
that done, he was also in position to cover the
retreat. Buckner had also faithfully performed
his task.
On the Union side the situation at this
critical time was favorable to the proposed
retirement. My division in the center was
weakened by the dispatch of one of my bri-
gades to the assistance of General McCler-
nand ; in addition to which my orders were to
hold my position. As a point of still greater
importance, General Grant had gone on board
the St. Louis at the request of Flag-Officer
Foote, and he was there in consultation with
that officer, presumably uninformed of the
disaster which had befallen his right. It
would take a certain time for him to return to
the field and dispose his forces for pursuit. It
may be said with strong assurance, conse-
quently, that Floyd could have put his men
fairly en route for Charlotte before the Federal
commander could have interposed an obstruc-
tion to the movement. The real difficulty
was in the hero of the morning, who now
made haste to blight his laurels. General
Pillow's vanity whistled itself into ludicrous
exaltation. Imagining General Grant's whole
THE CAPTURE OE EORT DONELSON.
303
army defeated and flying in rout
for Fort Henry and the transports
on the river, he deported himself
accordingly. He began by ignor-
ing Floyd. He rode to Buckner
and accused him of shameful con-
duct. He sent an aide to the near-
est telegraph station with a dis-
patch to Albert Sidney Johnston,
then in command of the Depart-
ment, asseverating, " on the honor
of a soldier," that the day was
theirs. Nor did he stop at that.
The victory, to be available, re-
quired that the enemy should be
followed with energy. Such was a
habit of Napoleon. Without deign-
ing even to consult his chief, he
ordered Buckner to move out and
attack the Federals. There was a
gorge, up which a road ran toward
our central position, or rather what
had been our central position.
Pointing to the gorge and the road,
he told Buckner that was his way,
and bade him attack in force.
There was nothing to do but obey ; and when
Buckner had begun the movement, the wise
programme decided upon the evening before
was wiped from the slate.
When Buckner reluctantly took the gorge
road marked out for him by Pillow, the whole
Confederate army, save the detachments on the
works, was virtually in pursuit of McClernand,
retiring by the Wynn's Ferry road — falling
back, in fact, upon my position. My division
was now to feel the weight of Pillow's hand ;
if they should fail, the fortunes of the day
would depend upon the veteran Smith.
When General McClernand perceived the
peril threatening him in the morning, he sent
an officer to me with a request for assistance.
This request I referred to General Grant, who
was at the time in consultation with Foote.
Upon the turning of Oglesby's flank, Mc-
Clernand repeated his request, with such a
representation of the situation that, assuming
the responsibility, I ordered Colonel Cruft to
report with his brigade to McClernand. Cruft
set out promptly. Unfortunately a guide mis-
directed him, so that he became involved in
the retreat, and was prevented from accom-
plishing his object.
I was in the rear of my single remaining
brigade, in conversation with Captain Rawlins,
of Grant's staff, when a great shouting was
heard behind me on the Wynn's Ferry road,
whereupon I sent an orderly to ascertain the
cause. The man reported the road and woods
full of soldiers apparently in rout. An officer
then rode by at full speed, shouting, " All's
ROWLETTS MILL, ON THE EDDYVILLE ROAD AT HICKMAN S CREEK.
lost ! Save yourselves ! " A hurried consulta-
tion was had with Rawlins, at the end of which
the brigade was put in motion toward the
enemy's works, on the very road by which
Buckner was pursuing under Pillow's mis-
chievous order. It happened also that Colonel
W. H. L. Wallace had dropped into the same
road with such of his command as stayed by
their colors. He came up riding and at a
walk, his leg over the horn of his saddle. He
was perfectly cool, and looked like a farmer
from a hard day's plowing.
" Good-morning," I said.
" Good-morning," was the reply.
" Are they pursuing you ? "
"Yes."
" How far are they behind ? "
That instant the head of my command ap-
peared on the road. The colonel calculated,
then answered :
" You will have about time to form line of
battle right here."
" Thank you. Good-day."
" Good-day."
At that point the road began to dip into
the gorge ; on the right and left there were
woods, and in front a dense thicket. An
order was dispatched to bring Battery A for-
ward at full speed. Colonel John A. Thayer,
commanding the brigade, formed it on the
double-quick into line; the First Nebraska and
the Fifty-eighth Illinois on the right, and the
Fifty-eighth Ohio, with a detached company,
on the left. The battery came up on the run
and swung across the road, which had been
3°4
THE CAPTURE OF FORT DONELSON.
BRANCH OF HICKMAN S CREEK NEAR JAMES CRISP S HOUSE — THE LEFT OF GENERAL SMITH S LINE.
left open for it. Hardly had it unlimbered,
before the enemy appeared, and firing began.
For ten minutes or thereabouts the scenes of
the morning were reenacted. The Confeder-
ates struggled hard to perfect their deploy-
ments. The woods rang with musketry and
artillery. The brush on the slope of the hill
was mowed away with bullets. A great cloud
arose and shut out the woods and the narrow
valley below. Colonel Thayer and his regi-
ments behaved with great gallantry, and the
contest was over. The assailants fell back in
confusion and returned to the entrenchments.
W. H. L. Wallace and Oglesby re-formed their
commands behind Thayer, supplied them with
ammunition, and stood at rest waiting for
orders. There was then a lull in the battle.
Even the cannonading ceased, and everybody
was asking, What next?
Just then General Grant rode up to where
General McClernand and I were in con-
versation. He was almost unattended. In
his hand there were some papers, which
looked like telegrams. Wholly unexcited, he
saluted and received the salutations of his
subordinates. Proceeding at once to busi-
ness, he directed them to retire their com-
mands to the heights out of cannon range,
and throw up works. Reinforcements were
en route, he said, and it was advisable to
await their coming. He was then informed
of the mishap to the First Division, and that
the road to Charlotte was open to the enemy.
In every great man's career there is a crisis
exactly similar to that which now overtook
General Grant, and it cannot be better de-
scribed than as a crucial test of his nature.
A mediocre person would have accepted the
news as an argument for persistence in his
resolution to enter upon a siege. Had Gen-
eral Grant done so, it is very probable his
history would have been then and there con-
cluded. His admirers and detractors are alike
invited to study him at this precise juncture.
It cannot be doubted that he saw with pain-
ful distinctness the effect of the disaster to
his right wing. His face flushed slightly.
With a sudden grip he crushed the papers in
his hand. But in an instant these signs of
disappointment or hesitation — as the reader
pleases — cleared away. In his ordinary quiet
voice he said, addressing himself to both
officers, " Gentlemen, the position on the
right must be retaken." With that he turned
and galloped off.
Seeing in the road a provisional brigade,
under Colonel Morgan L. Smith, consisting
of the Eleventh Indiana and the Eighth
Vol. XXIX.— 30.
3°6
THE CAPTURE OE PORT DONELSON.
Missouri infantry, going, by order of General
C. F. Smith, to the aid of the First Division,
I suggested that if General McClernand would
order Colonel Smith to report to me, I would
attempt to recover the lost ground ; and the
order having been given, I reconnoitered the
hill, determined upon a place of assault, and
arranged my order of attack. I chose Colonel
Smith's regiments to lead, and for that purpose
conducted them to the crest of a hill opposite a
steep bluff" covered by the enemy. The two
regiments had been formerly of my brigade.
I knew they had been admirably drilled in
the Zouave tactics, and my confidence in
Smith and in McGinness, colonel of the
Eleventh, was implicit. I was sure they would
take their men to the top of the bluff. Colo-
nel Cruft was put in line to support them on
the right. Colonel Ross, with his regiments,
the Seventeenth and Forty-ninth, and the
Forty-sixth, Fifty-seventh, and Fifty- eighth
Illinois, were put as support on the left.
Thayer's brigade was held in reserve. These
dispositions filled the time till about two
o'clock in the afternoon, when heavy cannon-
ading, mixed with a long roll of musketry,
broke out over on the left, whither it will be
necessary to transfer the reader.
CHARLES F. SMITH'S BATTLE.
The veteran in command on the Union
left had contented himself with allowing
Buckner no rest, keeping up a continual
sharp-shooting. Early in the morning of the
14th he made a demonstration of assault with
three of his regiments, and though he pur-
posely withdrew them, he kept the menace
standing, to the great discomfort of his vis-a-
vis. With the patience of an old soldier, he
waited the pleasure of the general command-
ing, knowing that when the time came he
would be called upon. During the battle of
the gun-boats he rode through his command
and grimly joked with them. He who never
permitted the slightest familiarity from a sub-
ordinate, could yet indulge in fatherly pleas-
antries with the ranks when he thought circum-
stances justified them. He never for a moment
doubted the courage of volunteers; they were
not regulars — that was all. If properly led, he
believed they would storm the gates of his Satan-
ic Majesty. Their hour of trial was now come.
From his brief and characteristic conference
with McClernand and myself, General Grant
rode to General C. F. Smith. What took place
between them is not known further than that
he ordered an assault upon the outworks as a
diversion in aid of the assault about to be
delivered on the right. General Smith per-
sonally directed his chiefs of brigade to get
their regiments ready. Colonel John Cook by
his order increased the number of his skirmish-
ers already engaged with the enemy.
Taking Lauman's brigade General Smith
began the advance. They were under fire in-
stantly. The guns in the fort joined in with the
infantry who were at the time in the rifle-pits,
the great body of the Confederate right wing
being with General Buckner. The defense was
greatly favored by the ground, which subjected
the assailants to a double fire from the begin-
ning of the abatis. The men have said that " it
looked too thick for a rabbit to get through."
General Smith, on his horse, took position in
the front and center of the line. Occasionally
he turned in his saddle to see how the align-
ment was kept. For the most part, however, he
held his face steadily toward the enemy. He
was, of course, a conspicuous object for the
sharp-shooters in the rifle-pits. The air around
him twittered with minie-bullets. Erect as if on
review, he rode on, timing the gait of his horse
with the movement of his colors. A soldier
said : " I was nearly scared to death, but I
saw the old man's white mustache over his
shoulder, and went on."
On to the abatis the regiments moved
without hesitation, leaving a trail of dead and
wounded behind. There the fire seemed to
grow trebly hot, and there some of the men
halted, whereupon, seeing the hesitation, Gen-
eral Smith put his cap on the point of his
sword, held it aloft, and called out, " No flinch-
ing now, my lads ! — Here — this is the way !
Come on ! " He picked a path through the jag-
ged limbs of the trees, holding his cap all the
time in sight ; and the effect was magical. The
men swarmed in after him, and got through
in the best order they could — not all of them,
alas ! On the other side of the obstruction
they took the semblance of re-formation and
charged in after their chief, who found him-
self then between the two fires. Up the ascent
he rode ; up they followed. At the last mo-
ment the keepers of the rifle-pits clambered
out and fled. The four regiments engaged in
the feat — the Twenty-fifth Indiana, and the
Second, Seventh, and Fourteenth Iowa —
planted their colors on the breastwork. And
the gray-haired hero set his cap jauntily on
his head, pulled his mustache, and rode along
the front, chiding them awhile, then laughing
at them. He had come to stay. Later in the
day, Buckner came back with his division ; but
all his efforts to dislodge Smith were vain.
the third division retakes the hill.
We left my division about to attempt
the recapture of the hill, which had been the
scene of the combat between Pillow and
THE CAPTURE OF FORT DONELSON.
307
McClernand. If only on account of the re-
sults which followed that assault, in connec-
tion with the heroic performance of General
C. F. Smith, it is necessary to return to it.
Riding to my old regiments, — the Eighth
Missouri and the Eleventh Indiana, — I asked
them if they were ready. They demanded the
word of me. Waiting a moment for Morgan
L. Smith to light a cigar, I called out, " For-
ward it is, then ! " They were directly in front
of the ascent to be climbed. Without stop-
ping for his supports, Colonel Smith led
them down into a broad hollow, and catching
sight of the advance, Cruft and Ross also
moved forward. As the two regiments began
the climb, the Eighth Missouri slightly in the
lead, a line of fire ran along the brow of the
height. The flank companies cheered while
deploying as skirmishers. Their Zouave prac-
tice proved of excellent service to them. Now
on the ground, creeping when the fire was
hottest, running when it slackened, they gained
ground with astonishing rapidity, and at the
same time maintained a fire that was like a
sparkling of the earth. For the most part the
bullets aimed at them passed over their heads,
and took effect in the ranks behind them.
Colonel Smith's cigar was shot off close to
his lips. He took another and called for a
match. A soldier ran and gave him one.
I Thank you. Take your place now. We are
almost up," he said, and, smoking, spurred his
horse forward. A few yards from the crest of
the height the regiments began loading and
firing as they advanced. The defenders gave
way. On the top there was a brief struggle,
which was ended by Cruft and Ross with
their supports.
The whole line then moved forward simul-
taneously, and never stopped until the Con-
federates were within the works. There had
been no occasion to call on the reserves. The
road to Charlotte was again effectually shut,
and the battle-field of the morning, with the
dead and wounded lying where they had fal-
len, was in possession of the Third Division,
which stood halted within easy musket-range
of the rifle-pits. It was then about half-past
three o'clock in the afternoon. I was recon-
noitering the works of the enemy preliminary
to charging them, when Colonel Webster, of
General Grant's staff, came to me and re-
peated the order to fall back out of cannon
range and throw up breastworks. " The
General does not know that we have the hill,"
I said. Webster replied : " I give you the
order as he gave it to me." " Very well," said
I, " give him my compliments, and say that I
have received the ouder." Webster smiled
and rode away. The ground was not va-
cated, though the assault was deferred. In
assuming the responsibility, I had no doubt
of my ability to satisfy General Grant of the
correctness of my course ; and it was subse-
quently approved.
When night fell, the command bivouacked
without fire or supper. Fatigue parties were
told off to look after the wounded ; and in the
relief given there was no distinction made
between friend and foe. The labor extended
through the whole night, and the surgeons
never rested. By sunset the conditions of the
morning were all restored. The Union com-
mander was free to order a general assault
next day or resort to a formal siege.
THE LAST COUNCIL OF WAR.
A great discouragement fell upon the
brave men inside the works that night. Be-
sides suffering from wounds and bruises and
the dreadful weather, they were aware that
though they had done their best they were
held in a close grip by a superior enemy.
A council of general and field officers was
held at headquarters, which resulted in a
unanimous resolution that if the position in
front of General Pillow had not been re-occu-
pied by the Federals in strength, the army
should effect its retreat. A reconnaissance was
ordered to make the test. Colonel Forrest
conducted it. He reported that the ground
was not only re-occupied, but that the enemy
were extended yet farther around the Con-
federate left. The council then held a final
session.
General Buckner, as the junior officer
present, gave his opinion first ; he thought he
could not successfully resist the assault, which
would be made at daylight by a vastly supe-
rior force. But he further remarked, that as
he understood the principal object of the
defense of Donelson was to cover the move-
ment of General A. S. Johnston's army from
Bowling Green to Nashville, if that move-
ment was not completed he was of opinion
that the defense should be continued at the
risk of the destruction of the entire force.
General Floyd replied that General John-
ston's army had already reached Nashville,
whereupon General Buckner said that " it
would be wrong to subject the army to a
virtual massacre, when no good could result
from the sacrifice, and that the general offi-
cers owed it to their men, when further re-
sistance was unavailing, to obtain the best
terms of capitulation possible for them."
Both Generals Floyd and Pillow acquiesced
in the opinion. Ordinarily the council would
have ended at this point, and the commanding
general would have addressed himself to the
3o8
THE CAPTURE OF FORT DONELSON.
duty of obtaining terms. He would have
called for pen, ink, and paper, and prepared a
note for dispatch to the commanding general
of the opposite force. But there were cir-
cumstances outside the mere military situation
which at this juncture pressed themselves into
consideration. As this was the first surrender
of armed men, banded together for war upon
the general government, what would the Fed-
eral authorities do with the prisoners ? This
question was of application to all the gentlemen
in the council. It was lost to view, however,
when General Floyd announced his purpose
to leave with two steamers which were to be
down at daylight, and to take with him as
many of his division as the steamers could
carry away.
General Pillow then remarked that there
were no two persons in the Confederacy
whom the Yankees would rather capture than
himself and General Floyd (who had been
Buchanan's Secretary of War, and was under
indictment at Washington). As to the pro-
priety of his accompanying General Floyd,
the latter said, coolly, that the question was
one for every man to decide for himself.
Buckner was of the same view, and added
that as for himself he regarded it as his duty to
stay with his men and share their fate, what-
ever it might be. Pillow persisted in leaving.
Floyd then directed General Buckner to con-
sider himself in command. Immediately that
the council was concluded, General Floyd
prepared for his departure. His first move
was to have his brigade drawn up. The
peculiarity of the step was that, with the ex-
ception of one Missouri regiment, his regi-
ments were all Virginians. A short time be-
fore daylight the two steam-boats arrived.
Without loss of time the General hastened to
the river, embarked with his Virginians, and
at an early hour cast loose from the shore, and
in good time, and safely, he reached Nash-
ville. He never satisfactorily explained upon
what principle he appropriated all the trans-
portation on hand to the use of his particular
command.
Colonel Forrest was present at the council,
and when the final resolution was taken, he
promptly announced that he neither could
nor would surrender his command. The bold
trooper had no qualms upon the subject. He
assembled his men, all as hardy as himself,
and after reporting once more at headquar-
ters, he moved out and plunged into a slough
formed by backwater from the river. An icy
crust covered its surface, the wind blew fierce-
ly, and the darkness was unrelieved by a star.
There was fearful floundering as the com-
mand following him. At length he struck dry
land, and was safe. He was next heard of at
Nashville.
General Buckner, who throughout the
affair, bore himself with dignity, ordered the
troops back to their positions and opened
communications with General Grant, whose
laconic demand of " unconditional sur-
render," in his reply to General Buckner's
overtures, became at once a watch-word of
the war.
THE SURRENDER.
The Third Division was astir very early
on the 1 6th of February. The regiments be-
gan to form and close up the intervals be-
tween them, the intention being to charge the
breastworks south of Dover about breakfast-
time. In the midst of the preparation a
bugle was heard, and a white flag was seen
coming from the town toward the pickets. I
sent my adjutant-general to meet the flag half-
way and inquire its purpose. Answer was re-
turned that General Buckner had capitulated
during the night, and was now sending in-
formation of the fact to the commander of the
troops in this quarter, that there might be no
further bloodshed. The division was ordered
to advance and take possession of the works
and of all public property and prisoners.
Leaving that agreeable duty to the brigade
commander, I joined the officer bearing the
flag, and with my staff rode across the trench
and into the town, till we came to the door of
the old tavern already described, where I dis-
mounted. The tavern was the headquarters
of General Buckner, to whom I sent my name ;
and being an acquaintance, I was at once
admitted.
I found General Buckner with his staff
at breakfast. He met me with politeness
and dignity. Turning to the officers at
the table, he remarked : " General Wallace,
it is not necessary to introduce you to these
gentlemen ; you are acquainted with them
all." They arose, came forward one by one,
and gave their hands in salutation. I was then
invited to breakfast, which consisted of corn
bread and coffee, the best the gallant host had
in his kitchen. We sat at table about an hour
and a half, when General Grant arrived, and
took temporary possession of the tavern as
his headquarters. Later in the morning the
army marched in and completed the pos-
session.
Lew Wallace. ■
TOPICS OF THE TIME.
One Way to Prevent Divorce.
The more the statistics of divorce in the United
States are studied and understood, the more alarming
seems the situation. Although a good deal has been
said and written on the subject in this magazine and
elsewhere, it has not yet had the sifting and dis-
cussion that must take place before our law-makers
are brought to give the proper attention to it. That
some of the evils which exist may be reached by
intelligent legislation concerning marriage and di-
vorce, with a view to uniformity and the avoidance
of fraud, there can be no doubt. Indeed, the time
may come when legislation will not only look to-
ward the unifying of our own laws on this subject,
but likewise toward an international correspond-
ence of legislation. For perplexity, distress, and
outrage are owing not only to differences in legal
enactments as between States of the Union, but also
as between our own and other countries ; and as the
world advances in civilization and genuine Christian-
ity, and as the natural barriers are more and more
broken down, there is no reason why this all-impor-
tant matter should not be arranged with a view to the
general good of the people of all nations.
But while statisticians, moralists, and statesmen are
at work, ordinary human beings may also be doing
their share toward bringing about a different state of
affairs. The institution of marriage suffers on the one
hand from the cynic, on the other from the sentiment-
alist. The cynical method leads to ill-assorted and
unhappy marriages, from which men and women fly
to divorce for deliverance ; the sentimentalist method
often leads more dangerously, because more deceit-
fully, to the same disastrous consummation. (We are
speaking of sentimentalism, and not of true senti-
ment.) Both the cynic and the sentimentalist will
enter into the bonds of matrimony with perhaps Jess
consideration of the true nature of the relation and the
fitness of the person than that given by a careful man
to the selection of his cook. A man who thinks deeply
of his dishes will make many inquiries and tests. The
sentimentalist will have none of these.
Is it not, in fact, the lack of a high ideal that renders
many marriages in our day merely so many social
disasters? Religion and morality may do much — but
religion and morality in their broadest and profoundest
sense. The men of law may make things seem some-
what better, but they will never be truly better unless
the ideal of marriage is raised in the popular mind.
In scouting sentimentalism, it is only to pay higher
respect to sentiment. What is wanted in the art of
marriage, i. e., in what old-fashioned people called
I the selection of a partner," is the same that Joseph
Jefferson once said was wanted in the art of acting, —
namely, a warm heart and a cool head ! But what is
mainly needed is the old-fashioned thing that the poets
of all ages have understood better than any others. In
this domain the poetic is the practical. Poets them-
selves have by no means always successfully prac-
ticed what they preached ; but the poetry was right,
if the poet was not. In the field of the imagination,
unfaithfulness, an impure heart, cut sorry figures ;
there the only thing right and beautiful is unselfish
and everlasting devotion. That is the standard set up
by the rarest minds in their most inspired words.
It is said that nowadays the poets are compara-
tively unread ; that science and history have taken
their place, even with the young. Is it fantastic to
hint that this may have something to do with the im-
paired popular standard with regard to that most
sacred, most deeply poetic, of all human relations ?
Evidently the best way to prevent divorce is to
maintain a purer and higher ideal of marriage.
■Was the Chinese Traveler Right ?
There is a story of a Chinese traveler who when
asked what had struck him as most remarkable in the
United States, replied, " the lack of honor." It would
be well if the natural resentment of Americans at such
an imputation could be fortified by facts and statistics.
The repudiation of public debts by communities large
and small; the recent unprecedented number of
breaches of trust on the part of managers of banks
and other corporations ; the countless defalcations
by trusted employees of private business firms ; the
growth and recklessness of speculation ; the num-
ber of suits on the part of the general government to
recover funds from delinquent public servants ; the
sordid character of much of our politics ; the rings
of financial adventurers discovered to be in secret
collusion with legislative or executive officers, — all
these would seem to sustain the view of the traveling
Chinaman as to American honor.
But the situation assumes even a more serious as-
pect when we consider that notwithstanding the news-
paper outcry at each new breach of trust, there is rarely
an adequate punishment inflicted upon anything save
the most flagrantly criminal action; and that the finan-
cial disasters which overtake certain institutions some-
times reveal the fact that their officers have merely
been unfortunate in such speculative misappropriation
of funds as is not uncommon in similar concerns.
When one contemplates the good influences active
in church and state ; the organized political and
other reforms, our charities, and educational move-
ments and enterprises ; the vital moral and religious
spirit at work as a leaven in the community, — one
is re-assured as to the future ; but there stand the
other facts which cannot and should not be overlooked.
The writer of the " Open Letter " on " The School
of Dishonesty," in the last number of The Century,
puts his finger upon one great source of our evils.
To some his remarks will seem sweeping and sensa-
tional, but they will be corroborated by the experience
of many ; and the recent analyses by Dr. Elwyn
Waller, chemist of the N. Y. Health Department, to
TO
TOPICS OF THE TIME.
some extent confirm Mr. Tyrer's surprising state-
ment with regard to adulterations.
There is little doubt that the thing which most needs
to be preached to this generation of Americans, by
ministers of the gospel, by both clerical and lay instruc-
tors of the youth, by all who have public influence or
private authority, is— a sense of honor! It must be
shown and insisted upon that every position in life
where one person is employed by another to do a cer-
tain work, imposes an obligation to fulfill the duties of
the place with an honorable and disinterested regard for
the interests of the employer. It must be shown that
this view of employment applies to the cook, the
errand-boy, the cashier, the legislator, the Governor, the
President. This is a trite, and apparently simple, and
perhaps somewhat stupid view of the opportunities of a
" smart " and ambitious young American of our day ;
but unless this commonplace view of responsibility is
laid hold of by increasing numbers in the future of our
country, we will not say that our society will go to
pieces, but we will say that our calamities will in-
crease, and that we will get into troubles, and not soon
out of them, compared with which the dangers and
distresses of the past will seem almost insignificant.
Economic Mistakes of the Poor.
One of the chief hindrances to the prosperity of
the poor and to the improvement of their condition is
their ignorance of economic matters and the mistakes
they often make in them.. We do not refer so much
to economic laws and theories as to the practical con-
duct of life in its economic aspects, a matter in which
theoretical knowledge is of subordinate importance.
It is not to be expected that men so imperfectly edu-
cated as are the laboring masses, and with so little
leisure and spare energy as they have, should be able
to give much study to the laws of wealth ; but there
is no reason why they should not manage their own
business affairs with more prudence than some of them
now show. Want of skill and prudence in making
purchases, and mistakes in regard to wages, are com-
mon among them, and have a tendency to prolong and
intensify their poverty.
Every man in a civilized community is obliged to
trade, to exchange his goods and services for those of
others ; since every man can produce but a small part
of what he needs. It is important, therefore, for
everybody to make such exchanges wisely, so as to
purchase what he wants at the smallest cost, and sell
his own services to the best advantage. Exceptional
skill in this direction is the special qualification of the
successful business man, and those who are lacking in
such skill are sure to be less prosperous than their
neighbors. Moreover, such skill and prudence are
specially important for the poor ; for though a rich man
may continue prosperous notwithstanding blunders and
losses, a man born to poverty can seldom rise to a better
condition without care and wisdom in the management
of his affairs.
Now, the mistakes of the poor in practical economy
are frequent and of various kinds ; and, first, in mak-
ing their purchases. Their means are so small that
they can ill afford to spend even a portion of them im-
prudently ; and yet they very often do so. They are
apt, for instance, to purchase goods in very small
quantities, when they could buy in larger amounts1 at
a reduced rate. Some things, of course, must necessa-
rily be purchased in small quantities, because they will
not keep well ; but many of the things that a man re-
quires for his table or for other purposes can just as
well be bought in larger amounts, and if so bought
they can usually be got at a considerable reduction in
price. Again, the poor are too much in the habit of
buying goods on trust, when exertion and forethought
would enable them to buy for cash, and make a further
saving in that way. Moreover, their want of knowl-
edge of commercial affairs and inattention to the
course of prices prevent them from taking advantage
of the state of the market, as they might sometimes do,
so as to buy what they need at the lowest price. It may
be said that the mass of the poor have not the means to
buy in large quantities, or to buy always for cash and
to take advantage of the fluctuations in price ; and to
a certain extent this is true. Yet it would be easy, in
most cases, for them to get together a sufficient sum
to make a beginning in these matters, and, once begun,
the practice could more easily be continued. Many
of them, indeed, are already alive to the advantages
that may thus be gained, and are shrewd and econom-
ical in all their purchases ; but many others are either
ignorant or heedless of such things, and thus miss the
opportunity of making many a small saving.
Besides these mistakes of a strictly economical char-
acter, there are others of a different kind into which
the poor are apt to fall in the use of their means,
though not the poor alone. One of them is the pur-
chase of inferior goods, or shabby imitations, when a
genuine article, even of a lower grade, would be more
satisfactory, as well as cheaper. Then, large sums in
the aggregate are spent for articles of ornament that
are not ornamental, and for vulgar amusements and
other things of little or no real value. We might
allude, also, to the vast sums that are wasted on liquors
and other things that are positively injurious ; but all
these habits and practices are rather to be condemned
from a moral and aesthetic point of view than from the
purely economical, bad as their economical effects un-
doubtedly are. Besides, it is not the poor alone who
are guilty or imprudent in these matters, but other
classes as well ; and, so far as they concern the poor,
we have spoken of them in these pages before.
Such are some of the economical mistakes of the
poor in the employment of their means ; but those of
them that work for hire, who are the great majority,
make mistakes of another kind on the subject of wages.
Every friend of humanity must wish that the earnings
of the poor might be increased ; but the means they
often employ to effect such an increase seem little
likely to attain their object. We are not now con-
cerned with the general policy of strikes and trades-
unions, nor with the question of their justification
from a moral point of view. But we would call atten-
tion to the lack of economic knowledge and the mis-
takes in economic policy which their leaders so
abundantly display. One would think that if men
were going to seek an increase of wages, they would
take care to do it when the condition of the market
was favorable to the success of their attempt. Yet
nothing is more common than for the managers of a
trades-union to order a strike when trade is dull, the
TOPICS OF THE TIME.
311
price of goods falling, and the market, perhaps, filled
with unemployed labor. Under such circumstances
the attempt to raise wages is necessarily a failure;
while, if proper care were used to take advantage of
the market, an increase of pay might often be obtained
without any struggle at all.
But there is a further mistake into which laborers
are apt to fall on this subject of wages: they often
entertain extravagant ideas as to the extent to which
wages can be raised. One would think from the talk
in which some of them indulge, and from the reckless
manner in which they order strikes, that they thought
almost any rate could be obtained if sufficient pres-
sure were brought to bear. Yet a little attention to
the conditions of business, to commercial history, and
to the state of the market at a given time, would show
that any great and sudden increase of wages was out
of the question. Such increase as is possible will re-
sult in part from the general moral and intellectual
improvement of the laborer himself, and of his special
skill as a workman, and in part from taking advantage
of the various markets and of the times and seasons,
so as to get the highest rate obtainable in each partic-
ular case.
Besides the mistakes above mentioned, to which the
mass of the poor are liable, there are others, to which
those of their number are exposed who attempt to do
business on their own account. Men born in narrow
circumstances have seldom much chance in early life
to learn the management of business ; and they need,
therefore, to be specially careful in undertaking it.
Yet they are very apt to enter upon it without suffi-
cient attention to its conditions, and without the
amount of capital which the business requires. Every
year a multitude of small capitalists are thus wrecked;
and in the majority of cases their failure is due to mis-
takes and imprudences which a little more care and
forethought might have prevented. Doubtless one
cause of such failures is the passion for great and sud-
den gains ; a passion that afflicts multitudes in our
time, and has caused the ruin of many rich men no
less than of many poor. But whatever may be the
cause of failure in any particular case, the result is
much to be regretted, since an increase in the number
of small capitalists is greatly to be desired.
Without touching here upon the subject of coopera-
tive industry, or the means which the rich may devise
for improving the condition of the poor, we have
merely tried to state briefly some of the more serious
economic mistakes into which poor men and those of
small means are liable to fall, and which are a hin-
drance, and sometimes a great one, to the improvement
of their lot. If, now, we are asked what remedy can
be applied, we fear there is none except the slow work-
ing of time and education. For the purchase of goods
by the poor, it has been proposed that cooperative
stores should be established, so as to save for the
purchasers the profit they now pay to the retail dealer.
That such stores, when well conducted, are highly
beneficial, there can be no doubt ; but for some reason
or other most enterprises of this sort in America have
proved unsuccessful. On the subject of wages our
native American laborers have not, as a rule, been
so widely mistaken as foreign laborers and those of
foreign birth ; and experience will in time^ no doubt,
lead to more correct views and wiser methods. The
general education of the poor, bringing with it more
thoughtfulness and foresight, must also in the course
of time lead to greater knowledge of economic sub-
jects and better methods of management. But some-
thing also may be done by direct advice and exhor
tation.
A Ready-made Foreign Market for American Goods.
The recent political canvass was prolific of wide
differences of opinion ; but we believe there is one
point upon which most men of all parties are now
substantially agreed, viz., the desirability of secur-
ing additional foreign markets for American goods.
Many think this can best be obtained by a reduc-
tion of duties which now operate against the free-
dom of commerce ; while others advocate the estab-
lishment by public subsidy of ocean lines, or the
conversion into business agencies of our entire con-
sular service. A commission of investigation has been
appointed to visit the countries of Central and South
America with a view to the extension of our trade
in those quarters, and legislation of some sort may
be expected to grow out of this mission. That, in
a large number of cases, our manufactories are abun-
dantly able to put out more goods than they can
dispose of is disclosed by the failures from overpro-
duction, the reduction of wages, and the ruinous com-
petition for the home market, which are matters of
daily record in the newspapers. A considerable ad-
dition to the present area of sale for American goods
would in all probability not only relieve the present
stringency in trade, but would put many of our manu-
factures upon a favorable basis for years to come.
Whatever of trade we may hereafter acquire in new
markets will be based upon a demonstrated demand
for our products — a demand which can only be created
in the laborious course of business. In other words, the
market will have to be "worked up" in strict compe-
tition with the products of other countries. Agencies
must be established, samples must be shown, adver-
tised, and tested, and patents and trade-marks secured.
These labors performed, there is no lack of assurance
that those who shall thus extend our material civiliza-
tion will be fully protected in obtaining the legitimate
profits of their labor. The agent, the owner, and the in-
ventor will each find new rewards and a new stimulus.
There is, however, one American business which,
by the neglect of Congress, has been refused the secu-
rity of its legitimate profits in foreign countries. More-
over, the demand for its products is already so well
established and so extensive that the industry has for
years given employment to a large body of smugglers,
chiefly in England, who, by underselling the market
with stolen goods, have grown rich by the labors of
our producers, lessening the rewards not only of these,
but of those capitalists in our own country by whom
the products have been set before the world. The
market is there, virtually ready-made, and waiting
only for Congress to say the word to enable us to oc-
cupy it. No tariff has to be repealed, no commercial
agency of consuls has to be established. Nothing re-
mains but to secure the patent which is granted with
alacrity to other forms of expressing American ideas ;
and this Congress could accomplish in twenty minutes.
The revenue which would have accrued to America
had this been done fifty years ago is incalculable, but
312
OPEN LETTERS.
it is secondary to the national stimulus which has been
lost by this flagrant and onerous omission. The
product we have in mind is American literature.
On another page we print an " Open Letter " from
Mr. George Parsons Lathrop, secretary of the Ameri-
can Copyright League, setting forth the efforts that are
now being made by that body to obtain from Congress
a recognition of property in literary products equal
to that which we accord to even the poorest brand of
Havana cigars. We have already called attention in
these columns to the distinguished advocates, in pol-
itics and literature, of the principle embodied in the
Dorsheimer Copyright Bill, which is now high up
on the calendar of the House of Representatives.
The bill is not open to a single partisan consid-
eration ; it has no proper relation to the tariff, and the
only strife it ought to give rise to is an eager emu-
lation on the part of representatives to see who can
do the most to procure the early passage of an always
just and now doubly expedient measure.
OPEN LETTERS.
The World's Exposition at New Orleans.
ITS SCOPE AND EXPECTED RESULTS.
The World's Exposition at New Orleans is the
response to a demand that arose from most of the
Southern States simultaneously — a response that had
previously found partial expression in the local ex-
positions of Atlanta and Louisville. The South her-
self was astonished at those exhibitions of success
which had attended the labor necessitated by her
defeat in the Civil War. She had been too absorbed
in the struggle for existence to notice the change
her energy was creating; and it was only when
she had won for herself the right to a moment's rest
that she looked around and saw the gratifying result
of her toil.
The project of the new World's Exposition was born
of a spirit of friendly rivalry with those other sections
that had already proclaimed to the world their indus-
trial development ; and it was intended simply to show
one phase of the country's resources. But as it was
planned on an extensive scale, leading men of " the
new South " saw the opportunity they had been seek-
ing, and easily prevailed upon those having the enter-
prise in hand to make it neither local nor sectional,
but national. The steps to this end were natural and
easy. Cotton might no longer be King, but its culti-
vation from the seed to the bale, and its manufacture
from the bale to the fabric, embraged so significant a
part of the nation's industry, was so inextricably
woven up with the wealth of the world, that it required
no change of plan — merely an extension of idea — to
make an exposition of cotton an exposition of the world's
industry. As soon as this decision was reached, the
entire country came to the aid of the undertaking, and,
with a spontaneity and enthusiasm which are gratefully
appreciated by the Southern people, extended such
pecuniary assistance and moral support as were nec-
essary for the successful completion of so gigantic an
enterprise. Such are the causes that gave birth to the
Exposition and extended its original scope ; but the
results that may be expected to flow from it cannot be
so briefly stated.
What the Southern people have accomplished since
the war has not been due to emulation springing from
observation of what the world beyond their borders
was accomplishing. The largest proportion of her
people have been and still are profoundly ignorant of
the higher phases of intellectual and mechanical power
as applied to the every-day wants of life. It is true
that they read in their papers and in books that there
is a continual re-adaptation of the sciences to meet the
changed conditions of society, that each element of
nature is being utilized in some new way to satisfy
some new need. But those things are to them as
things in dreams. Poverty has held them to their
work ; and living as they do far from the centers of
activity, they have not been able by even hurried
glimpses of great cities to form a conception of how
their surroundings could be improved. What they
have done has been by untiring energy with inferior
appliances. It would be unfair to say that this is true
of all sections of the South. There are certain por-
tions of it where results are reached by the same
means as those used in the North ; but in the majority
of instances Southern energy has been handicapped
by inferior methods and appliances. Add improved
methods to her natural advantages and intense desire
to develop herself, and there must come a prosperity
unexcelled in history. And since the larger mass of
her people cannot go out into the world and see things
with their own eyes, the world in essence is to be
brought to them. National and international exposi-
tions have heretofore been held in the great centers
of population, in places needing them least. The re-
sults have, notwithstanding, been beneficial, as inter-
change of thoughts and sympathies must always be;
but it will be difficult to foretell how largely the
Southern people will be instructed by the great Object
Lesson to be placed before them at New Orleans.
If these remarks hold good of even the white popu-
lation, who by means of the press have kept them-
selves to a certain extent ati courant with the progress
and processes of society, what can be said of the col-
ored population, that vast agglomeration of ignorance
as yet scarcely touched by the leaven of civilization ?
If the Exposition has no other effect than that of
guiding in the right direction the uncertain aspirations
of this element of Southern life, the million of dollars
appropriated by the National Government will be re-
turned to it a thousand-fold. For, besides the advan-
tages which the blacks will receive in common with the
whites, a new factor has been introduced into their de-
velopment, a factor so important that the World's Ex-
position is likely to mark an era in their history almost
as significant as their emancipation from slavery. It is
difficult to find at present a white Southerner who
would return if he could to the ante-bellum system ;
OPEN LETTERS.
3*3
still the feeling toward the colored man up to within
the past two or three years has been the passive sen-
timent of "live and let live," The civil equality of
the negro was forced upon the white man against his
will ; but to his credit be it said that in order to show
his acquiescence in the theory of government for all the
people, he has come forward and asked the colored
people, as being a large component of the society
of which he is himself a part, to assist him in show-
ing to the world what the South has grown to be.
The management of the Exposition have created a
department devoted exclusively to an exhibition of
the advancement made by the colored people within
the past twenty years, and have put at the head of
it a colored man who commands the confidence of
the entire country. A large space has been reserved
for the colored people's exhibition in the Government
Building. In consequence of this, the negroes in every
Southern State are alive with eager activity ; and al-
though their exhibition will probably be crude, it will
be one of the most significant features of the occasion.
These are the two distinctive benefits to the South
that will flow from the Exposition. There are others
common to all expositions not necessary to be enu-
merated here ; but one or two of national importance
cannot be passed over. New Orleans was selected as
the site for the Exposition not only because this is
the natural outlet for a large proportion of Southern
trade, but because the city is the natural gateway
for the vast commerce that must at some time spring
up between the United States and the Central and
South American countries. To foster and develop
that trade, the management of the Exposition have
bent every energy. Although aware that New Or-
leans and the South would be the principal gainers, they
saw that the entire country would be enriched, partic-
ularly the manufacturing and agricultural industries of
the North and West. Nothing was left undone to se-
cure the cooperation of these southern races. Commis-
sioners were sent to interest the governments and
the peoples ; desirable location's were reserved in the
buildings and grounds ; premiums were offered to suit
the demands of the exhibitors. As a result, the most
intense enthusiasm has arisen among countries that
had never before evinced the least inclination to par-
ticipate in foreign exhibitions. Each has vied with
the other in attempts to place herself in the most fa-
vorable attitude before the world; and each will
keenly watch what the various commercial, industrial,
and agricultural centers of the world can offer in the
way of interchange. European countries have finally
appreciated this fact. At first there was a positive re-
fusal on their part to participate in the Exposition.
New Orleans was a great way off, and they had been
surfeited with expositions. But when they saw the
unprecedented zeal of the South American countries,
the feeling changed. The newspapers began to call
upon the merchants and manufacturers to exert them-
selves, unless they wished to see their trade directed
away from its former channels. And now from across
the Atlantic comes information that self-interest has
done what self-pride could not do, and that the Euro-
pean will compete with the North American in a strug-
gle for commercial supremacy in the far South.
The Woman's Department of the Exposition is also
to be national in its scope, and will yield an abundance
of good fruit to the entire country. The women of
the South particularly will reap a harvest from the ex-
perience of their more fortunate sisters of the North.
To say that the Exposition will have a softening
effect upon the lingering animosities of the war is to
imply that such animosities still exist — an implication
that the Southerner is loath to admit. There is noth-
ing so potent as prosperity to wipe out resentment.
The more prosperous the South has grown, the less
disposition has she felt to dwell upon what she was
wont to consider her injuries ; and to-day, standing
on the eve of her great festival, to which she has
invited the nations of the earth, she would resent
the imputation that she harbors malice against any.
Doubtless, however, the Exposition will bring about
a still better knowledge and higher respect among
the various sections of our common country.
New Orleans.
Richard Nixon.
Recent Electrical Progress.
The Electrical Exhibition held at Philadelphia in
September and October was to many people a disap-
pointment. Many of the international exhibitions held
in the last ten years have been marked by the appear-
ance of important inventions, as the telephone at the
Centennial and the phonograph at the great exhibition
at Paris. This has led to a general expectation that all
important exhibitions will be signalized by the first
display of some startling and wonderful discovery or
invention. This is particularly true in electricity, the
public mind being quite prepared to accept anything,
however strange, in this field of research. It must be
observed as a curious change in public opinion that
while twenty years ago all inventions were received
with distrust and unbelief, there is now an eagerness
to welcome everything that would be to the elder in-
ventors, like Morse or Howe, something quite be-
wildering. All this seemed to give to the visitors to
the Philadelphia exhibition a certain sense of disap-
pointment, while to the student this feeling was the
most striking feature of the occasion.
At the same time, the exhibition was in the best
sense a success and very far from disappointing, be-
cause it showed a remarkable commercial and indus-
trial progress of the electric light. With the gen-
eral introduction of dynamos for lighting appeared
new mechanical problems. There must be high speed,
steadiness of motion combined with ease of manage-
ment. The dynamos for isolated lighting, as in a hotel,
factory, or single building of any kind or on ship-board,
must also be compact in design and light in weight.
The steam-engines shown at the exhibition were, for
this reason, quite as interesting as the lamps. No
specially novel motor was exhibited, yet the effect
of the demand for high speed was evident in all the
types of engines in the exhibition. Even in the matter
of belts for connecting engines with dynamos progress
was claimed, some belting being shown specially de-
signed to secure steadiness of motion. In brief, the
improvement in engines and connections is clearly the
result of the peculiar demands of the dynamo, and a
new class of motors has appeared, giving high speed
and uniform motion, with the utmost compactness of de-
sign. One gas-engine directly connected with a dynamo
was shown as an interesting illustration of the conver-
3i4
OPEN LETTERS.
sion of heat with little light into motion, and reconver-
sion of motion into light with little heat. Many experi-
ments were made to show the transmission of power
by electricity, including the driving of machine tools,
printing-press, sewing machines, and a short line of
railroad.
The necessity of getting rid of poles and wires in
city streets has led inventive talent into this field
of work, and a number of new underground sys-
tems were represented by models. Among these was
at least one that is in actual operation, carrying both
telegraph and telephone wires for some distance
through the streets of Philadelphia. This system em-
ploys a wrought-iron tube carrying a cable formed of
insulated copper wires braided together and laid
loosely in the pipe, the pipe being kept full of oil
slowly moving through the pipe under pressure. A
more recent system consists of a brick conduit to
be laid in the street, with man-holes at intervals.
Within the brick tube are arranged on each side
brackets carrying troughs in which the cables or
bundles of insulated wires are laid. A track is laid in
the center of the conduit between the brackets, and on
this track runs a car, having a standard supporting
arms that extend over the brackets on each side. This
car is drawn through the conduit from one man-hole
to another and serves to deposit the wires in the troughs.
It is intended that the various wires, or cables, shall lie
in the troughs, and to assist the insulation it is designed
to have the conduit air-tight, and to fill it at all times
with dry air under pressure. To accomplish this, an
air-compressor is to be placed at some point of the line,
and a tank containing some hygroscopic chemical to
dry the air will be placed in connection with the con-
duit and kept full of compressed air. Safety-valves
will also be placed at intervals to relieve the conduit
from undue pressure. The aim of this invention is to
keep the conduit free from moisture by an excess of
dry air, every leak being rendered harmless by an
outflow of air that would prevent the entrance of moist
air. The system has not yet been tried on a commer-
cial scale. Another more simple system employs a
square tube of wood designed to be buried under-
ground. Within the tube are cross-pieces for the
support of insulated telegraph and telephone wires.
When all the wires are in position an insulating mate-
rial is poured into the tube, completely covering all the
wires from one to six inches, and soon hardening into
a kind of artificial stone. The material seemed to be
hard and durable, though no tests were offered of its
insulating value. Telegraph cables for streets were
also shown, one system, at least, being already in use.
Sections of the system used with incandescent lights
in this city were also shown, consisting of copper
rods bedded in insulating material in iron pipes. Other
street systems were also shown in models, but seemed
to offer no special features of novelty, except in one
instance where a sheet of glass perforated with holes
is used as a support for the wires in the conduit.
In the application of electricity to railroad work
there seems to be some progress in increased effi-
ciency in signaling. Perhaps the most novel is the
use of a small dynamo on the engine, constantly
kept in motion while the locomotive is running. The
engine is insulated from the tender, and the wires
from the dynamo are connected one with the engine
and the other with the tender, so that the current
flows down the wheels of the locomotive, along the
rails to the wheels of the tender, and through these
wheels to the other wire. If now the joint between
any pair of rails and the next pair is separated by some
insulating material, the circuit will be broken for
the instant when the wheels of the engine are on one
pair of rails and the wheels of the tender on the other.
This breakage of the circuit through wheels and rails
may be used to ring a bell or sound the whistle.
It is easy to see that a wire connected with the
rail on one side of the insulated joint might be car-
ried any distance and connected with a switch or the
lock of a draw-bridge, and then carried back to the
rail on the other side of the joint. In the normal po-
sition of the switch or the bridge this wire would be
a closed circuit bridging the broken joint, and the
engine passing the joint would not be affected. If
now the switch or draw be opened, the circuit will be
broken, and the current as the engine passed the joint
would be interrupted and the signal made to sound.
In this manner the movement of any switch, bridge,
etc., could be made to signal automatically to an ap-
proaching engine while still at a considerable distance.
By a reversal of the plan, the engine could be used to
transmit in advance a warning of its approach. This
is, however, already accomplished by other methods.
The novelty appears to be in the automatic signaling
to the engine by the movement of a distant switch or
draw, or from any cause whatever, a washout, break-
age of culvert, fire on bridge, or other accident.
The most important application of electricity to
railroad work was a combined pneumatic and electric
switch and signaling system. The design of this sys-
tem is to control all the switches and signals at a
junction by means of compressed air. The system
consists essentially of a compressor and air-reservoir
to supply air under considerable pressure to the pipes
that extend from the signal-station to each switch and
signal-post. At each switch and signal-post is placed
a cylinder having a piston and piston-rod, and so
arranged that the movement of the piston will control
the switch or the signal. In the signal-station is an
annunciator connected with distant points on each
line of rails. On the approach of a train a bell is rung
and the position of the train is shown by the annun-
ciator. All the signals of the system are in their
normal condition of danger, and to prepare the lines
for the passage of the train hand-levers are turned
and air under pressure is admitted to the cylinders
controlling the proper switches and signals. This, at
the same time, locks all other signals and displays on
a board in the hut the exact position of every switch
in the system. A full-size model of the switch and
signals was shown in operation, and seemed on ex-
amination to work with certainty and precision.
Charles Barnard.
The Present State of the Copyright Movement.
The American Copyright League was formed in
May, 1883, with the object of obtaining a reform in
our copyright law which should secure to foreign
authors the right of property in their works in this
country.
Early in the last session of Congress, Representa-
OPEN LETTERS.
3i5
tive William Dorsheimer, of New York, introduced a
bill intended to attain that object. The League knew
nothing beforehand of his proposed action, but its Ex-
ecutive Committee at once decided to ask Mr. Dor-
sheimer to modify his bill, so as to grant the foreign
author copyright for forty-two years, instead of twenty-
five, with a limitation in case of death, as at first pro-
posed. This change having been adopted, the League
went on to give the bill all the support it could. The
measure was referred to the House Committee on the
Judiciary, — one of the most thoughtful, conservative,
and impartial committees within the Speaker's range
of appointment, — and was reported favorably by that
body, without a single adverse vote. It was placed on*
the calendar, with only ten bills (and those unimpor-
tant) in advance of it.
On Monday, February 18th, Mr. Dorsheimer moved
to make the bill a " special order " for February 27th ;
that is, to take it from the calendar and discuss it until
a decision of the House could be had upon it. This
motion required a two-thirds vote. There were 155
given for and 98 against it; so it was not carried.
But the vote in favor fell short of two-thirds only by
fourteen. This shows that a large majority of repre-
sentatives wanted to give the bill a hearing. Besides,
several supporters of the bill were absent, and
a few others voted " No " simply because they wanted
to show their disapproval of the rules of the House,
which make it impossible to consider any bills
— except those on tariff and appropriations — unless a
day be fixed for their discussion.
Mr. Dorsheimer, for the Judiciary Committee, made
a report in which he showed that the United States is
the only civilized nation which withholds property
rights from alien authors. The report said :
"The policy by which States refused rights of prop-
erty to foreigners has long since been reversed. . . .
It is manifest that the ancient discriminations grew
out of ignorance and prejudice. ... It is believed
that if the bill is passed, American authors will receive
great and valuable advantages. They will then be able
to obtain copyrights in England and in the English
colonies, so that when they successfully address all
the English-speaking people, they will receive the
compensation to which their genius and industry may
entitle them. . . . The Committee earnestly com-
mend this measure to the House, in the full belief that
its passage will work a high and enduring benefit to
the people of the United States, and contribute to the
civilization and enlightenment of the world."
It must not be forgotten that Henry Clay, Daniel
Webster, Charles Sumner, and many others urged in
the strongest terms a measure of this kind. The subject
has been under discussion at intervals for fifty years.
When I went to Washington last winter to see what
were the prospects for Mr. Dorsheimer's bill, I found
the sentiment of members friendly toward it, with a
few exceptions. I had been told that the " wild West "
would develop a bitter opposition; but, on the contrary,
most of the Western members whom I met were ex-
tremely liberal in their view, and showed a fine enthusi-
asm for what they considered an act of simple justice.
They also manifested a hearty appreciation of American
authorship, and a desire to give it fair play by relieving
it from the unjust and ruinous competition with unrec-
ompensed foreign literature, which a contemptible habit
of theft forces upon us. Some of the highly cultivated
Eastern members, on whom authors relied as intelligent
adherents, proved to be weak-kneed, because they
tangled up the question with inapt, illogical tariff
and manufacturing considerations. On the other
hand, all but fourteen of the Southern members voted
for consideration, and many, including the whole of a
large delegation from one of the Southern States,
pledged themselves without question to support the
bill. Let me add that, in common with other gentle-
men of the League who consulted members as to their
views, I was careful to talk also with representatives
who were thought to oppose international copyright ;
for it was our desire to have a fair and open discussion
on both sides.
Why, then, did the bill not receive a hearing ?
First let us review the forces that urged it. The
League grew to the number of nearly seven hundred
men and women ■ — authors, editors, college presidents
and professors, clergymen, lawyers, journalists, physi-
cians— engaged in the making of books. Among these
were nearly all the most distinguished literary artists
of the country : their weight was thrown for the bill.
The " Christian Union " published letters from a num-
ber of clergymen : their weight was thrown for the
bill. The great newspapers in all parts of the country
— omitting the Chicago " Tribune " and " Times " —
spoke up on behalf of justice : their weight, likewise,
was thrown for the bill. The " Publishers' Weekly,"
representing the whole trade of book-manufacture and
book-selling, printed the statements of fifty-two leading
firms, scattered throughout the Union, saying that
they wanted copyright granted to foreign authors :
again, their weight was thrown for the bill. Since then
the Music Teachers' National Association, meeting at
Cleveland, Ohio, in July, has come to the support of
the Dorsheimer bill ; and the music publishers are
also reported as giving it a hearty approval.
Now let us count the opposition. Out of all the pub-
lishers addressed by the " Publishers' Weekly," only
fifteen insisted that, if a foreign book is to have copy-
right here, it must be manufactured in this country.
Of those fifteen, seven zuere situated in Philadelphia.
The organized hostility came from that source ; and it
was based on the theory that American industry would
be hurt unless every foreign author were compelled
to have his book set up, stereotyped, printed, and
bound in this country.
That organized hostility on the part of a small
Philadelphia minority of publishers proceeded to work
upon the fears of typographers and paper-makers by
telling them that they would lose their occupation if
copyright were given to aliens, because all foreign
books would then be manufactured abroad — this de-
spite the fact that we long ago repealed, after short
trial, the law compelling foreign patentees to manu-
facture their machines in this country. The first an-
swer to this is, that any book made abroad is subject
to a duty of twenty per cent, when imported. Next,
it must be kept in mind that our compositors would
still have a great deal to do in bringing out new
editions of foreign works published before the enact-
ment of an international copyright law. Thirdly, the
production of books by American authors would be
greatly stimulated, thus adding to the market of com-
positors and paper-makers. Fourthly, the enterprise
316
OPEN LETTERS.
of our publishers, some of whom are now on good
terms with English authors, would enable them to
secure books from those authors for manufacture
here. "Cheap books for the people" are loudly in-
sisted upon ; but in the same breath the Philadelphians
insist on a total re-manufacture, which frequently would
dotible the cost, many books being now simply printed
here from imported duplicate plates. No author will
object to the policy of moderately cheap books, so
long as he is not defrauded by it. Cheap clothing,
iron, coal, food, houses, are all desirable ; but no one
maintains that they should be made cheap by means
of theft, or the refusal to pay the producer. Only a
few years ago Americans constantly bought current
books — books for amusement on the cars — at $1.50,
without a hint of grumbling. Do they not still freely
pay a dollar to go into the theater ? In the case of
foreign "stars," citizens have been known to give
three dollars uncomplainingly, in return for a two-
and-a-half hours' entertainment. As yet no Congress-
man or Philadelphia theorist has declared that the
foreign actor should be forced by law to play to our
audiences at ten cents a head. The case of lectures
and concerts is the same. Hence, I conclude that the
American people are really not so poverty-stricken
that they cannot afford to pay, individually, a mod-
erate price for a book, which yet shall compensate
the author. Besides, before the epoch of pamphlet
reprints, the people had a large net-work of libraries
and book-clubs, by which for a small subscription —
a few cents per book — they could obtain a year's
reading, and reading of a good kind. The League tried
to counteract the fallacies of the Philadelphians and
the paper-makers, by printing and circulating several
short documents. But a " scare " was created by the
men who said that, unless the inhabitants of this
republic can buy most foreign books for, say, from
ten to forty cents, and unless foreign books are
wholly remade here, the country will be ruined as
to its paper and printing interests, and plunged into
ignorance.
As if this appalling argument were not enough,
they contended that an author, anyhow, has no right
to put a price upon the work in which he has invested
his time, labor, money, brains, manual labor, — all his
capital, in short, — and that he ought to be grateful if
we give him anything for his production after it is
published. Ideas, they say, are common property,
and no one may demand a' price for an idea. True
enough. But how about the form in which those
ideas are presented ? Is not that the author's own
work, wrought out with toil, sweat, and often with
privations ? Is not the labor bestowed upon that
form as worthy of proper wage as the manual skill
devoted to the making of a jumping-jack ? Yet no
one has denied that jumping-jacks must be paid for.
Besides, the law already recognizes this form in which
an author presents his idea, and calls it property, if
only the author be an American. The argument that
authors have no property in the form given to their
ideas falls, therefore, to the ground ; and no excuse
remains for denying such property to foreigners, un-
less we hold as valid the excuse of deliberate dis-
honesty.
"The Constitution of the United States (Art. I.,
Sec. VIII., 8) empowers Congress ' to promote the
progress of science and useful arts, by securing, for
limited times, to authors and inventors, the exclusive
right to their respective writings,' etc. But, by its
failure to render the rights of all authors secure, Con-
gress has practically defeated hitherto the intent of the
Constitution in this respect." I quote this from a
sheet which was printed and sent to every member of
the House of Representatives and of the Senate of
the United States last winter. Ought not the state-
ment to be heeded by bringing up the Dorsheimer
Bill for debate at the next session of Congress ? Is it
not decent — nay, essential — that the representatives
of the people should openly confer upon the question
of common honesty involved in defending recognized
property ; a question that vitally affects the well-being
of thousands of laborers in a useful profession ? It
has been supposed that American citizens, even if their
occupation be only that of paving streets or writing
books, are entitled to have from Congress a fair con-
sideration of their rights, if not redress for their
wrongs. I venture to ask all friends of the copyright
movement, whether of the literary profession or not,
to press upon the members of Congress for their re-
spective districts, immediately, the propriety and im-
portance of at least giving the Dorsheimer Bill a
prompt and fair hearing.
G. P. Lathrop,
Secretary A merican Copyright League.
80 Washington Square, New York.
Cooperative Agriculture.
Dr. Gladden's article in the October Century
is worthy the serious study of both capitalists and la-
borers. I have been connected with the largest labor
organization in this country, and have studied the
labor question. While indorsing wholly Dr. Gladden's
paper, I wish to add one caution in respect to laborers.
. It is unfortunately the case that too many working-
men spend enough of their hard earnings foolishly
in ten years to pay for comfortable homes. This is
spent for needless beverages, gambling, and other so-
called pleasures. While I greatly sympathize with all
workingmen, I cannot but believe that intemperance
is mother to half their woes.
Within a stone's throw, at this writing, live a score
of mechanics. Some of them have comfortable homes
— some do not. The cause of this difference is the
personal habits of these men. The temperate, judicious
men are thrifty, contented, and happy. The intemper-
ate are poor, miserable, and ready to "strike" at any
opportunity.
It is no less true, however, that manufacturers are
grasping, and do not love their employees as them-
selves.
In Kentucky, as well as in many other States, agri-
culture is carried on cooperatively. The owners fur-
nish land, teams, machinery, seed, and food. The
laborer furnishes his labor and skill. The crops are
sold and the profits divided. There is general har-
mony and satisfaction. No one has ever heard of an
agricultural "strike."
J. W. Caldwell
Corinth, Kentucky.
OPEN LETTERS.
317
The Number of Men Engaged at Bull Run.
In the series of papers on the Civil War begun in
this magazine last month it is not intended to deal
with statistics except in a compact form ; but so de-
fective are the official returns of the forces engaged
in the battle of Bull Run that we have requested
Generals Fry and Jordan (who, it will be remembered,
were the adjutants-general of the Union and Confeder-
ate armies respectively) to prepare the following
careful estimates based on the existing official re-
turns.—Ed. C. M.
[union.]
Editor of The Century Magazine.
Sir : I have your letter asking me to give you a
statement of the forces of General McDowell's army
engaged in the battle of Bull Run, July 21, 1861.
Many of the men of that army were volunteers,
called into service for three months by the President's
proclamation of April 15, 1861. After they arrived in
Washington, and were equipped, they were sent
across the Potomac to General McDowell, and were
hurriedly thrown into brigades and divisions, and then
pushed into an active campaign, in order that they
might do something before they were discharged.
Even if the officers had understood army returns and
the necessity for rendering them, they had not time
to attend to such matters. It was not practicable at
the time to ascertain the strength of the army with
accuracy ; and it is impossible now to make a return
which can be pronounced absolutely correct.
The army of General McDowell in the campaign
consisted of five divisions : Tyler's first division con-
tained four brigades — Keyes's, Schenck's, Sherman's,
and Richardson's ; Hunter's second division contained
two brigades — Andrew Porter's and Burnside's;
Heintzelman's third division contained three brigades
— Franklin's, Willcox's, and Howard's ; Runyon's
fourth division was not organized into brigades ;
Miles's fifth division contained two brigades — Blenk-
er's and Davies's.
Miles's division, with Richardson's brigade of
Tyler's division attached, was in reserve at and in front
of Centreville. Some of it was lightly engaged on our
side of Bull Run in repelling a feeble advance of the
enemy.
Runyon's division was left to guard our communi-
cations with the Potomac, its advance being seven
miles in rear of Centreville.
The abstract which appears on page 309, vol. ii.,
"Official Records of the Rebellion," and which you
seem to regard as a return of McDowell's army at the
battle of Bull Run, is not such, and was not prepared
by me, but, as I understand, has been compiled since
the war. It purports to give the strength of the " De-
partment of North-eastern Virginia," July 16th and
17th, not of McDowell's army, July 21st.
In fact, it is not a return of General McDowell's
army at the battle of Bull Run ; and if used for cal-
culating such a return, several facts should be borne
in mind. First, it does not show the losses resulting
from the discharge of the Fourth Pennsylvania Infan-
try and Varian's New York battery, which marched
to the rear on the morning of the 21st, nor the heavy
losses incident to the march of the army from the
Potomac; second, it embraces two regiments — the
Twenty-first and Twenty-fifth New York Infantry —
which were not with the army in the field ; and third,
it contains the strength of Company E, Second United
States Cavalry, as a special item, whereas that com-
pany is embraced in the strength of the second (Hun-
ter's) division, to which it, with the rest of the cavalry,
belonged.
In his report of the battle (p. 324, vol. ii., "Of-
ficial Records of the Rebellion ") General McDowell
says he crossed Bull Run "with about eighteen
thousand men." I collected information to that effect
for him at the time. His statement is substantially
correct. The following is an exhibit in detail :
Commands.
Officers.
Enlisted
men.
First Division, two brigades only
Second Division, two brigades
Third Division, three brigades
19
284
252
34i
5,068*
5,7*7*
6,891 \
Total — seven brigades
896
17,676
The artillerymen who crossed Bull Run are em-
braced in the figures of the foregoing table. The
guns were as follows :
Ricketts's Battery 6 ten-pounder rifle guns.
(4 ten-pounder "
Griffin s Battery J % twelve-pounder howitzers.
Arnold's Battery \ 2 thirteen-pounder rifle guns.
( 2 six-pounder smooth-bore guns.
Rhode Island Battery 6 thirteen-pounder rifle guns.
Seventy-first New York Regi-
ment's Battery 2 Dahlgren howitzers.
Total pieces 24
That is to say, General McDowell crossed Bull Run
with 896 officers, 17,676 rank and file, and 24 pieces
of artillery.
The artillery, in addition to that which crossed Ball
Run, was as follows :
Hunt's Battery 4 twelve-pounder rifle guns.
P .. , , ,< C 2 thirteen-pounder "
\ 2 six-pounder smooth-bore guns.
Tidball's " ....\z six-pounder
"(2 twelve-pounder howitzers.
Greene's " 4 ten-pounder rifle guns.
r 2 ten-pounder rifle guns.
Ayres's " < 2 six-pounder smooth-bore guns.
'2 twelve- pounder howitzers.
Edwards's « \ 2 twenty-pounder rifle guns.
t 1 thirty-pounder rifle gun.
Very respectfully,
James B. Fry,
Retired A. A. G. with rank of Colonel,
Brevet-Major General U. S. A.
New York, Oct. t, 1884.
* This division contained four brigades. Only Keyes's and
Sherman's brigades crossed Bull Run.
f A battalion of marines, a battalion of regular infantry, and
seven companies of regular cavalry were embraced in this
division. There were but two brigades.
+ This division was composed of three brigades.
3i3
OPEN LETTERS.
[confederate.]
Editor of The Century Magazine.
Sir : I take pleasure in handing you an accu-
rate statement of the forces on the Confederate side
engaged in the battle of the 21st of July, 1861, known
by some as the Battle of Bull Run and by others as
that of Manassas. So far as the troops of Beaure-
gard's immediate Army of the Potomac are concerned,
my present statement is condensed from two that I
prepared with the sub-returns of all the commands
before me as the adjutant-general of that army, Sep-
tember 25th, 1861, and I can assure you of its exact-
ness. Copies of the original papers prepared at that
date will be found on page 568, Series 1, Vol. II., "Offi-
cial Records of the Union and Confederate Armies."
In respect to the Army of the Shenandoah (John-
ston's), I have been obliged to present an estimate,
my authority for which is a statement written by me
in the official report of the battle, and based, as I dis-
tinctly recollect, upon official documents and returns
in my hands at the time, of the accuracy of which I
was and am satisfied.
Respectfully, Thomas Jordan.
COMMANDS.
General Beauregard and Staff.
Bonham's Brigade
Ewell's
Jones's, D. R.
Longstreet's
Cocke's
Early's
NOT BRIGADED.
Seventh Louisiana Infantry
Eighth " "
Hampton's Legion
Radford's Cavalry (30th Va. )
Harrison's Virginia Cavalry Battalion (3 Co's)
UNREGIMENTED.
Ten Companies of Cavalry
Washington Artillery (ti guns)
Kemper's ( Va. ) Battery (4 guns)
Latham's " " (4 " )
Roger's " " (4 " )
Shields's " " (4 " )
Camp Pickens — Heavy Artillery
Holmes's Brigade (6 guns) .
ARMY OF THE SHENANDOAH.
Jackson's Brigade of Infantry
Bee's and Bartow's Brigade of Infantry .
Kirby Smith's or Elzey's Brigade
Fisher's N. C. Regiment of Infantry. .
Hill's (A. P.) Va. Regiment
Stuart's Regiment Cavalry (12 Co's)...
Five Batteries Field Artillery (20 guns) .
Gen. J. E. Johnston and Staff
26
5
5 i-5
to
is
U
15
4
4
4
4
3
3
37
Infantry.
%
211
133
128
160
208
261
44
43
27
1,215
1M
2- '•J *>
1 ^ ^
> * <8
4,070
2.3°7
1,989
2,364
3>°°5
2,356
773
803
627
10,354
1,265
55o
55o
Cavalry.
*
34
13
38
85
•ft K ft
642
196
545
1,383
300
300
Artillery.
i
51
IS.*5
S 8 ^S
201
76
86
55
82
275
775
•a "ts
,527
3,276
1,650
827
508
627
600
150
250
60
80
90
58
9,7i3
8,334
8,34°
ARMY OF THE POTOMAC.
Aggregates Available on the Field. Forces Actively Engaged.
Generals and Staff 37 Infantry, Rank and File 8,415
Infantry, Rank and File 19,569 Cavalry, " " 1,000
Cavalry, " " 1,468 Artillery, " " 288
Artillery, " " 826 Generals and Staff 10
Field Guns.
21,900
27 Field Guns.
16
9»7M
17
RECAPITULATION.
Infantry. Cavalry. Artillery. Staff~. Total.
Army of the Potomac — Rank and File Engaged 8,415 .... 1,000 .... 288 ... 10 .... 9,7*3
" Shenandoah, " " " (estimated) 7,684 300 350 6 8,340
Total Rank and File, both Confederate armies engaged . . 16,099 1,300 638
New York, October 4, 1884. Thomas Jordan,
Formerly Adjt. -General Confederate Army of the Potomac
18,053
BRIC-A-BRAC.
319
BRIC-A-BRAC.
Poetry made Practic.
(WITH APOLOGIES TO MR. STEDMAN.)
The leaves are gettin' sere,
The green is growin' gray;
It's been a tryin' day
At turnin' o' the year.
My spritely little fire,
It frisks it brisk as though
It sort o' seemed to know
A heart could kind-a tire.
I'll hasp that swingin' blind,
And pull the curting down ;
It's most too fur to town
Ag'in a nippin' wind.
Old Rover and the houn',
Each flame at sich a rate
A-dancin' to his mate, —
They've nothin' to't in town.
I reck'n I better read
A bit o' poetry —
A tech of love, may be,
To keep from goin' to seed.
Hello, what's this chap at ?
"The Doorstep," eh. That's right;
Not quite a doorstep night,
This 'ere, but what o' that?
Hold on — he's not there yet.
The snow all crispy — good !
'Twixt " tippet " an' the " hood "
There's suthin' up, I'll bet.
Her "hand outside her muff" —
She's fixin' plaguy quick ;
Well, now, that is jess slick —
A-hold on't ! That's enough.
He knowed jest how things wuz
With country folks, I see; —
Dern slumpy poetry
Onless a feller does.
Well said — I do declare !
The "old folks," "ringlets," "moon,"—
He's stickin' to the tune,
And must be almost there.
A fiddle on his " sister " !
Ef he should up and blunder —
No, by the jumpin' thunder!
He has — he's kissed her! —
That's poetry. — Down there, houn'! —
It aint so very late ;
I'm goin' to strike my gait;
Yes, sir, I'm off to town.
An' Mr. Pote — Git Rover! —
Ef it would be amusin',
I'll prove by me and Susin
Jest " who can live youth over " !
John Vance Cheney,
Compensation.
Love came to me, and found me sitting lonely;
Love went from me, left me more lonely still.
"Oh why," I cried, "does love to us bring only
Some unknown ill?"
My cry despairing, ere forever flitting,
Recalled a moment the light, wanton boy.
" Did it not bring," laughed he, "while lonely sitting,
Some unknown joy?"
George W. Jones.
A Mad Poet.
Ye fledgling bards, that fain on downy wing
Would try with tougher quills to soar and sing !
Young larks, on whom the cage-door ne'er has
slammed,
To lock you in, " all silent and all damned ! " *
Those poets counted great in other days,
If writing now, would have to "mend their ways.
They thought too much, and, on their thinking bent,
With plain heroic couplets were content.
But woe to him who rashly now repeats
The measure of a Goldsmith or a Keats !
One form, and only one, could serve him worse —
Let no live poet venture on blank verse.
The roundel — the Provencal roundel — try,
That dazzles oft the editorial eye.
You say it's artificial, cramped, my lad ?
Take care ! I said so, and they called me mad.
The sonnet that was used in ages dark,
For songs of love, by Shakspere and Petrarch,
Is now appropriate to any theme —
Cant, metaphysics, bricks and mortar, steam.
Oh, not for you the grandeur and the glow,
The language that poetic poets know;
But rather word-confectionery make —
Heap sugar flowers upon a spongy cake.
If you've originality, disguise it ;
Be sure that Aristarchus would despise it.
Keep off the grass / Remember poor old Walt !
Be insignificant, and shun his fault.
Become sophisticate, and ne'er reveal
Aught of emotion you may chance to feel ;
'Tis execrable form, 'tis most ill-bred :
Song comes not from the heart, but from the head.
Write Christmas verses in the month of June ;
In January sing a summer tune ;
Chant elegies before the victim's dead —
For magazines want verse six months ahead.
When, following my advice, you've conquered fame,
Fail not to sign in full your middle name.
My lot in this regard was very sad :
I had no middle name — they thought me mad !
Nat Lee.
* Wordsworth, " Peter Bell."
cC^^U.
The Century Magazine
Vol. XXIX.
JANUARY, 1885.
No. 3.
RECENT ARCHITECTURE IN AMERICA. IV.
CHURCHES.
It is still too general an idea that his ec-
clesiastical work must be the easiest part of a
modern architect's activity. It is still too
commonly supposed that the mediaeval styles
offer him a multitude of models which, exactly
copied or but slightly modified, will answer
all his purposes, — that he must be able to
imitate discreetly and skillfully, but need give
no thought to the fundamental problems of
his art, since these were fully worked out in
ages past and settled once for all. Such be-
lief in the present adequacy of mediaeval prec-
edents— a belief which awhile ago was al-
most superstitious in its protests against the
use of any other style or the desirability of
modern innovation — is, I need hardly say,
of but recent origin. Gothic art died with the
dying supremacy of the Catholic church, and
till our own day no one wished for its reani-
mation. As the various classic fashions suc-
ceeded one another, each in its turn was used
for all ecclesiastical as well as for all secular
constructions. In the seventeenth century the
genius of Wren brought practical fitness, and
often structural though not decorative beauty,
out of the elements then in favor. Later on,
when the pseudo-Greek temple was in vogue,
no good end was attained. And then came
the " Gothic Revival," bringing change where
change was sorely needed. Its results, how-
ever, were not of unmixed good, for reason
and common sense were ostracized from its
early counsels. The newly recognized beauty
of mediaeval work so intoxicated a generation
that had been fed on the dry pabulum of clas-
sic nullities, that its eyes were blinded to the
change which had come over practical re-
quirements, or else persuaded that this change
was a misfortune to be deplored and disre-
garded. Nor, in its new-found desire for the
"ecclesiastical feeling" so evident in Gothic
art, did it reflect upon the necessity of truth
in architectural expression — a necessity which
robs " ecclesiastical feeling " of all but a dil-
ettante, archaeologic, superficially aesthetic
value, unless it is the unforced voice of the
actual devotional mood of those who build.
Many of Wren's churches were far more ap-
propriate to current needs than those of ear-
lier days ; but his inventions were despised and
a distinct backward step was taken — the perni-
cious doctrine being taught that architectural
" art " need not concern itself with ir .cters of
fitness and veracity.
For a while we in America accepted this
view of church-building almost as implicitly
as did our English brethren. And with less
excuse than they; for where the Anglican
church is preeminent, far less change has
come in practical or expressional necessities
than where, as is the case with us, a majority
of the people belong to the extremer Protest-
ant communions. For a while we believed
in the entire adequacy of an imitated medi-
aeval art to meet needs which in truth are
modern in the full sense of the word. But of
late this belief, though still, as I have said,
both wide-spread and strong, is neither so
universal nor so implicit as it was ; and we
may rejoice to note the fact. Not that Gothic
art is of necessity to be abandoned for some
other; and not that we need wish for that
"new style" for which the lovers of mere
novelty are longing. " Style " is not the ques-
tion at all — only the rational or irrational use
of whatever style may be selected. The thing
that is most important, and that will best jus-
tify a hopeful looking toward the future, is —
[Copyright, 1884, by The Century Co. All rights reserved.]
324
RECENT ARCHITECTURE IN AMERICA.
here, no less than in any other branch of ar-
chitecture— -that we should reason about our
work, should accept nothing on the mere au-
thority of ancient precedent, or for the mere
sake of artistic charm. If we do thus accept
a style, we shall never work with it in a really
vigorous way. We shall be copyists only, and,
to judge by the average of modern work, not
such successful copyists that even superficial
beauty will result. But if our art is founded
on reason and intelligent common sense, we
shall learn to do good work at least. Whether
it will eventually grow to be very beautiful
work or not will depend upon the gifts with
which nature sees fit to endow us. But neither
fundamental excellence nor satisfying, vital
beauty can grow from any other basis.
NORTH CHURCH, SPRINGFIELD, MASS.
But perhaps I should stop a moment now
to prove that our needs are indeed quite dif-
ferent from those of Gothic-building genera-
tions.
It will hardly be questioned that the me-
diaeval architect was inspired not by the fond,
the basis, the essentials of Christianity, not by
those things which the simplest of Protestant
sects may claim to hold in common with the
church of Hildebrand, but by the specialized
demands of this church. If we know the plan
and features of a mediaeval structure, we know
how accurately they were fitted to the per-
formance of the Catholic ritual. If we follow
the course of architectural history, we know
how they grew up and grouped themselves as
that ritual expanded and crystallized into
shape, absorbing a thousand beliefs, traditions,
rites, and ceremonies with which fundamental
Christianity had little enough to do and which
Protestantism has cast aside.
It is true that such a church may be used
for Protestant forms of worship. But we can
say as much of any spacious interior ; and the
plea of partial appropriateness, which is valid
with regard to existent and venerable struc-
tures, strikes below the mark when new crea-
tions are in question.
With those sects — dominant,
as I have said, with us — that
have abandoned ritual alto-
gether, the whole character and
whole intention of the service
have been changed. It is no
longer a sacrifice offered for the
people by its priests, no longer
a gorgeous ceremonial to be
but vaguely seen, no longer an
elaborate musical rite in a stran-
ger tongue, but a common act
in which the laity take a far
more direct and personal share,
and of which every word must
be caught by all. It needs no
chapels for a populous pantheon
of saints; no spacious chancel
for a numerous clergy; no broad
aisles for processional pomp and
show ; and even the altar must
change in place as well as pur-
port when it is called a com-
munion table. Moreover, — and
this is no unimportant point, —
that love of physical comfort
which is a peculiarly modern
characteristic asks for stationary
cushioned seats, for unobstruct-
ed sight and sound, for warmth
and ventilation, and for thor-
ough lighting both by day and
night. Do such needs get ra-
tional satisfaction from the old cathedral type,
or even from that of the English parish church
of other days ?
And it is the same with regard to our
expressional necessities. The mediaeval archi-
tect expressed not some fundamental senti-
ment common to Christianity as a whole, but
the special sentiments of its mediaeval phase,
the peculiar mental mood and social state to
which those sentiments owed their birth. The
RECENT ARCHITECTURE IN AMERICA.
325
church was then the one great social fact and
influence that ruled mankind with undisputed
sway. It inspired, demanded, and absorbed
all the activity of man's more peaceful moods ;
took the entire tribute not only of his heart,
but of his mind and hand and purse. And it
absorbed nothing more wholly than art. In
its cathedrals was expressed all that we now
express in our public buildings, our charitable
institutions, our civic adornments, and our
sumptuous private homes. Into its treasuries
went all those minor works which are now
dispersed to a myriad secular ends. Hence
the size and richness, the pomp and splendor,
the magnificence in effect and the lavish care
in detail of a mediaeval sanctuary.
But to-day we have no " church " in the
same sense of the word. We have a number
of different communions, banded together for
the simple purposes of common worship and
moral teaching, which are without direct sec-
ular influence or importance, and absorb but
a part of our mental activity, our artistic en-
ergy, or our superabundant wealth. Consider,
too, the devotional temper of mediaeval men.
Consider their blind unreasoning faith in a
thousand things we have long since questioned
and denied ; consider their mysticism, their
love of symbolism and allegory, their passion
for the gloomy, the obscure, the terrible, the
grotesque, the vague, intangible, vast, and
supersensual. Is this the devotional attitude
of our time ? Can their huge interiors, their
vanishing perspectives, their soaring vaults,
their dim religious light, their wealth of sym-
bolic detail, their throngs of forgotten saints,
their expression of the insignificance of the
individual and the supremacy of the priest-
hood, their testimony that man should ap-
proach his Maker through the medium of a
sumptuous allegoric ceremonial — can these
things be in harmony with the mood a Prot-
estant brings to the house of God to-day ?
I do not forget the profound emotion that
an ancient church must still excite in any sus-
ceptible breast. We need not try to analyze it
at the moment ; but when our future building
is in question, then we must. Then we must
ask ourselves how much of this emotion is
really religious, how much artistic or historic
in its promptings ; and further, how much of
its really religious portion is genuine and per-
sonal, how much sympathetic and imagina-
tive. We must ask whether such a structure
would be the natural results if our own needs
and minds and hearts were given full and true
expression.
We are gradually groping our way, I think,
to a perception of these facts and a belief
that we should respect them in our practice.
Already we have acknowledged that in prac-
TRINITY CHURCH, NEW YORK.
tical ways the ancient ecclesiastical type is
not so entirely adequate as we once supposed.
And if we do not so definitely question its
expressional fitness, at least we no longer
strictly limit the architect thereto in his search
for " ecclesiastical feeling." Very rightly we
demand that such feeling should exist, and
neither unnaturally nor irrationally we believe
that it may be wrought through the adapta-
tion of some mediaeval mode more easily than
in any other way. Perhaps it would be too
much to expect that as free an adaptation as
is necessary should as yet be within the power
326
RECENT ARCHITECTURE IN AMERICA.
of our artists to accomplish, or of our public
to desire. Perhaps we should be unduly im-
patient did we feel surprise at the illogical
attempts which are so often made by the
architect, so often prescribed, and not merely
tolerated, by those from whom he holds com-
mission — attempts to secure a quite new
type of interior, and at the same time to pre-
serve the general exterior effect and all the
decorative detail of the ancient type. Per-
haps only repeated unsuccessful efforts will suf-
fice to prove how illogical they are — how il-
logical it is to disassociate the practical from
the expressional, artistic side of any art ; how
foolish to forget that the charm of Gothic
was not abstract and superficial, but resulted
naturally from convenient structural disposi-
tions, and the true expressional impulse of its
own day and land.
The problem our architects here have be-
fore them is as novel as it is difficult and
important. Nothing just like it was ever
proposed before, since other generations built
naively, and we must build self-consciously,
and distracted by the very richness of the leg-
acy they have left us. It would be idle to
hope that any one man or any one generation of
men could fully master such a task. But it
will be treacherous if any shirks his quota of
the work. Each must do his little part, for it
is only thus that architecture ever grows.
Each must study his problem from the cen-
ter outward, and not from the outside in, set-
tling first the bones and sinews of his structure
and then trying to fit them with a true integ-
ument of beauty. This may well draw its
inspiration from mediaeval precedents ; but,
even so, it will be something very different
from what we most often find to-day — a mere
patchwork of attractive but mendacious
shreds stripped from the trunk and limbs of
an ancient body quite unlike the new.
And now let us pass at last to a little defi-
nite description.
The first of our churches that were more
than mere barn-like conventicles were built
in the days of " good Queen Anne," and for
more than a century the modern-classic styles
were the only ones we knew. Mr. Grant White
showed some of our earlier examples to my
readers not many months ago, and did full
justice to the finest of them all — St. Paul's
in New York. But upon one important point,
it seemed to me that he hardly laid sufficient
stress — upon the interesting variety that re-
sulted when wood was the chosen material,
and the colonial architect intelligently modi-
fied the English model to suit its new re-
quirements. This was a time when simple
convenience was the architect's chief aim in
his interior, when the public seems to have
had no conscious craving for " ecclesiastical
feeling." Yet, nevertheless, some of these in-
teriors— Trinity in Newport, for example, and
King's Chapel in Boston — have a certain
grave dignity, simple sobriety, and homely,
cheerful stateliness, which are, perhaps, more
truthfully expressive of the temper of modern
Protestantism than is a dim and shadowy,
elaborate and sumptuous Gothic church. But
of course when I speak thus I leave all purely
artistic considerations out of sight. These
sensible and attractive if not eminently beau-
tiful structures were succeeded by pseudo-
Greek temples, and then we, too, came in for
our share of the Gothic revival.
Its first eminent apostle was the elder Up-
john, an Englishman by birth, but American
in his artistic life. Trinity in New York was
his masterpiece, and is still the most beautiful
church in the city. When I add that it is an
orthodox, scholarly reproduction of a simple
type common among English parish churches,
the admission must not be made to prove too
much. The conclusion need not follow that
it would be best for us to cleave faithfully to
the same kind of work ; for what we have
not yet been able to do is hardly a conclusive
argument to decide for what we ought to
strive. Trinity proves that our inventive efforts
have not yet produced anything in all New
York as satisfactory, from an artistic point of
view, as Mr. Upjohn's imitative skill could
build. But the artistic point of view is not the
only one that should be regarded. In spite
of Trinity's beauty, it is far from impressing us
with the belief that here is the ideal modern
church with which we should rest content. It
answers fairly well the needs of its own con-
gregation— an Episcopal congregation with
High Church leanings and a choral service.
But turn to one of Mr. Upjohn's less conspicu-
ous structures, and see how badly even his
hands succeeded in fitting the same type to
the needs of other communions. Take, for
instance, the Presbyterian church on the cor-
ner of Tenth street and University Place.
Look at the long nave divided into three by
rows of massive columns, that inconvenience
materially the occupants of the outer pews;
look at the deep galleries which cut the long
windows in twain, and the support of which is
unprovided for in the structure of the walls
from which they project; look at the lofty
vaulted ceiling, which absorbed so much light
that it had to be spoiled by a coat of pale-
hued paint ; look at the high-paneled wooden
screen which fills the east end, but so palpa-
bly does not belong there, and at the way
the pulpit clings to it without constructive
rhyme or reason. Is this a good way to build
such a church — this way which results in
RECENT ARCHITECTURE IN AMERICA.
327
something that is neither a copy nor an adap-
tation, but merely a mutilation of the ancient
type, unsuccessful alike in the way of practi-
cal fitness and of architectural coherence ?
Mr. Upjohn's exteriors, though not always
in strict accord with his interiors, are sure to
have much beauty of the best because most
architectural kind. They all exhibit in a less
degree the peculiar excellence of Trinity —
an excellence which springs from harmony of
proportion, strength and grace of outline,
well-regulated size of feature, and discreet
employment of very simple decoration. They
point a lesson which might well have been
regarded by our later Gothicists, who have
too often quite ignored the claims of these
prime elements in architectural success.
For many years after Mr. Upjohn led the
way, the style of our ecclesiastical work was
almost always Gothic, though there were oc-
casional reversions to a classic type, such as
we see in the Arlington Street Church in
Boston and the "Brick Church" at the corner
of Fifth Avenue and Thirty- seventh street.
But the Gothic was of every imaginable and
unimaginable variety, — "natural, unnatural,
and preternatural." Sometimes it was carefully
and dryly "correct"; sometimes it aimed at
correctness in a stupid and blundering way ;
sometimes it was plain to meagerness, some-
times lavishly but inartistically elaborate. In
our villages we had poverty-stricken and ludi-
crous specimens, which were only " Gothic "
because their windows were pointed and their
eaves were bordered with a jig-saw ornament
that looked like paper fringing for a pantry-
shelf. Sad contrasts must such things have
seemed, even in the eyes of the most devoted
medievalist, to our wooden relics of a former
century — so simple, so straightforward, so
unpretentious, and yet so far from bald or
inartistic. And we had (and still continue to
produce, alas !) Gothic in stone which is less
immediately funny, but far more distressing
to the eye and contaminating to the taste :
Gothic like that shown in some of our most
conspicuous up-town churches — a mere ac-
cumulation of features which are false to the
interior they purport to explain, which have
no force or grace of outline and no propor-
tion or harmony among themselves, and which
are not helped by a profusion of showy orna-
ment as monotonous in design and as hard
in execution as though its substance were cast-
iron instead of stone. Simple, conventional,
almost undecorated Gothic work is better than
such work as this, as is proved by Mr. Up-
john's two churches on Fifth Avenue below
Fourteenth street, and by Mr. Renwick's
Catholic cathedral, which is faulty in many
points, but still dignified, intelligent, and at-
tractive. And "classical " work may, I think,
be better, too, even if it is not so good as that
of the last century, even if it is only discreet
and commonplace like the " Brick Church "
already mentioned. We cannot call this a
beautiful ecclesiastical monument, but it has
at least the excellence of repose, honesty, and
dignity. It looks at least as though its author
knew what he wanted to do, and knew how
to use his chosen style to reach his ends.
And this is more than we can say for the
riotous yet mechanical effect of our most glar-
ing Gothic failures. And its expression, too,
is it not more in keeping with the simple,
severe, non-mystical rites of the Presbyterian
faith, than the bastard, pretentious mediaeval-
ism of many a fabric which houses sister con-
gregations ?
But if we search we can find much good
Gothic work, as well as bad. Especially in
our smaller towns there are many churches
that are sensible and charming. It is natural
that success should have come more fre-
quently here than in our crowded cities, since
site and surroundings are usually more felici-
tous, and since enforced economy often acts
as a wholesome check on that vaulting ambi-
tion which is so apt to o'erleap itself when
unrestrained by the drawing of the purse-
string. Listen to what so good a judge as
Mr. Edward Freeman has written :
" I found the modern churches of various denomi-
nations certainly better than I had expected. They
may quite stand beside the average of modern work in
England, setting aside a few of the very best. All
persuasions have a great love of spires, and if the de-
tails are not always what one could wish, the general
effect of the spires is very stately, and they help largely
toward the general effect of the cities in a distant view.
But I thought the churches, whose style is most com-
monly Gothic of one kind or another, decidedly less
successful than some of the civil buildings."
And we learn from Mr. Freeman's context
what we might have guessed on general
principles — that the better results of secular
work have come because here the effort has
not so often been made to say one thing while
in reality we are meaning quite another.
But of late years many of our architects,
breaking away from the trammels of conven-
tion, and unseduced by the cheap charms of
willful novelty, have built churches where the
desire to secure fitness shows in a marked and
interesting way. This is true, however, of
their interiors rather than of such structures
as a whole.
Our new needs, let me premise, are not of
a single sort. No one type of church will
now answer every want as it might if one
communion ruled our land. There must be
varying solutions of a varying problem. Each
328
RECENT ARCHITECTURE IN AMERICA.
will require the adaptation as distinct from
the imitation of former fashions, and some
will necessitate a process of thought as dis-
tinctly creative as can be any which concerns
itself with architecture in this late age of the
world.
Let us speak first of one or two of our new
Episcopal churches, since here, of course,
to approach this work in a mood of sober
criticism, for it is very unlike any of our pre-
vious efforts, as well as very striking, imposing,
and beautiful. Certainly we have no church
that from an artistic point of view we can
admire so heartily. Only Trinity in New York
is worthy to be named beside it, and the two
are so entirely different that actual compari-
TRINITY CHURCH, BOSTON.
there has been a less radical divergence from
ancient precedents than when other Protest-
ant sects have housed themselves. But even
here we are not surprised to mark a growing
impulse toward innovation, a growing ten-
dency, for example, to abandon the old
elongated proportions of the nave and to do
away with obstructive rows of columns.
Mr. Richardson's is, I am very sure, the
first name I should cite in this connection.
Several churches for different communions —
among them the sensible " North Church " in
Springfield, Mass., and the interesting, if not
wholly admirable, Brattle Street Church in
Boston, with its finely effective tower — were
among his earlier efforts. But none of them
predicted what he was to do when he should
come to build Trinity in Boston. It is hard
son is impossible. I must try to describe it
before we can ask whether it is as right as it
is delightful.
Looking first at its interior, we find a Latin
cross, the arms of which are very broad
in proportion to their length, thus affording
far better accommodation to modern wor-
shipers than the old type gave. There are no-
rows of columns, and the four great piers which
support the tower over the intersection of
nave and transepts are placed close to the
angles of the structure, so that they offer no
obstruction to the sight. The so-called aisles
are mere passageways beyond the seats, and
above them is a gallery so shallow that it also
is scarcely more than a passageway connect-
ing the galleries proper, which fill the ends
of either transept and of the nave above the
RECENT ARCHITECTURE IN AMERICA.
329
TOWER OF TRINITY CHURCH, BOSTON.
vestibule. The eastern arm, which forms the
chancel, is prolonged by a semicircular apse
of equal breadth. The ceiling of the nave is
sixty-three feet in height, but in the center,
under the tower, it rises to a height of one
hundred and three feet. That a flat finish was
adopted, instead of the more beautiful and
architecturally appropriate vaulted form, may
probably be attributed to those acoustical
considerations wnich are so important now.
Great round arches, forty-six feet in span,
Vol. XXIX.— 32.
connect the piers and give dignity and struc-
tural expression to the whole. The chancel
and apse of this church are certainly in har-
mony with the other proportions of the inte-
rior, but are much too large for the Low
Church service performed therein. This fact
is clearly proclaimed by their bareness and
emptiness, wanting as they do the choir-seats
and screens, the splendid altar and elaborate
desks which the eye demands. We hardly
know whether we blame the architect for not
33°
RECENT ARCHITECTURE IN AMERICA.
But it has often been described and discussed before
so I will only say that a complete color-treatment
was planned for from the outset. All surfaces
are plastered and painted; the great piers,
now temporarily encased in wood, are some
day to be covered with rich mosaic, while
the wood-work throughout will be
touched with color.
The site selected for Trinity was
advantageous in being open on
all sides and bounded by three
broad streets of almost equal
importance. Its triangular
shape would have been
ill-adapted to a struc-
ture of our usual ec-
clesiastical type; but
in the form which
Mr. Richardson
selected — in-
spired by
CHANCEL OF TRINITY CHURCH, BOSTON.
building with more rigorous fitness, or the
congregation for not utilizing their archi-
tectural opportunities, for not furnishing their
chancel properly, and inaugurating a sump-
tuous High Church service. Theoretically
considered, it seems as though Mr. Richard-
son's interior must have been less harmonious
and less beautiful had he built more appro-
priately in this particular. And yet fitness is
the fundamental law, and when Mr. Richard-
son seriously tries he can usually compel it
to a finely artistic result.
It would be interesting, were space not so
limited,, to describe the decoration of Trinity.
those early churches of central France which
are less familiar to our eyes than the products
of northern Gothic — Trinity looks as though
its site had been planned for its sole sake. A
great central tower dominates a composition
which is pyramidal in effect, and includes, be-
sides the church itself, a chapel with open
outside stairway and connecting cloisters.
Each point of view offers a different perspec-
tive of much vigor, beauty, and picturesque-
ness, and from each the tower retains its due
preeminence and composes well with the
lower masses, excepting from the front, whose
flanking towers are brought by the short nave
RECENT ARCHITECTURE IN AMERICA.
33*
ST. PAUL S CHURCH, NORTH ANDOVER, MASS.
so close to the central tower that the effect
is somewhat confused at this point. How-
ever, the present effect will be much im-
proved by the addition of the proposed porch.
The central tower is not only the most im-
portant, but the most beautiful feature of the
whole. It seems to have been prompted by
the tower of the old cathedral of Salamanca,
which is built in the Romanesque fashion which
came to Spain from France, and is essentially
the same as that from which the main inspira-
tion of the church was drawn. But it is a free
treatment of its original, not a literal copy.
To me it gives an impression such as one
constantly receives from actual mediaeval work,
but which I have never felt so forcibly in the
presence of any other modern essay. It looks,
that is to say, entirely spontaneous and living,
distinctly non-mechanical or labored. It looks
like the result of a genuine, powerful impulse,
not like a lesson learned and then repeated.
We accept it on its own evidence, and care
little to ask whether it had a definite proto-
type, or to judge it by any standard of com-
parison. In the arrangement and proportion-
ing of its features it has that felicity which we
instinctively call artistic Tightness, and that
mystery which is one of the chief charms of
ancient work, and the one we most rarely
find in the cut-and-dried rigidity or the willful
yet labored license of modern art. It does
not become tame and commonplace on long
acquaintance, but has the perennial novelty and
freshness which always mark results that are
artistic in the highest sense. The detail of Trin-
ity's exterior is rich, and, for modern work, un-
usually artistic in design and in execution.
We are promised that the sculptures planned
for the western porch shall owe their chief
features to Mr. St. Gaudens— a happy augury
that in the future architectural sculpture may
come to be regarded (as it always was in the
great artistic ages) as the very noblest work
to which the artist can devote his chisel. Nor
must I forget to note the important role that
color plays outside as well as within this
church. Much of Trinity's beauty is due to
the happy selection and arrangement of the
yellowish granite (which looks, in truth, more
like a sandstone) used in the walls, and the
warm, red-brown Longmeadow stone lavishly
employed for the trimmings and decorative
features. And the red tiles add greatly to the
general effect.
And now we must inquire into the rightness
of Trinity, ungracious as the task appears in
presence of such indisputable beauty. Is it
throughout a good type — is it a good model
for the inspiration of our future work, as well
as a thing to be admired on purely aesthetic
grounds ? In many points I think it is. The
ground plan is a very excellent one for an
Episcopal church — convenient, " ecclesias-
tical," and architecturally fine. The arrange-
ment of the galleries is a vast improvement
on our past practice when galleries have been
a sad necessity. And the color-treatment —
the entire dependence upon the brush to the
exclusion of the chisel — seems to me as sen-
sible as in this country it was novel. The
brush is with us a better-understood instru-
ment of decoration than the chisel. Its results
332
RECENT ARCHITECTURE IN AMERICA.
INTERIOR OF ST. STEPHEN S CHURCH, LYNN, MASS.
are well in keeping with the nature of our
climate, and in their greater warmth, cheerful-
ness, and definiteness give, I think, a more
appropriate expression to the home of a mod-
ern congregation than would such results as
the chisel wrought in northern Gothic work.
Outside, now, we find that the notable pic-
turesqueness of Trinity is not willful and men-
dacious, but truthfully expressive of its interior.
The place and size of the great tower, for in-
stance, and the way in which the other masses
depend upon it, mark the position and the
shape of the body of the nave and the lesser
importance of its wings. Only in the tower
itself do we find a slight violation of truthful-
ness. Its extreme solidity and the strengthen-
ing turrets at its angles might lead us to ex-
pect a vault within ; and this, as I have said,
does not exist, though possibly it was contem-
plated in the original design. But how is it
with the artistic voice of this exterior ? Beau-
tiful though it is, does it correspond to the
distinctly modern voice of the interior ? Is it
thoroughly appropriate to a Protestant church
in the New England of to-day ? Does it affect
us as being not only beautiful, but, so to say,
inevitable in its accent ? When we stand in
front of the Lexington Avenue warehouse in
New York, for example, our wonder is that
the same thing had not been done long be-
fore; we marvel how any one could ever have
considered such a problem without finding
just such a solution. Of course thoughts like
these are instinctive, not really rational ; but
they are the thoughts which always come in
presence of a perfectly appropriate architec-
tural creation. What is really the discovery
of a peculiarly gifted intelligence always looks
like the mere course of nature, like a logical,
unescapable deduction from the given prem-
ises. But do such thoughts come when we
look at Trinity ? Of course I am not trying
to compare these two buildings, with which
comparison would be utterly impossible. I
am only trying to contrast, not the strength
nor the delightfulness, but merely the char-
acter of the impression they produce. Do we
feel that Trinity is the sort of thing other men
ought to have done before ? Do we wonder
how such a solution could so long have es-
caped the ecclesiastical builders of to-day, and
decide that here they now may turn for valu-
able hints and lessons ? Or do we not wonder,
rather, that any man should have attempted
to build such a church in just this time and
place, and, attempting, should have triumphed
RECENT ARCHITECTURE IN AMERICA.
333
in the task ? Does not Trinity strike us as a
splendid anachronism, bewilder us with an
exotic charm ? Do we not feel that though
all men must admire, none should try to rival
it ? And if a work of architecture, no matter
what its beauty, so affects us that the last ad-
vice it prompts is, " Go thou and do likewise,"
are we justified in calling it the most helpful
or most promising we might have had ? For,
be it remembered, architecture is not, like
some of the sister arts, a means toward mere
personal expression. Whenever its average
results have been fine, they have represented
helpful, onward effort; a seductive glimpse
opened for us toward the past, not a prophetic
outlook toward a possible future of general
success.
We find many other recent Episcopal
churches with plans more or less akin to
that of Trinity, and in every case at least the
practical result seems good. As an example
where the artistic result is also fine, I may
cite St. Stephen's at Lynn, Mass., built by
Messrs. Ware and Van Brunt. Here the
pointed style is used throughout. We have
again a central square marked off by great
ST. PAUL S CHURCH, STOCKBRIDGE, MASS.
not an individual, but a national mind and
taste and temper. When it has developed, it
has been by the assistance of a thousand, often
unnamed, hands, all working with a common
impulse and a common aim. I know that in
this age of the world individuality everywhere
plays a larger part than it did in ages past.
But it is most probable that it will be in spite
of this fact, not because of it, that our archi-
tectural progress will be made — if, indeed,
Fate holds such progress in her hand for us.
In building Trinity Mr. Richardson gave us
the most beautiful structure that yet stands
on our side of the ocean, and far be it from
me to wish that he had built it otherwise in
any of its parts. And yet we cannot but con-
sider it (I speak now of its exterior only) an
intensely individual, not a broadly character-
istic, piece of work ; a fascinating example, but
one which stands apart and aside from the
most hopeful current of our art. It is a
splendid tour de force, rather than a natural,
corner columns, which are connected by pow-
erful arches and support a ceiling that rises
high above that of the subordinated parts.
The nave is prolonged to the west, but is
short in comparison to its width. Beyond the
eastern arch is the large chancel, this time
appropriate in itself, and appropriately fur-
nished, as the service is High Church; and
out of the chancel, under a smaller arch, opens
a semicircular apse, where the altar stands
in proper state. There are no true transepts,
but the wall to north and south of the central
square is lightly recessed and treated like
a transept end. Not only is dignity thus
attained, but space is given for two great
windows, which, with the one at the west
end, amply light the church. The plan seems
to me very good, and the execution is un-
usually rich, with a richness well subdued to
artistic harmony. The two eastern arches,
similar in outline and different in size, offer
a beautiful perspective, closed by a rich
334
RECENT ARCHITECTURE IN AMERICA.
arcade with marble columns that divides the
apse itself from the ambulatory which encir-
cles it. The elaborate wooden ceiling is another
fine feature, and its lofty central portion is not
only very effective and beautiful, but, so far
as I know, novel in design as well. Adjoining
the church is a chapel, and the two are con-
nected by a small cloister surrounding the
burial-plot of him to whose munificence the
structure owes its birth.
The exterior of St. Stephen's does not seem
to be so wholly admirable. Some of its fea-
tures are beautiful, but it is broken and unquiet
in effect. And yet, if we examine, we find
that this result has not come from a superfi-
cial striving after picturesqueness, but, on
the contrary, from an effort to express the
interior with more definiteness than are often
the objects of desire.
In many of our other recent churches —
Baptist, Methodist, Congregational, and Pres-
byterian— we find a much greater degree of
novelty than any Episcopal interior shows.
We find the " long-drawn aisle" and the cruci-
form plan alike abandoned, and a simple
rectangle frankly utilized. In Mr. Cady's
EPISCOPAL CHURCH, ROCKLAND, MAINE.
Methodist Church, on the corner of Park
Avenue and Eighty-sixth street, for example,
we see a square interior with deep galleries
running around three sides. At each corner
of the inner square marked out by their
face stands a column. Round arches connect
these columns, and are thrown from them to
the outer walls. Above the inner rectangle
thus formed, the ceiling rises higher than it
does above the galleries. At the east side
(one can no longer say east end) is the large
pulpit platform, behind it are the seats for the
choir, and behind these, again, the tall organ
pipes. Unfortunately the columns and arches,
which are painted throughout, appear to be
of iron, and the spandrels above are filled in
with an open net-work of turned wood. The
effect is therefore too fragile to be architec-
turally fine. It is not a very beautiful interior,
but it is very convenient, and I do not think
its purpose could be mistaken. It looks cer-
tainly not like an ancient church, but still not
unlike a place for religious use.
But we have other churches which are still
more unlike all past examples of ecclesiastical
architecture — which, in truth, have been in-
spired by the secular lecture-room or concert-
hall. One of the first among them was Dr.
Hall's church on Fifth Avenue. We can
hardly be surprised if the architect who es-
sayed to treat so immense an interior on so
novel a scheme has failed to satisfy the eye.
Convenience he has secured, but no particle
of beauty can be found in his vast, bare gal-
leried room — no expression of structure, and
no more ecclesiastical effect than Steinway
Hall exhibits, unless, indeed, we are to find
this last in the Gothic detail of his wood-
work. Others coming after him, and working
on a smaller and therefore less difficult scale,
have done a good deal
better. Much more suc-
cessful, for example, is
Mr. J. R.Thomas's Cal-
vary Baptist Church,
on Fifty-seventh street
near Seventh Avenue.
The interior is about
one hundred feet
square, but an amphi-
theatrical effect has
been given by slanting
the floor somewhat
steeply, curving the
rows of seats, and also
giving a curvilinear
form to the face of the
shallow gallery which
runs around three sides
and even along a por-
tion of the fourth. A
great rose-window opens above the gallery
opposite the pulpit, and there is another large
window group on one of the sides. The other
side unfortunately shows no opening, as
subordinate rooms here adjoin the church.
The choir seats are again behind the pulpit
platform, but the organ pipes are disposed
in two groups to right and left, and a window
is pierced between. Light is also admitted
in the center of the ceiling, where rises
what I may call a little clear-story of metal.
Decoration in color is alone possible in such
an interior, and here it is deep-toned and
sufficiently harmonious, though not artistically
_k
RECENT ARCHITECTURE IN AMERICA.
335
remarkable. In spite
of its analogy in plan
to a secular interior for
public use, this church,
too, looks not unlike
a place of worship, for
the difference is mark-
ed by the sober deco-
ration, the low ceiling,
and the ecclesiastical-
looking windows with
their colored glass.
Such churches as
this (showing, of
course, many varia-
tions of the same gen-
eral idea) have rapidly
grown in numbers dur-
ing the last few years
— so rapidly, indeed,
that the type which is
based on the secular
concert-hall bids fair to
be the most prominent
of all in a future near
at hand. There may
be other examples bet-
ter than any I have seen, but I doubt whether
a thoroughly good solution has yet been found.
I doubt it not only upon the evidence of my
own experience and the testimony of others,
but upon theoretic grounds. It is almost im-
possible that so difficult a problem should have
been mastered so very quickly. It is much
more probable that we shall have to wait yet
many a year before we see an amphitheatrical
church-interior that will be architecturally
faultless, unmistakably ecclesiastical 'in its
expression, and beautiful in all its features.
But it need not be thought impossible that
such a church should some day be developed
— no, not though its parent be something^as
alien as a concert-hall. Was not the mediae-
val church itself derived from the secular
basilica of pagan Rome ? Architectural ori-
gins seem strange enough when we try to
trace them out. Their history teaches that we
may borrow where and what we will — even
a plan in one place, features in another, and
details in a third. Only — and this is the vital
fact that justifies or condemns — we must
blend them, so to say, chemically and not
mechanically ; we must make of them a new
body, and not merely a patchwork.
I have already hinted at the fact that the
interiors of our new churches exhibit, if not
always more beauty than their exteriors, at
least more palpable signs of the thought and
intelligence and desire for truth which are
the foundation-stones of excellence. Their ex-
teriors sometimes show " originality," but this
Catholic. Ch^i-ch7>l*. Desert
ST. SYLVIA S CHURCH, MT. DESERT, MAINE.
seldom has veracity and common sense for
its inspiration. For example, such churches
as I have last described consist of the great
rectangular auditorium, together, almost al-
ways, with a number of subordinate but still
large apartments used for mildly festal con-
gregational purposes — lecture, Sunday-school,
and class-rooms, " church-parlors," and some-
times even kitchens too. Truthful external
expression is often aimed at in individual
features, but the composition as a whole is
commonly most untruthful. We find it diffi-
cult to decipher, and when we think we have
deciphered it, our imaginings have led us
quite astray. I have yet to see or hear of any
such exterior which frankly exhibits the size
and shape of the church itself, and makes it
evidently supreme above its dependencies.
And a really good exterior we shall never
have until this is done.
At Fifty-ninth street and Ninth Avenue
is a new church which, built by the Paulist
Fathers for Catholic use, naturally follows the
ancient plan, and yet is one of the most sen-
sible and non-mediseval structures we have
produced. When I last saw it, it was still in-
complete both within and without, and its ex-
terior was not remarkable except for size and
solid simplicity. Inside it showed a huge-
aisled nave, with a chancel of equal width,
but without transepts. The aisles were di-
vided from the nave by an arcade with very
plain columns and lofty arches of slightly
pointed shape. Above this rose a deep belt
336
RECENT ARCHITECTURE IN AMERICA.
^^^^^&m
%M
YALE COLLEGE CHAPEL.
of unbroken wall, and then the clear-story
with single windows of large size. The ceil-
ing was a barrel vault of wood, slightly pointed
in section. The walls still showed the same
undressed, irregular stones inside as out, and
the effect, though rugged enough, was so
massive and imposing that one would almost
have been content to know that no further
finish would be given. But they are to be
plastered throughout and decorated with
color. If, as has been prophesied, Mr. La
Farge receives the commission for the work,
he will have in these vast fields a chance such
as seldom comes in an artist's way. And the
success he has hitherto achieved — in Trinity
in Boston, and in the beautiful mosaic work
that almost redeems the architectural noth-
ingness of the interior of the " Brick Church "
on Fifth Avenue — leads us to believe that he
may make it one of the most beautiful inte-
riors of our day. It is already one of the
very best. There could hardly be a more
convincing proof than it afforded in its un-
finished state that good architecture is a mat-
ter of construction, not of ornamentation ; that
from fine proportions and the artistically reg-
ulated size and shape and disposition of very
few and simple features, may come the most
impressive beauty, without the- aid of a sin-
gle decorative chisel-stroke or a single touch
of brush. It proved, too, how unnecessary it
is for us to aim at the literal imitation of
ancient fashions • how much more important
it is to build rationally than to build conven-
tionally. I can hardly say with what " style "
one should rank this church. We may call it
Gothic, if we will, since its openings are
pointed ; but it shows no window-tracery
RECENT ARCHITECTURE IN AMERICA.
337
and no Gothic decoration, and its broad wall-
spaces remind us of very different fashions of
construction. Whatever its " style," its effect
will certainly not be that of an imitated me-
dievalism.*
It would be almost impossible, in this day and
land, to build a cathedral that should be such
in more than name, that should have the act-
ual, not to speak of the relative, importance
of the cathedrals of old — almost as impossi-
ble as undesirable. Look at an ancient ex-
ample — at Durham imperious on its rock,3
or at Antwerp soaring from the human habi-
tations that cluster like swallow-nests around
its base, and dwarfing even the huge munici-
pal palaces of a later century. Why should
we wish to build the like ? On our soil, would
not such a cathedral be an anachronism of as
palpable a sort as would be a Lanfranc or a
Becket among the upper shepherds of our
flocks ? Even in old days such structures
were raised only partly to the glory of God
and partly to the glory of a dominant hier-
archy. To-day we have no such hierarchy,
and we have learned to glorify God in other
ways. So, even when we pretend to build a
cathedral, it is not such in the ancient sense.
The Catholic cathedral on Fifth Avenue, for
example, is only a parish church of not exces-
sive size ; and the Protestant cathedral at
Garden City on Long Island is of very mod-
erate dimensions indeed. It is a pity, by the
way, that it is not more accessible to the pub-
lic, so striking a lesson is it in the art of how
not to build. Its plan is that of a true cathe-
dral, but reduced to a size which robs it of
all convenience and of all effect. Its exterior
features are so large as to be out of keeping
with the proportions of the composition. And
the same may be said of the decorative detail,
which, moreover, is not only out of scale, but
applied with so indiscreet a hand that the gen-
eral effect is hopelessly confused and over-
done. Nor does the elaborate richness of the
interior atone for the want of artistic feeling
and of good taste it shows.
But it was not long ago determined to build
at Albany another Protestant cathedral, and
to make it more consonant with its name. It
is to be erected by Mr. Gibson in a florid,
pointed style, and, of course, after an ancient
type. It promises to be larger and more
sumptuous than one might deem appropriate
to its time and place and actual practical pur-
pose. But had Mr. Richardson's design for it
been carried out, we should have had a ca-
thedral indeed. So beautiful is this design that
one is tempted to believe it must have been
chosen if the millions it demanded had been
forthcoming — if, that is to say, our people
had really desired a real cathedral. It was a
learned, grammatical study in a sterner type
of that southern Romanesque which Trinity
in Boston exhibits. No effort after novelty
could be traced in any part, and yet it was
not imitated from any one original. It was a
splendidly logical resume of ancient prece-
dents, hints, and intentions, all amalgamated
into perfect harmony. On simply artistic
grounds one could not but have rejoiced to
see it taking shape. But for the reasons I
have already mentioned, and also because we
are sure that Mr. Richardson can do better
with his life than to devote many years of it
to what would have been an anchronism from
end to end, — and most of all in the desire
which gave it birth, — we are content that it
should remain on paper.
Much good practical sense, and no little
artistic skill as well, have of late been shown
in our simplest country churches. Take, for
example, Mr. Emerson's church of St. Sylvia
at Mt. Desert. It is thoroughly suited to its
locality, — plain, unassuming, and rustic, — yet
has sufficient dignity to be in keeping with its
purpose. We do not ask what " style " such
a work belongs to, and should care not at all
if it exhibited even less affinity with any we
could name. The satisfaction it gives is evi-
dence enough of its Tightness. Only to one
point must we take objection. To shingle the
entire outside was a natural and pleasing ex-
pedient; but to shingle the inside too — walls
and pulpit and all — savors more perhaps of
willful eccentricity than of artistic discretion.
At Andover, Mass., there is a little church
built by Messrs. Rotch and Tilden, which
may serve as an example of how easy it is
(presupposing intelligence) to build at once
durably, prettily, and cheaply. The walls are
of rough stone, which, at least in New Eng-
land, need cost little more than the taking.
The east and the transept ends take a circular
form, and avoid all angles, since the careful
trimming and shaping of stone is the chief
expense connected with its use. The low
superstructure, where are the small but nu-
merous and sufficient windows, is of wood; and
there is, not a little porch for ornament, but a
sensible deep shed across the whole width of
the front. Is not either of these churches, or
Mr. Emerson's other example at Rockland,
Maine, a vast improvement on the clap-
boarded barn with jig-saw ornamentation we
should have had in its place only a few years
ago?
I hardly know to whom the credit for this church should be given. I believe it is the result of the good
sense of the Paulist Fathers themselves, aided with regard to certain points, such as the shape of the open-
ings and of the ceiling, by the advice of one of our younger architects.
Vol. XXIX.— 33.
33*
EDWARD EVERETT HALE.
I shall be pardoned, I trust, if I conclude Mass., both of which are illustrated here; and
this article with a word of personal explana- also one built by Mr. Cady after our most
tion. It is with regret that I note so few of novel type at Morristown, New Jersey, which,
our recent churches, and am forced to omit I hear, is a much more satisfactory example
definite mention of some which I know very than his Park Avenue church. But it has been
positively would have interested my readers.
Among these are Mr. Russell Sturgis's college
chapel at New Haven, and Messrs. McKim,
Mead and White's church at Stockbridge,
my misfortune to be obliged to leave the
United States before I had collected all the
material I desired, and to finish my work far
from the influences which inspired it.
M. G. van Rensselaer.
EDWARD EVERETT HALE.
A tall, trapper-like man, with a swinging
gait, dressed in plain clothes, and wearing a
soft slouch hat ; a canny face, bearded and
tanned, and plowed into deep wrinkles and
furrows ; shoulders slightly stooping, as if sup-
porting some great burden ; eyes that see
everything around them, and yet seem to be
gazing inward or far away ; voice sonorous on
the rostrum, yet gentle in conversation ; and
the whole manner of the man breathing a
compassionate helpfulness which both inspires
affection and invites confidence, — such, in
outward savor and effluence, is that hard-toil-
ing preacher and author, Edward Everett
Hale: a genuine democrat and typical Amer-
ican, if there ever were such ; one whose
wallet of stories seems as inexhaustible as
Fortunatus's purse, and his activities as mul-
tifarious as those of a secretary of state or a
superintendent of city charities. Reading his
books, you get the impression of one working
at a white heat ; you see that he is an eager
reader and a good stylist, that he quarries
everywhere for unbookish words, and has a
retentive memory, an almost Rabelaisian or
Burtonian wealth of allusion. The central
purpose of his life is to help ; the dominant
chord in his nature is compassion. The secret
is dropped in his Alpha Delta Phi address of
1 87 1 : "Noblesse oblige" he says ; " our privi-
lege compels us ; we professional men must
serve the world, not, like the handicraftsman,
for a price accurately representing the work
done, but as those who deal with infinite values,
and confer benefits as freely and nobly as na-
ture." With Milton, Hale has " a boundless
scorn for those drossy spirits that need the
lure and whistle of earthly preferment, like
those animals that fetch and carry for a mor-
sel." He urges his publishers to issue cheap
editions of his books, and speaks slightingly
of gilt edges and costly covers, — saying of
the publisher Phillips that the world was not
worthy of him, because he put conscience
before interest in his business. All of Mr.
Hale's writings show him to be a keen ob-
server of the minute details of the daily life
of men and women, boys and girls, and espe-
cially of the more intelligent artisans and
workers of any sort. He is a believer in
athletic morality ; is practical — talks about
what we shall have for dinner, how to sleep,
a good appetite, exercise, economy, and happy
homes ; is humorous — kindling a slow com-
bustion of good hearty gladness in you which
finally breaks forth into laughter.
He is a preacher ; but the preacher has not
spoiled the author, because the author has
been, in the main, but a preacher still : all
his activities have revolved about the pulpit
as their sun, and they have all been performed
" in His name." In his Utopia, " Sybaris," he
gives you the key to his own style of preach-
ing. u The sermon," he says, " was short,
unpretending, but alive and devout. It was
a sonnet all on one theme ; that theme pressed,
and pressed, and pressed again ; and, of a
sudden, the preacher was done." His ser-
mons are brief, terse, conversational ; they
are like the speech of a general to a trained
army before the battle; for he is an or-
ganizer of activities in others, believes that
" a church has its duties quite beyond and
outside a minister's ; and its history should
not be the biography of the pastor merely, j
but the record of its own work, prayer, and j
life."
His people have caught the glow of his \
humanitarian enthusiasm. The echo of the:
guns of Sumter had hardly died away before
the vestries of the South Congregational |
Church were crowded with ladies, met to pro-
vide flannel and other clothing for the thret
regiments that had been ordered by Governo
Andrew to set out for Washington withii j
twenty-four hours. From that day to the da; J
when the decimated veteran regiments placec
their tattered war-banners in the State House
and were served with coffee by the same la j
dies as they passed the church in their parade
EDWARD EVERETT HALE.
339
the South Congregational Church was un-
tiring in its patriotic work of helping on the
cause. When the war broke out they had on
their walls the unfinished inscription, " Glory
to God in the Highest " ; and on the day
when Richmond fell they called their painter
and bade him add what they had no heart
to add before : " Peace on Earth, Good Will
toward Men." From this church went out
the first teachers of the freedmen at Port
Royal ; the editor of the first newspaper pub-
lished in a rebel prison was from the South
Congregational Society, as were also the
young physicians who first appeared in charge
of a hospital steamer after the battle of Shiloh;
and " the flannel shirts on the company who
fell martyrs at Shiloh in the gray of the morn-
ing, and saved that day for the nation," were
from Mr. Hale's society.
Born in Boston in 1822, Mr. Hale has
passed the greater part of his life under that
"blessed meridian of seventy-one degrees"
which runs through Boston Harbor. In his
early boyhood the place was little more than
a large country town full of greenery and open
spaces. Washington street, on "the Neck,"
was then a quiet country road, along which
; stood thirty or forty substantial homesteads,
as well as long rows of sheds where farmers
I baited their horses, while " thousands of coo-
. ing pigeons feasted upon the lavish corn
; left in the roadway for their gleaning."
1 At the celebration of the silver birthday
of Warren Street Chapel, Mr. Hale said :
" I have sailed my bark boat on the salt
\ waters where I now can sit in the parlors
I of my parishioners. I have studied botany
J on the marshes where I now sit in my own
study to prepare the notes which I read to
you. I rode in triumph on the locomotive
which hissed over the first five miles that were
ready of that highway to the West, where
now she might run five thousand." Indeed,
Mr. Hale was in a sense twinned with the
locomotive in Massachusetts, for his father,
the Honorable Nathan Hale, by his inde-
fatigable efforts in the advocacy of rail-
roads, was instrumental in the construction
of the first road for steam locomotives in the
State, namely, what is now the " Boston and
Albany Railroad." Nathan Hale founded the
"Boston Advertiser," and helped establish the
" North American Review " and the " Chris-
tian Examiner"; and through his efforts more
than those of any one else the pure Cochitu-
ate water was introduced into Boston, thereby
making habitable the regions of the Back Bay,
the Neck, and the South Cove. Nathan Hale
bore the same name as his uncle, the famous
martyr-spy, of Coventry, Connecticut, whose
last recorded words were, " I only regret that
I have but one life to lose for my country."
The Honorable John P. Hale was another
kinsman. Sir Matthew Hale was perhaps of the
same blood, and also Sir James Hale, one of
the judges of Lady Jane Grey, who certainly
drowned himself in a fit of insanity, and
is alluded to by the First Clown in " Ham-
let" (" Give me leave. Here lies the water,"
etc.) The wife of Nathan Hale of Boston was
Sarah Preston Everett, a sister of Edward
Everett, from whom her son was named. She
was an accomplished scholar, and from her
pen came many translations from German au-
thors, which were published in her husband's
paper, the " Advertiser," and elsewhere.
Edward Everett Hale thumbed his Greek
Reader and learned his paradigms under
Masters Dillaway and Gardner, at the famous
old School Street Latin School, with its pea-
green settees and lilac-colored walls. He en-
tered Harvard College in 1835, and when
graduated in 1839 was chosen as the class
poet. The president in Mr. Hale's day was
Josiah Quincy, as we learn from his novel
" Ups and Downs," wherein may also be
found other glimpses of his college life. He
has retained a lively interest in his Alma
Mater ; his sons have graduated at Harvard ;
he has served on her Board of Overseers, been
president of the Phi Beta Kappa, and has de-
livered numerous lectures before the students.
Many things pointed to journalism as a suit-
able career for a son of Nathan Hale. As a
boy, in his father's office he learned to set type,
and he has served the " Advertiser" in every
capacity, from reporter up to editor-in-chief.
Before he was eleven years old he translated
for the paper a French article on " Excavations
in Nineveh," and before he was of age he
wrote a great part of the " Monthly Chron-
icle " and the " Miscellany." For six years he
was the South American editor of the " Ad-
vertiser," having been led to the study of
Spanish and Spanish-American history at a
time when he supposed he was to be the reader
and amanuensis of Prescott the historian.
From this accidental beginning- grew that
familiarity with Spanish history which has
made Mr. Hale one of the first authorities on
Spanish-American subjects.
His manuscripts at this time were always
neat and finished, and to this he attributes
much of their acceptability ; the handwriting
of his hurried later days is said to be pretty
tough material for the puzzled printers and
proof-readers. The motives which led him
away from journalism into the ministry were
two : first, he believed the office of the preacher
to be the noblest on earth, and, second, he
was impatient of the drudgery of the profes-
sional journalist. He shrewdly and wisely fore-
34Q
EDWARD EVERETT HALE.
saw that as an influential author and minister
he could command the columns of a larger
number of journals for the dissemination of
any particular view than if he were himself a
journalist. It is, moreover, his opinion that
no author should depend upon his pen alone
for bread. But, notwithstanding all, Mr. Hale
has involuntarily been a journalist at large.
His score and more of volumes of stories al-
most all appeared originally in periodicals;
and he has written more editorial articles than
would suffice to fill all his published books.
Hundreds of these have, of course, been
contributed to the " Boston Advertiser," and
even now he is occasionally requested to
write an editorial for that journal. In 1857
he was living in the same house with Mr.
Phillips (of Phillips, Sampson & Co.), the
founder of the " Atlantic Monthly," and Mr.
Phillips used to say that if it had not been
for his interest he would not have undertaken
the magazine. But the most serious piece of
journalistic work to which he has thus far put
his hand was the editorship of " Old and
New," a magazine founded in 1869 by him-
self, in cooperation with the American Unita-
rian Association, for the purpose of giving
wider currency to liberal Christian ideas
through the medium of a first-class literary
journal. It proved a literary, if not a financial,
success, as its eleven volumes of solid reading-
matter prove. But discouraging circumstances
made advisable the merging of the journal
with "Scribner's Magazine," which was accord-
ingly done. The title of " Old and New "
may have been suggested to its editor by that
of an early sketch of his, " The Old and the
New Face to Face," published in " Sartain's
Magazine," and describing an imaginary meet-
ing between the apostle Paul and Nero. The
critical department of " Old and New " was
especially fine. Mr. Hale has said that it was
his custom always to place a work for review
in the hands of a friendly critic, who was also
an expert on the subject of the volume, and
might be supposed to know more about it than
its writer, or at least as much.
While pastor of the Church of the Unity in
Worcester, from 1846 to 1856, Mr. Hale pub-
lished " Scenes from Christian History," a
Sabbath-school book ; " Margaret Percival in
America," a religious novel ; and " Kansas
and Nebraska," a guide for free-soil emigrants.
" The Gospel of Freedom extended by the
Organization of Emigration : An Essay on
the Scriptural and Political Remedy for the
North in the Present Crisis on Slavery," is
the title of a paper by Mr. Hale, which, in
1855, took a hundred-dollar prize offered by
the Rev. Thomas Boardman, of Fall River.
Emigration is Mr. Hale's hobby; the reader
will find some broad fun on the subject
in the story of" The Happy Island."
In 1856 Mr. Hale was called to be the pastor
of the South Congregational Church in Bos-
ton, and its pastor he has been ever since.
His residence in the heart of Roxbury is one
of those huge white mansions with enormous,
pillars in front, that one sees so often in the
South. Great liana-like vines weave a screen
between the columns, and within are an ample
hall and rooms filled with books. The study
is crammed with book-shelves and cases of
drawers, and looks as you might imagine
would look the thinking-shop of one who is
spoken of as the hardest-working man in
Boston.
Mr. Hale's books may be grouped, for con-
venience, under three heads : Extravaganza
Stories, or Tales of the Improbable; Moral
Stories ; and Miscellaneous Works.
There can be no question that his forte lies
in the telling of a story, although he himself
does not regard himself as par excellence a
novelist, or raconteur, but as a historian.
Yet the statistics of the libraries show that it
is as a romancer and fabulist that he has be-
come popular. It is probable that a thousand
people have read u The Man without a
Country," " In His Name," and " Ten Times
One is Ten," for a hundred who even know
of the existence of Mr. Hale's original and
valuable historical papers. His stories of im-
agination or extravagance are full of the
most delightful escapades and tours de force.
Give him the least bit of a pou sto, and, by
sheer force of genius and fancy, he will project
you into the air a full-blown romance, which
shall keep touch with the base earth of reality
by said pivotal pou sto, and nothing else.
How he revels in the wild play of his fancy
in these tales! He reminds you of Jules
Verne rather than of Poe, and does not merely
climb, but soars away into the ether ; he con-
structs a Brick Moon, and by the aid of vast
water-power machinery projects it into space
with its inhabitants as easily as a prestidigi-
tateur tosses a ball into the air ; and when he
has got it revolving there in the meridian of
Greenwich, as a celestial beacon for all lost
mariners, what does he do but set his brick-
moon inhabitants to leaping two hundred feet
or so into the air, in long and short jumps, by
way of a Morse system of telegraphic signals
to their friends on the earth !
Poe journeys off leisurely to the moon in a
balloon, but Hale makes his own moon, and
gets astride of that for a ride ; the mountain
in this case comes to Mahomet. There is
more deceptive verisimilitude in the adventure
of Hans Pfaal, but that of " Colonel Ingham"
is more thrilling. I have said that Hale re-
EDWARD EVERETT HALE.
34i
minds you of Jules Verne ; but it is to be noted
that when the American began to write in this
vein the Frenchman had produced only one or
two books, which were untranslated and
scarcely heard of outside of France. What a
mad, wild story is that of Hale about " The
Lost Palace " ! What verisimilitude ! Do not
the minute technical details of the plan almost
make us believe in the possibility of the daring
leap of the train of cars across a chasm, with
the loss of only one " palace " from the rear ?
The story that first brought Mr. Hale into
notice was the capital piece of fun, " My
Double, and How he Undid me," published
in one of the early numbers of the " Atlantic."
It was a great hit. Everybody was laughing
and quoting the four formula-phrases of
Dennis. This piece of wit, as well as many
of its author's later stories, grew out of his
own pastoral experience. When the bores
became unendurable, he quietly pinned them
into the pasteboard box of a story, and poured
a little satirical chloroform upon them. When
he puts into the mouth of his " double," or
factotum, the phrase, " I'm very glad you
liked it," he is thereby expressing his weari-
ness of sermon-complimenters ; and in the
fable of " His Level Best" he points the moral
for those unfortunate public servants who
perish in the Quixotic attempt to meet all the
demands of society upon their time and at-
tention. There is a bit of history connected
with " My Double," which has not been pub-
lished before, I think. The story happened to
be written in a number of blue-covered writ-
ing-books. For the engraved copies he sub-
stituted others, in alphabetical order, such as
"Boards are Made of Wood," " Great Ganders
Grow from Little Geese," etc. It was Mr.
Hale's idea to sprinkle these jokes through the
story, or rather print them just as they happened
to come in the manuscript, and throw out
the idea that, as the piece purported to ema-
nate from a " double "-ruined clergyman in
the backwoods of Maine, he had been too
poor to purchase suitable writing-paper. But
Mr. Lowell then thought the plan scarcely
feasible; so, unfortunately, the twenty-six jokes
were omitted.
" The Man without a Country " was pub-
lished in the third year of the Civil War ( 1 863),
at the time when Vallandigham had turned
rebel and been sent across the border. It
was intended that the story should appear in
the " Atlantic " in time to influence the au-
tumn elections, but for some reason it could
not be brought out in season. To have its
proper and intended effect, it was of course
necessary that it should be thought to be the
bona fide production of the naval officer as-
sumed to be the narrator. Every precaution
was therefore taken to preserve Mr. Hale's
incognito. All went well ; the magazine ap-
peared, and publisher and author were doubt-
less congratulating themselves upon their
success in keeping the secret — when, lo and
behold! in the index appears the name of
Edward Everett Hale attached to the article.
The index-maker at the Cambridge University
Press had let the cat out of the bag.
The bit of fiction gave its author a national
reputation. It is the best sermon on patriot-
ism ever written. It was intended to create,
and did create, a national sentiment. It has
done much, and will do more, to foster the
idea of national unity, of a united country as
opposed to state autonomy or separate sec-
tional interests.
Colonel Ingham's geographical stories,
such as " Around the World in a Hack " and
" Journey to the North Pole," are extremely
fantastic jeux d'esprit. Under the glaring
light of his imagination the steppes and oceans
of the globe gleam out in vast Vorstelhing, and
their enormous distances are traversed with
the nonchalance and ease with which men
ordinarily take a day's jaunt into the country.
If Mr. Joshua Cradock, of Beacon street,
takes a little drive around the world in a hack,
and founds a mimic Boston on the shores of
the Baikal Sea in Siberia, why, 'tis a small
thing; or if the " Colonel " steps over to the
North Pole to have a little confidential inter-
view with his antipodal double, who has also
made the journey from China for the same
purpose, 'tis nothing, 'tis nothing. Have we
not ail our double on the other side of the
globe ? and when one of us sleeps, does not
the other wake ? And if Wendell Phillips
immortalizes Toussaint, the black Napoleon,
it is no wonder ; for did they not both live on
the same meridian, and therefore feel drawn
to each other by hidden and mysterious ties?
It has been said that the moral of many of
Mr. Hale's stories sticks out too conspicuously.
But the moral, if present, is not obtrusive ; if
detected, it does not seem annoying in its
pleasant relation to the rest of the story.
Genius glorifies all her work, and the border-
line between the beautiful and the moral is
hard to find ; what we lose in the one sphere,
we gain in the other. Of Mr. Hale's power
to write a story which shall so secretly and
subtly kindle the heart to good deeds that
we shall not be aware whence or why the
stimulus comes, it seems to me that " Crusoe
in New York " is a fine specimen. We follow
the secret building of the little cottage and
the making of the city garden — both as com-
pletely isolated as if on an uninhabited island
— with such a thrill of interest that it is only
upon subsequent reflection that we discover
342
EDWARD EVERETT HALE.
how the self-sacrificing devotion of the son
to his beloved mother has impressed an ethical
lesson on our minds. Of Colonel Ingham's
" Contes Moraux," two of the airiest and most
whimsical are "Bane and Antidote" (pub-
lished in "Variegated Leaves") and "The
Skeleton in the Closet," both of which might
be called "Sequences and Consequences
of Little Things." An editor slips on the ice,
and a train of consequences follows which
ends in loss to the commerce of the world;
an old hoop-skirt thrown into the street
maims a man, and one thrown into the river
entangles a gun-boat, both of which occur-
rences are full of the direst consequences.
Those who think they should be perfectly
happy if they could live where it is perpetual
spring learn by Mr. Hale's " Ideals " to be
content where they are. " The Rag-man and
the Rag-woman " become well-to-do by sell-
ing paper and rags during war time, and thus
learning the lesson of economy in little things.
Mr. John Sapp is an office-seeking booby,
who, after a life of failure to get anything, at
last secures a United States commission as
lieutenant-governor of an Aleutian island.
He has at length the thing he long has sought,
a place with nothing to do ; but it turns out
that the " civil servant" is governor of nothing
but seals, and in his Crusoe solitariness lpses
his wits, to the terror of the crew who next
year land to leave his provisions and stores.
Great is the power of a song or a cry as a
spur to the spirit ; the proverbs of a people
are sermons in a nutshell; a good mot, or
saw, is the guide-post, or better the pocket-
compass, of the mind, serving you always in
the nick of time. The author of " Ten Times
One is Ten" has formulated in that work four
famous practical mottoes which have the ring
of battle-orders :
" Look up and not down ;
Look out and not in ;
Look forward and not back ;
Lend a hand."
The four mottoes stand for the Faith, Hope,
and Love of the Gospels, and were first enun-
ciated by their author in 1869, in a course of
lectures given at the Lowell Institute in Bos-
ton. They form the motto of the Harry
Wadsworth Club of the " Ten Times One "
story. The purpose of that story was to show
" the possible extension of personal influence
where people live faithfully, unselfishly, and
hopefully." Suppose one individual attempt
to influence ten others to good action, then
those ten might each influence ten others, or
a hundred, and that hundred ten more each,
and so on in a geometrical series — 10x1 = 10;
10x10=100; 10x100=1000, and so on, un-
til soon the entire world might be reformed
and ennobled. The idea got hold of the im-
agination of Christian workers, and there are
now over five hundred Harry Wadsworth
Clubs in existence, the first of them being that
formed in New York by Miss Ella Russell, and
called " The Harry Wadsworth Helpers." In
1874 Miss Mary A. Lathbury, who had seen
the four mottoes on the frieze of a friend's parlor
in Orange, founded the " Look Up Legion,"
which has a membership of about four thou-
sand boys and girls belonging to Methodist
Sunday-schools. The idea has proved the
fertilizing pollen to other "Lend a Hand"
clubs, and various flower and fruit missions.
The most important of Mr. Hale's miscel-
laneous works are his two historical novels,
" In His Name " and " Philip Nolan's
Friends." The former — "A Story of the
Waldenses Seven Hundred Years Ago " — is
a tale strong and rich in its coloring, truthful
in historical atmosphere, and glowing with
the enthusiasm of Christianity and ethical
passion. The artless Nicolette-like Felicie,
the idolized daughter of the master- weaver,
is given by her foolish mother, on St. Vic-
toria's night, a drink of hemlock-leaved
cenanthe — a deadly poison — the mother
thinking it to be the potion of lavender and
rosemary which once a year she administers to
her pretty darling. Around this simple inci-
dent of the poisoning, and the romantic
mountain ride in search of a physician, the
author has grouped a series of vivid delinea-
tions of the character and spirit of the Wal-
denses, whose secret symbol in those troublous
times was (according to the story) the sign
of the Maltese cross »fi, and their passwords
were the phrases, " In His Name " and " For
the Love of Christ." It is a production to be
classed with " Hypatia," "Zenobia," "The
Prince of the House of David," " The Schon-
berg Cotta Family," and Freeman Clarke's
" The Legend of Thomas Didymus."
The book is full of good racy English idiom;
and so is its author's speech, written or spoken.
Here is a portion of the address of the master-
weaver :
" And as those slow hours went by, I prayed to my
God, and I promised him, that whether my darling
lived or died, — whether she lived with me here or
with his angels there, — for me, I would live from that
day forward for all my brothers and all my sisters,
for you, and for you, and for you ; yes, for all his
children, if I could help them. But, dear friends, I
could not begin to do this without asking him to for-
give me, and you to forgive me, that so often I have
said I would care for myself if the others for them-
selves would care. I could not begin to live for the
rest without asking the rest to pardon me that I had
lived for myself before. And so, at little Felicie's j
feast, I ask her, as I ask you, as I ask the good God, |
to show me how to take care for others, and to show
others how to take care of me."
EDWARD EVERETT HALE.
343
For other specimens of the excellent dic-
tion of Mr. Hale, one may open his books al-
most at random. Here is a paragraph from
" My Visit to Sybaris " :
" We cracked on all day, made Spartimento blue in
the distance, made it purple, made it brown, made
it green, . . . and by the time the light-house at
Sybaris was well ablaze, we were abreast of it, and
might begin to haul more northward."
" Philip Nolan's Friends," as a piece of
historical fiction, is a fresh and genuine prod-
uct of American life, as " Waverley " or " Guy
Mannering " is of Scotch life. Like Mr. Ca-
ble's " Grandissimes," the scene is laid (partly)
in New Orleans in the first year of the pres-
ent century — the time just preceding the
transfer of Louisiana, now the " Great West,"
to the United States by Napoleon. It is well
to remember that the hero, Philip Nolan, a
brave and gallant Kentuckian, was the proto-
martyr to Mexican treachery, and instru-
mental, through the fear his name and deeds
excited in Spanish breasts, in causing the trans-
fer of the vast possessions of the Spaniards to
France, and so indirectly to the United States.
Nolan was murdered by the Spaniards, and
fell like Custer fighting among his men. It is
interesting to contrast this work of Mr. Hale
with that of Mr. Cable, alluded to a moment
ago, — the one full of the dazzle and glow and
fierce dreamy passion of the South; the other
cast in the cool, temperate, and objective style
of the North.
Of other books of Mr. Hale — " What
Career," " How To Do It," " Seven Spanish
Cities," " Ninety Days' Worth of Europe,"
" Our Christmas in a Palace," his " Plum
Series," " Stories of War," " Stories of the
Sea " — only mention can be made.
It remains to say a word of the subject, of
this sketch as historian and antiquary. As a
member of the American Antiquarian Society,
he has been led to prepare papers on early
American maps; in Mr. Justin Winsor's " His-
tory of Boston," he has written on the siege
of that city, and on King Philip's war ; he
has elsewhere discussed " Coronado's Discov-
ery of the Seven Cities " and the " Cosmog-
ony of Dante and Columbus " ; and he led
the crusade against the Boston vandals for
the rescue of that holy of holies in the city
of freedom, the Old South Church, and, on
the occasion of the opening of the permanent
exhibition in the building, wrote a spirited
ballad :
" To hide the time-stains on our wall,
Let every tattered banner fall !
The Bourbon lilies, green and old,
That flaunted once, in burnished gold;
The oriflamme of France, that fell
That day when sunburned Pepper ell
His shotted salvos fired so well,
The Fleur de Lys trailed sulky down,
And Louis-burg was George's town."
Of his various writings on the French and
Spanish in America, Mr. Hale considers the
best to be the four chapters contributed by
him to Bryant and Gay's " Popular History
of the United States." Probably there is no
one else in America who has to such an ex-
tent made Spanish-American subjects the
specialty of his literary delvings. In the anti-
quarian field proper, Mr. Hale has made
at least one noteworthy discovery: he has
grounds for thinking that the air of " Yankee
Doodle " was first composed for an old scrap
of a song current in Cromwell's time ; and
he has found out how California came to be
so named.
It was in reading an old romance called
the "Deeds of Esplandian" — a sequel to
" Amadis de Gaul," and published twenty-
five years before the discovery of Lower Cali-
fornia by the soldiers of Cortes (1535) — that
he lighted on the secret. The " Deeds of Es-
plandian" was one of the yellow-backed novels
of its day, and so was undoubtedly as well
known to the Spanish discoverers as " Pick-
wick" is to our naval officers and soldiers. It
describes the rescue of Constantinople by
Amadis and other knights. In the midst of the
narrative is introduced an account of a certain
island situated "on the right hand of the In-
dies," and called California. From this island
came a body of gigantic black Amazons to the
rescue of the hard-pressed knights at the siege.
The romance states that in their island were
men-fed griffins and other marvels, and that
there was no metal there but gold. Now, when
Cortes and his men landed upon the great
peninsula of the Pacific, they thought it to
be an island, and although they got not a
particle of the gold for which they were thirst-
ing, yet they saw no reason why they should
not name the land California, or the Island of
Gold ; for it was the custom to give such
fanciful and hopeful names as El Dorado to
new lands which might perhaps be found to
contain the precious ore, although at first
none was found. This is Mr. Hale's expla-
nation, and it has been accepted by the best
antiquarian scholars as a trustworthy one.
Wm. Sloane Kemiedy.
THE KNIGHT OF THE BLACK FOREST.*
BY GRACE DENIO LITCHFIELD,
Author of " Only an Incident," " One Chapter," etc.
CHAPTER VII.
Surely no place was ever more admirably
fitted for lovers and love-making than Rip-
polds Au. In whichever direction one goes,
east, west, north, or south, every walk is ro-
mantically beautiful, beginning to be so from
the very start. There are no long stretches
of sand, or dusty highways, or monoton-
ous levels to be traversed first, wearying one
before one has fairly begun to walk. Roads
there are, in truth, for those who do not care
to climb; but firm, smooth roads, winding
through the wonderful valleys of the Black
Forest, each with its own wayside companion
in a prattling, dancing stream, which coquets
with it in the most barefaced manner — now
following the road meekly along, so modestly,
so straightly, one thinks it has no will but
only to be led ; now frolicking on before, and
forcing the road to follow all its merry twists
and turns ; now running away out of sight,
weary both of guidance and of guiding ; and
now suddenly reappearing with a little de-
lighted laugh, to follow on as before, or diving
all at once under the road to begin on the
other side with the very same antics, that yet
seem never twice alike, go as far and as long
as one will. And, oh, the views on either
hand ! There are no snow-capped mountains,
awing the beholder with the whiteness of
their splendor ; no far-off vistas of restless, il-
limitable seas; no maddening precipices and
great gulfs of sunless, stony darkness. All is
peaceful and glad and perfect. If there be
rocks, the mosses have crept over them and
made them into velvet mounds fit for kings to
sit upon. If there be gorges, somehow the
sun struggles through, and the tall pines fill
them up tier on tier, and a brook runs bab-
bling and fearless at the bottom, calling out that
it is not afraid, for it has sunlight sometimes,
though no starlight ever ; and there are flowers
and ferns and waving grasses there too, and
birds to sing to it, and many a living thing to
keep it company. The hills stand out in gently
undulating lines, dense and dark against the
horizon, one mass of deep but exquisitely
shaded greens, up into which curve brighter
emerald slopes of close, soft grass, kept fresh
with the eternal overflow of countless moun-
tain streams ; while below are paler tints of
newly mown fields, to which groups of pic-
turesquely costumed peasants, spreading out
the hay to dry, or, later, tossing it into fragrant
heaps, add yet gayer coloring. And over all
the sunlight glides in turn, lending a surpass-
ing glory to the spot it touches, which seems
but to give by contrast a further grace to the
mysteriousness and depth of the impenetrable
shadows beyond. And from every point start
charming little mountain walks, luring one to
follow by the gentleness of their ascent, and
beguiling one farther and farther on, higher
and higher up, until one is in the very heart
of the woods, wandering on paths soft with
moss or odorous with the spicy needles of the
pines ; paths only wide enough for two, and
leading from one solitude to another, with
views out into the valley at every turn, tempt-
ing one on and on till one finds one's self be-
trayed at last into a wild scramble up some
daring footpath which makes direct for the
regions of the fairies, and leaves one there
alone with the invisible gnomes and elves.
Hark ! Is that a laugh, — a little low, silvery,
mocking laugh ? Turn quickly. No, it is only
a stream leaping out behind a stone and slip-
ping away to lose itself hopelessly in a laby-
rinth of holly and ferns and heather. And
there on the left, what is that soft murmur?
Only another little gurgling brook talking
fancifully to itself as it runs, and laughing
aloud at the witchery of its dreams. Ah, if
but our ears were finer, perhaps we should
hear them too. If but our sight were keener,
who knows into what mysteries we might not
penetrate ! The bluebells hang trembling on
their slender stems. They have only just done
ringing for the fairies, and the fairies are com-
ing surely. They will be here in a moment,
any moment, only not just this moment while
we wait. They are hiding everywhere : there
in the firs, whose branches hang so heavily,
like robes of sorrow about a mourner; here
in this bed of ferns, that nod and tremble
with graceful glee at the secret they are keep-
ing; or, closer yet, in the very air itself,
* Copyright, 18S4, by Grace Denio Litchfield. All rights reserved.
THE KNIGHT OF THE BLACK FOREST.
345
that is fresh and pure, and full of hints of un-
finished sounds, whose utterance would be
sweeter than all sweetest music. O beautiful
Rippolds Au ! O beautiful, beautiful, myste-
rious world of the Black Forest !
But nothing of all this saw Miss Betty,
though strolling slowly along one of the love-
liest of all the mountain rambles. She was
dressed very bewitchingly this afternoon
(either her dresses or herself seemed to grow
prettier every day), and she was glancing up
at the Count out of the shadow of her big
hat, in a certain little way she had of her own,
that seemed somehow utterly unlike the way of
anybody else ; for when did one coquette ever
appear to use exactly the wiles and stratagems
and deadly weapons of another, even though
everybody knows that there is but one arsenal
common to them all ? Aunt Sarah was some-
what tired that afternoon, and the Count,
though fully aware that he was offending
against native decorum in going out alone
writh two young girls, had agreed immediately
to Betty's proposal that he should escort them
on their promenade, and won Aunt Sarah's
consent and golden opinion together by pre-
senting her with a little bunch of wild flowers,
with an air that seemed to transform it into
a gift of royal value.
"They are only Americans," he thought.
" It doesn't matter what I do. One can't com-
promise American girls."
So they were walking out alone, Betty and
the Count in advance, and Lois a little be-
hind, her soul filled to overflowing with a
keen sense of all the beauty that the other
two were missing.
" Why are you so silent ?" asked Von Lin-
denfels presently, turning to address her in
that softened tone that Betty noticed he
always employed in speaking to Lois.
" Only because it is so very beautiful," she
answered, with a smile that seemed almost
like tears. " It makes me still."
He gave her a quick sympathetic glance
(he had the power of throwing a world of
comprehension into a single look).
" You are right. You know always the best.
But we," — and he turned a laughing look
on Betty that seemed to give a peculiar sig-
nificance to the plural pronoun, — "we are
foolish, are we not, mademoiselle ? "
" No," answered Betty, giving him back
glance for glance. " I like better to talk —
with you."
" Mademoiselle is too good," said the
Count, lifting up a branch that threatened to
displace her saucy hat, and at the same time
dexterously catching back another into which
Lois was dreamily walking.
' Then I will stop being too good, and not
say another word. Or if it is best to be still,
you may prefer my silence."
" No, that would be bad ; so bad it would
spoil all the goodness before," laughed he.
" My ears sleep only when they hear not
your voice." Then he turned again to Lois.
" Mademoiselle, it seems we cannot learn
from you to be still, therefore you must from
us learn to speak. Or are your thoughts too
holy, too angel-like, to tell them us ? "
" I was not thinking at all," answered Lois,
still smiling at him. " I was only feeling, and
seeing, and listening. Go on talking with
Betty."
" We shall wait and rest first," said the
Count, " or you will tire. We shall make a
place here." And he spread out his light over-
coat as a seat for the girls, and threw himself
down a little farther off, where he could look
up into both their faces at once.
" Now talk," said Lois.
" What will you have me to talk ? " The
look included both ; the voice, only Lois.
" Sing," she said softly.
She was not looking at him, but sat half
turned aside, and with her hands folded in
her lap. Betty leaned back on her elbow,
pulling her hat up and down over her eyes
and never once looking away from him as he
sang ; sang song after song without waiting
their bidding ; little German songs out of the
Volkslieder, so simple and easy that even with
their imperfect knowledge of the language
they could hardly help catching at the mean-
ing. And still as he sang, his look rested on
both, and his song seemed only for Lois.
" What does it mean, that last one ? " Betty
asked abruptly. " Oh, I understand the words
well enough ; but the meaning ? It's all about
a little rose and a boy. And the boy vows
he will pick the little rose, and the rose says
he sha'n't, and she will prick him, and she
wont stand it; and the boy does pick the
little rose, and she does prick him, yet all her
resistance goes for nothing, and she has to
bear it. What perfect nonsense to make a
song out of!"
" Is it nonsense ?" said Lois quickly. " I
thought it meant " and she stopped short,
and blushed brightly as she met Von Linden-
fels's eyes.
" No; it is not nonsense. It is truth — all
truth," he said; and a light came into his eyes
as he spoke. And then he sprang to his feet
and gave Betty his hand to help her rise.
"It has become late while I have sung my
nonsense. We must go back now. And so
you do not understand my song, mademoi-
selle ? my Roslein, Roslein ? Ach, I shall teach
you the meaning some day. You shall know
it too."
>46
THE KNIGHT OF THE BLACK FOREST
Was it fancy, or did he really press her
hand ? Betty snatched it away (" Whence
came this unwonted accession of prudish-
ness ? " she asked herself), and he looked at
her reproachfully.
" Have I tired you with my singing ? Did
I think so little ? I was wrong."
It was almost the voice which he kept for
Lois, and Betty instantly gave him one of her
irresistible smiles, those which she reserved
for rarest occasions, and during the rest of the
walk he kept by her side, talking. But not as
he had talked before. Had Lois's mood fallen
upon him too ? He told Betty legend after
legend of the Black Forest, and strange, weird
tales that chimed in wondrously with their
surroundings; and all the time, while Betty
laughed and jested and made light of it all,
and even when he laughed and jested back,
not a single beauty of the path they were fol-
lowing, or a single detail of the views beyond,
seemed to escape him. He scarcely addressed
Lois, and yet never before had she felt so
fully understood and sympathized with, so
completely in communication with another's
mind, as she did that afternoon. Even Betty
grew quiet at last, and, dropping a little
behind, began plucking off one by one the
petals of a great daisy that had nodded to
her familiarly from the side of the path, as if
promising to tell her truly all about it this
time.
" Unpen , — beaucoup, — passionnement, — pas
du tout" counted Betty. She had not named the
daisy. She would see what it said first. " Un
peu" said the last daisy-leaf, and Betty flung
it away with a scowl, tossing the poor maimed
flower after it.
" Count von Lindenfels," she called im-
peratively, " get me a daisy, please. I can't
find any nice ones."
Lois stopped. The Count looked round,
spied daisies near, and came back with his
hands full. Betty drew one out and began
again.
" Unpen, — beaucoup, — passio?inement, — pas
du tout. Un pen, — beaucoup "
" What for ? " interrupted the Count, much
mystified.
Betty explained with a roguish laugh:
" I name it for my love, and count to see
how much he loves me; for whatever the last
petal comes out is gospel truth for the state
of his affections." Von Lindenfels was deeply
interested at once, and Betty counted on.
" Un pen" said the last daisy-leaf again,
and again Betty scowled.
" Only un pen ? " said the Count. "Ach,
these daisies are all afraid to speak the whole
truth. They tell it not half. They are very
discreet flowers indeed. To you now the turn,
mademoiselle." And he held out his hand
toward Lois.
Why should she blush as she took a daisy
from him ? It was very silly of her, Betty
thought, as she furtively watched the two
from under her long lashes. How interested
he looked. So had he when she had tried her
fate. He was drawing nearer Lois. But he
had come nearer yet to her ; her dress had
almost brushed against him. There. The last
petal. " Beaucoup." What would he say to
that ? Would he say — what he had said to
her ?
The Count said nothing at all. He merely
looked at Lois. It was Lois who spoke, and
she was oddly flushed.
" 'Beaucoup' wont do for me," she said.
"It must be ' passion?ieme7it' or 'pas du
tout: "
And still the Count only looked at her
without speaking, and Betty felt that his
silence said more than the words he had said
to her.
It made a pretty little group as they stood
so, filling up all the way ; and some one com-
ing up the path toward them with a quick,
springing step, stopped short at sight of them,
and made another picture just beyond, framed
in between the trees and the mossy bank, with
the sunlight falling full upon him. It was a
young man of twenty-eight, a short, well-
made figure, with a sunburned, homely, thor-
oughly good face, and a pair of keen gray
eyes.
Lois looked up first, and, seeing him stand-
ing there, gave a little cry, it was hard to tell
whether of pleasure or the reverse, and did
not move. But Betty, seeing him too, sprang
forward with a bound and held out both
hands.
" Why, it's Ned Prentiss ! " she cried, in
unmistakable delight. " Ned Prentiss ! Oh,
Mr. Prentiss, I'm so glad you've come ! "
CHAPTER VIII.
" * Roslein, Roslein, Roslein roth,
Roslein auf der Haiden,' "
sang Betty softly, as she threw off her hat
and rearranged her curls. " Hurry, Lois ;
tea's nearly ready, and you know Mr. Pren-
tiss is to be here :
' Sah ein Knab' ein Roslein stehn,
Roslein auf der Haiden.' "
" I don't see why Aunt Sarah invited him,
Betty."
" Why, of course, she asked him to come
back when dispatching him off so cavalierly
THE KNIGHT OF THE BLACK FOREST.
347
to hunt us up. It would have been very
queer if she hadn't ; especially when he has
come so far to see you."
" He needn't have come. Nobody asked
him to."
" And you wish he hadn't ? There's grati-
tude for you ! "
" Ye-es — no — yes," said Lois.
" And there's choice of answers. I'll choose
' no.' You don't wish he hadn't come. Of
course you don't. He's very nice."
" I had forgotten he was quite so plain,"
said Lois, musingly. " How short he looks
beside the Count."
" ' Roslein, Roslein, Roslein roth,' "
sang Betty, with a laugh.
" What makes you keep singing that all the
time ? " asked Lois, dropping her brush and
turning round abruptly. " I thought you said
you didn't like it and it was nonsense."
" I am trying to sing it Jnto sense, and I
do like it."
" But the sense of it is so easy," said Lois.
" Don't you see ? Some one is in love with
some one."
" Lucid thus far, astonishingly."
" Well, Roslein is a beautiful young girl,
theri, if you prefer."
" I do, of course :
'War so jung und morgenschon.'
Is that you or me ? The description just fits
me — or you."
" O Betty, don't ! Listen. Some one comes
wooing the beautiful Roslein, and she will
have none of him."
" Of which ? The Count or Ned ? "
" I wont go on, Betty. You are too bad."
" Oh, but you must go on. I am so curious
to know how it ends according to you. I re-
member,
' Roslein sprach, ich steche dich,
Dass du ewig denkst an micb.'
I suppose that means she'll jilt him, but is
going to flirt with him so much at first that
he'll swear at her till his dying day. I wonder
you could listen so approvingly to such an
immoral song, Lois."
" I think," Lois continued, " she means
that her loveliness will break his heart if he
comes too near and dares seek to win her; for
he will never be able to forget her, and yet
she will have none of him."
" You said that before. Don't try to be
poetical. You are only tautological."
" But he vvoos her still in his wild, mad,
passionate daring — that is the way / would
like to be wooed, Betty! — he will have her;
and before she knows it he has taken her
resisting heart by storm, has won her to him-
self. All her brave defense, her resolve to keep
him at bay and repel him, are of no avail ;
her powers are powerless before his; love
overmasters her against her will, and in the
end what more can she do than only just that,
submit, ' Musst es eben leiden ' ? "
" In plain English," said Betty, " he says,
' Will you ? ' She says, ' I wont.' He says,
'You must.' She says, 'Plague take it, I do.'
Nothing like short meter for taking the hifa-
lutin out of stuff. I think I'll get Ruprecht's
version of it, He said he would teach me the
meaning some day."
Lois was silent, but a little look as of pain
shot over her face.
"I think he would like to teach it to me,"
Betty continued, swinging a little daintily
slippered foot back and forth. " I am sure he
would. He can teach it to me in German,
and I will teach it to him in English, and
we'll both have a good lesson out of it, if noth-
ing else. There is Ned. I hear him talking
to Aunt Sarah Of course, you aren't ready.
I'll go in. Put on your blue dress, Lois. You
look nicest in that."
Tea was on the table before Lois came
into the parlor, and after all she was not in
the pretty pale blue cachemire, that suited so
well with her exquisite complexion and soft
fair hair. What had possessed her to put on
her very most unbecoming dress instead ?
Betty wondered. There were no unbecoming
dresses in Betty's wardrobe.
But blue dress or brown dress was all the
same to Ned Prentiss. He looked at her
with a great pleasure in his honest eyes, and
then got up and went and sat down by her.
" I'm so glad to see you, Miss Lois, you
don't know," he said. " I've been telling your
aunt how fast I traveled to get here; just
stopped in London to settle up my business
(duty first, you know, even before ladies), and
once on the continent, I thought I wouldn't
waste time on the road."
" Waste time ! " echoed Lois. " Oh, but
there's so much to see on the way here, such
old historical places, and such grand, such
wonderful things ! How could you help stop-
ping ? "
" I wanted to see you," said the young
man simply. " Europe hasn't much else in it
that I care for."
" Oh, but Brussels, Cologne, Frankfort,
Heidelberg, — you don't mean you didn't
even stop there, when this is your first trip
abroad and you can go just where you like!"
" I did go just where I liked ; exactly that.
I came here," said Prentiss, breaking into the
34§
THE KNIGHT OF THE BLACK FOREST.
good-humored laugh that, bon gre mal gre\ al-
ways made every one else laugh too. " I
don't see what more a fellow can do with his
holiday than make the most of it. And I
never was much for foreign travel. Let a
man take what's thrown in his way, say I ;
and for the rest, let him keep where he was
born and where he's got to live."
" Oh, but, Mr. Prentiss," expostulated Lois,
"how should we ever improve ourselves if we
all just staid at home and never traveled
anywhere, never saw anything? "
" Have you been improving yourself? "
he asked with a smile ; a very frank, sweet
smile it was too. " You don't look much less
pale for it than you did, I am thinking."
" It's her dress," put in Betty. " She has
put on the very ugliest one she's got as a
welcome to you. She knows she always looks
badly in that pongee."
Lois flushed almost guiltily.
" She's not pale now, anyway," said Pren-
tiss, looking at her with quite unconcealed
fondness. " And she looks as well to me in
one gown as another. But it's you who are
improved by your trip, Miss Betty. You
look quite rosy. And your aunt looks won-
derfully well too."
Aunt Sarah beamed on him with mild
pleasure, and sugared his tea twice over at
once.
" It's all in our dresses," explained Betty
amiably. " It's always the dressing, not the
face. Auntie and I are tricked out in our
best. Oh, not for you, Mr. Prentiss ; we know
well enough you don't notice us. No, I con-
fess it frankly, /am dressed up for the Count."
''• And have you made out this one to be
a real count?" asked Prentiss, smiling again.
It was well he chanced to have fine teeth, he
smiled so much. "I've always understood
counts and barons were thick over here, but
that more than half of them weren't the real
thing."
" Oh, but this one is ! " cried Betty. "Isn't
lie, Aunt Sarah ? Isn't he, Lois ? "
" Pie's a remarkable young man, certainly,"
said Aunt Sarah. " And he's in the Almanach
of Goethe."
" Gotha, aunt," corrected Lois.
" Gotha, is it, dear ? Oh, yes. Goethe was
the poet, I remember, and this one made the
Almanach, and Count von Lindenfels is in it.
Everybody is real who is in the Almanach,
Kreuzner says."
" But he's not in the Almanach, Aunt Sarah,"
corrected Lois again. " He isn't a reigning
prince, you know. He's in the German Peer-
age. That's where Kreuzner found it all. But
he's real, anyway."
" Well, he looks stylish enough to be real,"
said Prentiss good-naturedly. " He would
take all the shine out of these titled samples
that come over to the States. But you had
better take care, Miss Betty. In spite of his
title, he's probably poorer than a country par-
son, and lives in some rickety old farm-house
somewhere, that you couldn't squeeze a Sara-
toga trunk into."
" No, he does not," said Lois quickly, lift-
ing her head a little. " He lives in a castle, oh,
a beautiful castle, somewhere not far from the
Rhine. He has told us all about it, and about
his family ; he's the eldest, and there are four
sons besides and a daughter, and three of
his brothers are in the army, and his sister has
just been married."
' " He seems to have told you a good deal,"
said Prentiss quietly, but with a keen look to-
ward Lois, whose cheeks had a little bright
pink spot in them. " What is he here for now ?
Certainly not for the waters ? "
" Well," laughed Betty, " to be frank, Mr.
Prentiss, he is here for Lois and myself. It
goes against me to put Lois in too, but I'm
afraid I must divide the honors. He came
about ten days ago, you see, expecting to
meet some friends here and go with them to
Switzerland. And then he got a telegram say-
ing they would be detained for two or three
weeks, — that was the one we saw him read-
ing the first day, you know, Lois, — and he
thought he would go to Baden-Baden, or
Wiesbaden, or some jolly place, to wait till
they came; but, in the mean time, he got to
know us, and so just waited on here. I hope
his interfering old friends wont come at all."
" He certainly couldn't have a lovelier place
to wait in than Rippolds Au," said Lois, ris-
ing as her aunt left the table, and leading the
way out upon the balcony. " Don't you think
so, Mr. Prentiss ? "
" I don't know," he answered, sitting down
and leaning his arms on the balustrade.
" Rippolds Au is a pretty small place for a
rather large young man, isn't it ? That is, for
any length of time."
" Oh, but it's so beautiful ! " said Lois,
leaning against the wall beside him, straight
and slim and graceful. " I don't think I was
ever in a lovelier spot than this. Didn't you
think the drive up from Wolfach exquisite ? "
" Well, yes, it was pretty," he admitted
lazily, looking up at her with perfect content,
while she, looking back at him, suddenly re-
membered that the Count would never have
taken a seat while she was still standing, and
was struck, as if all at once, with the ungain-
liness of his attitude.
" Let's go inside," she said. " Aunt Sarah
and Betty are in there."
" Waiting for the Count, I suppose," said
THE KNIGHT OF THE BLACK FOREST.
349
Prentiss, running his fingers through his thick
black hair, cropped close, but curling still, in
utter defiance of the scissors. " No, don't
let's go in. I came to see you, not them, and
it's so nice out here. Sit down, wont you ? "
And leaning forward without rising, he drew
up another chair. " You'll be more comfort-
able."
" No, thanks, I would rather stand."
" You wont be cold, will you ? " he asked.
" Oh, here's a shawl or something. Put that
on." And he caught up a dainty wrap lying
conveniently at hand, and threw it awkwardly
around her, the wrong side up. Lois slightly
frowned as she altered it.
" I'm very clumsy, I know," he said apolo-
getically, detecting the frown. " Lois, is the
Count here for you or Betty ? "
The brusque question and absence of pre-
fix to her name startled her exceedingly.
With all his bluntness, he had never addressed
her so before. She looked at him without
answering, and colored violently. He saw
his blunder and reddened too.
" I beg your pardon, Miss Lois. I ought
not to have spoken so. And it's like enough
you don't know yourself. Let's forget him
and have a good talk by ourselves, like old
times. Wont you sit down here, please ?
You look so far off standing there."
But she was not any nearer him when she
did at last reluctantly take the chair beside
him. They were much farther apart now,
those two, than when the ocean lay between
them.
" Tell me about yourself," he asked, with a
faint sigh she never noticed. " I have missed
you dreadfully ; while you, you have been per-
fectly happy, have you not, over here among
all the grand sights you wanted to see so
much ? You are not disappointed in any of it,
then ? "
" Oh, no. Oh, no, indeed," she answered
fervently. " How could I be ? How could
any one be ? It has been unclouded happi-
ness to me from beginning to end. I cannot
bear to think I must ever go back."
" I'm not properly educated up to it, that
must be it," he said. " It's all beyond me. I
would rather have a good hard day's work at
the office, and come home tired out to dinner,
feeling I had really accomplished something,
than tear about seeing all the cathedrals and
gimcracks in the world."
" Cathedrals and gimcracks ! Oh, Mr. Pren-
tiss ! " cried Lois.
" There it is again," he said. " I can't even
talk properly about it."
" No," she said petulantly, "you can't."
There was a moment's silence. The Count
had come into the parlor. Lois heard his low,
cultured voice and Betty's sweet laugh. But
Prentiss did not offer to move, and, it was
true, he had come far to see her, and she
ought to stay and talk if he wished. But was
he never going to speak again ? She made an
effort to collect her wandering thoughts, and
turned to him with a faint smile.
" Tell me about home, please."
He was watching her, but very gravely.
" I was waiting for that," he answered.
" I was sure you could not have altered so —
as wholly to forget home. It is home to you
still, Miss Lois, isn't it, even though you like
Europe so much ? "
" Why, of course," she replied impatiently.
" I haven't any other home. It must be my
home. How could I help it if I would ? "
" If that is all that makes it home to you,
then it isn't really home any longer," said
Prentiss, with a pained tone in his pleasant
voice. " You are altered, Miss Lois, more
than I thought at first."
" You mean you think I have — not im-
proved ? "
" Yes, I do," he said steadily, looking full
at her with very kind eyes still, but eyes from
which all the glad light seemed suddenly to
have gone out. A wicked little rebellion took
possession of Lois. His words hurt her, but
she would not show it. What did his opinion
matter to her now ?
" You are not very complimentary," she
said, with a little don't-care shrug.
" That is one of my peculiarities. I never
learned to say anything I did not strictly
mean. I cannot speak anything but the
downright truth as I see it, not even to please
you, Miss Lois ; not even though I knew that
by not doing so," — he broke off abruptly
and changed the sentence, — "not even though
my life depended on it. And you believe in
it too," he added presently, as she did not
speak.
<{ I do love truth," she answered ; and then
she put out her hand to him almost unwil-
lingly, as if to atone for the words that fol-
lowed, spoken lower, yet very distinctly.
" But I do not like roughness and bluntness
at all. I never did, and still less now."
He did not take her hand. Could it be he
did not see it ? She drew it back, piqued.
" Let us go in," she said, rising at last, as
he still said nothing; and, for all her seeming
indifference, there was a sore spot at her
heart. " They will think it strange if we stay
out here longer alone."
Prentiss followed her into the parlor, still
without a word. Aunt Sarah was industriously
knitting away on a long silk stocking, of such
generous proportions that her nieces were
careful always to explain that it was not for
35°
THE KNIGHT OF THE BLACK FOREST
them. Von Lindenfels and Betty were bend-
ing together over a book, which she closed
reluctantly as the two came in from the balcony.
" What did you come back for ? " she said,
with a very real pout. " I was taking a Ger-
man lesson."
" I have been having a lesson too," said
Lois, " from Mr. Prentiss. But I think I
would rather learn German."
" From me ? " asked the Count softly, as
she came near to lay her wrap on the table.
" From me, nicht waJir ? "
CHAPTER IX.
Lois was very quiet when they turned to
retrace their steps, going back, however, by
the woods instead of the road, and Betty
twitted her not a little on her silence.
" I believe she is thinking up another
poem," she said at last. " Do you know,
Count, Lois writes poetry."
" Hush, Betty, hush ! " cried Lois, appeal-
ing] y.
" Oh, but she does," laughed Betty, bent
on mischief. " She makes up lines that rhyme
and that have feet without legs to them, like
centipedes ; so, of course, she's a poet. And,
Count, don't you want to hear ? Mr. Prentiss,
of course you do. Here's a poem she wrote
last night about that daisy she told her fate
by."
Lois gave a faint cry and sprang toward
her.
" Betty ! Betty ! I thought I must have
torn it up. I couldn't find it this morning.
Give it to me! please! Oh, Betty, do, do give
it to me ! "
How could Betty withstand her ? Prentiss
wondered. He would have given her the very
soul out of his body had she asked him for it
in that pleading tone and with such beseech-
ing eyes.
. " Don't tease her, Miss Betty," he said
bluntly. " We don't want to hear anything
she doesn't want us to. It isn't fair to her."
"Ach, mademoiselle, you have written a
poem about yesterday, about the flower, can
it be ? " asked the Count eagerly. " You will
give us, give me, the great pleasure to hear it ?
You will not deny me when I do pray it ?
Mademoiselle, you will be so angel good ? "
Lois hesitated and flushed deeply, looking
up into his imploring eyes, her own full of
conflicting emotions. The Count won.
" Read it, then. I don't care," she said at
last, and threw herself on the moss a little
way off from them all, with her face turned
away. Betty stood still where she was, pull-
ing off and tossing aside her gloves (was it
because her hands were so pretty that she
found that necessary?) and unfolding a small
sheet of paper. She was conscious that she
read well, and that the Count, whose eyes
were riveted on her, and lost no movement
of her round, pliant figure, as she stood before
him in all her young prettiness, was taking in
vastly more than just the sense of the lines.
Prentiss found a comfortable seat for Aunt
Sarah on the bank and stood near, looking
fixedly at Lois, but not losing a word that
Betty read.
" You know," began Betty in explanation,
"we tried our fates yesterday afternoon —
just when you came up, Mr. Prentiss. My
daisy wasn't good for much, but it seems Lois
had satisfactory luck, for this is what she
wrote about it. She doesn't say who it was
named for, — you know one always names it
for one's lover, — but of course we are free to
guess. Now, listen."
And in her sweet, soft voice, standing
with her pretty head bent at its sauciest
angle, her face framed like a picture in her
flaring hat, and flushing a very little beneath
the Count's steady gaze, as every now and
then she shot him a stealthy glance, which
seemed to say it was she, not Lois, who spoke
in those lines, Betty read :
" DAISY-FATE.
" Daisy, little daisy, growing 'mid the grasses,
Fairest of thy band, as a May-queen 'mid her lassies,
Dost thou feel the sweet south wind ? dost thou hear
it as it passes ?
" Listen closely, daisy, zephyrs speak so low,
And they bring thee tidings of something I must
know :
Some sweet secret thou must tell me, ere I let thee
g°-
" Canst thou whisper nothing, so demure thou art,
With thy spotless garments and thy shining heart,
And that little humble look, as of a saint apart ?
" Wilt thou tell me nothing of thine own accord ?
Dost thou guard thy knowledge as misers guard their
hoard ?
Unresponsive still and dumb, wilt not own me for
thy lord?
" Give me up thy secret ! Thou hast ears so fine,
Thou canst hear his heart-beats, for thou hast counted
mine,
And thou knowest if he love me, though he gives no
sign.
u Tell me quickly, daisy, — I am pitiless, —
These thy pure white robes may prove a martyr's
dress ;
For I'll tear thy secret from thee, be it No or Yes !
" Silent still ? O daisy, foolish little flower,
Take thy last look upward. Thou art in my power,
And shalt never meet again the sunshine or the
shower.
THE KNIGHT OF THE BLACK FOREST
351
" Since thou wilt not speak, and since I cannot wait,
Daisy, thou must die that I may learn my fate.
What is one white daisy less ? He loves? — or does
he hate ?
" Leaf by leaf, remorseless, — oh, cruel woman art,
Reaching to the truth through the crushing of a
heart !
Loves ! He loves ! — But in my joy the daisy hath
what part ? "
Lois did not move when Betty's voice
ceased. She sat with her head drooping still
lower and a smile stealing to her lips. Had
the daisy really known when it said "Beait-
coup " yesterday ? The Count's eyes had said
' iPassionneme?i I. ' '
Von Lindenfels, who had been leaning
against a tree with folded arms, came forward
and took the paper from Betty's hands.
" All that you read must sound like music,"
he said softly as he did so, the action bringing
him so near her he could speak without being
overheard. " For your voice makes to me
songs out of all words. And I want no other
poetry but your face."
His voice was so low, so musical, so irre-
sistible as he spoke ! Surely he must mean
what he said ? Betty's heart gave a great,
unexpected flutter.
" Nonsense ; we are both flirting," she said
to herself. " We don't either of us mean any-
thing at all." She stooped and picked a daisy
that grew near. " You shall have this to re-
member the daisy song by," she said aloud.
" I will put it in your buttonhole myself."
And then, some strange impulse tempting
her, she raised it to her lips, turning a vivid
scarlet as she did so. It was very rare for
Betty to blush, and the rich color, suddenly
mantling her creamy cheeks, made her posi-
tively beautiful for the moment ; but she felt
that she was blushing, felt it like a hot tingle
through all her veins, with an odd wonder at
herself, and it confused her.
" I could not help kissing it," she mur-
mured, looking up at the Count with a diffi-
dence as foreign to her usual self as the blush.
" 1 love flowers. I could not let even a daisy
go without a good-bye."
She was fastening the flower in his coat
now, with fingers that absolutely trembled a
little. What had come over her, when she
was only flirting as she had done since baby-
hood, and when neither of them meant any-
thing at all ?
"Ack, yes," said the Count. " Is it not
so ? " And then he sang softly, softly, under
his breath :
" ' Liebchen, ade. Scheiden thut Weh.
Weil ich denn scheiden muss,
So gieb mir einen Kuss !
Liebchen, ade. Scheiden thut Weh ! ' "
Of course the words only referred to the
flower she had kissed good-bye. She under-
stood that perfectly. But the Count stood
with his back to the others ; they could not
see ; and he had laid his hand lightly, as he
sang, upon the slender lingers, that, perhaps
because he was so tall, and it was hard to
reach, were so unwontedly slow and awkward
at their simple task; and at his touch she
drew back with a frightened start, half feigned,
half real.
" JKoslein" he said, still very softly, "you
fear me not ? Ach, no ? "
" I do," she murmured, moving still farther
away, and looking up at him with a sort of
trouble growing in her dark eyes. " I do.
It's very odd and — and uncomfortable, but
— yes — I do."
And then she broke off with a laugh (she
must remember she was only flirting) and
ran to Lois.
" Lois, the Count has stolen your poem ;
he likes it so much. You must get it back if
you want it. I can't. I can't do anything
with him. He wont do anything for me."
Von Lindenfels, following, had time to give
her one all-comprehensive glance, reproach-
ful, tender, rebuking, adoring, — everything, in
fact, that a single unaided glance can be, — be-
fore he turned to Lois.
" You will give it me, will you not, made-
moiselle ? " he asked earnestly, holding her
poem pressed against his heart. " Is it too
much to hope ? "
" You do not want it," said Lois, timidly.
" What can it be to you ? Give it back to me,
please ! "
He put it in his pocket with a triumphant
smile. "It is much to me. I shall have it for
my Vergissmeinnicht. Only one thing it has
not to make it perfect. One thing it said not.
Of whom thought you when you wrote it ? "
And his anxious look seemed to say his
whole soul hung upon her answer.
" Only the daisy knows," Lois replied, a
little proudly.
" But I may guess ? " asked Von Linden-
fels, in a low tone. " You will not forbid me
to guess ? "
" Yes, I do," said Lois, quickly. " I forbid it.
You have no right to my secrets. Besides,
there is nothing to guess."
" Nothing ? " sighed the Count. " Noth-
ing ? You will not tell me always that there
is nothing, will you ? "
Lois sprang up and began walking on, al-
most as if to escape him. But he kept by her
side.
" Ach, you think to run from me, but my
thoughts they follow you. They let you not
away. I speak not if it trouble you. I keep
352
THE KNIGHT OF THE BLACK FOREST.
silent if you desire ; but my heart, that you
cannot bid be still. That speaks on."
" Don't ! Don't ! " prayed Lois. " You
must not speak so."
" Why not ? " he asked. " Would you know
not the truth ? "
" Is it the truth ? " questioned Lois in
return.
They were a little in advance of the oth-
ers, whom a bend of the road hid from sight.
She stood still in her earnestness, lifting great,
serious eyes to his — pure, true eyes, before
which it seemed as if all falsehood must
shrink.
" Does any speak ever to you what is not
truth ? " he said, and bent forward to take
her hand. She drew it back very quietly and
put it behind her, afraid of she knew not
what, disturbed and perplexed, and unable to
read his face.
" At least we will never have anything but
truth between us, will we ? " she replied.
" Not now or ever."
Her heart was beating quickly, though
her face was so calm and white, and she
stood waiting for what he might say next,
when the others appeared around the bend
in the road. The Count made a gesture of
despair.
" They come. I may say nothing. But,
mademoiselle, believe, my heart it speaks
forever."
u Are you waiting for us ? " inquired Pren-
tiss, as the three came up. " Now, that is nice
of you."
" No," answered Lois. " We only stopped
to talk."
Yet his honest, true face seemed a sort of
rest to her just then when she felt so strangely
puzzled and troubled, and she found herself
nearest him as they all walked on together.
" I haven't had a chance to speak to you
about those verses of yours," he said, kicking
a dead branch out of Aunt Sarah's way.
" Did you like them ? " asked Lois, indiffer-
ently.
"Well, as to that, I never was great on
poetry, you know. Prose is more in my line.
They seemed to jingle all right, but I suppose
it takes more than that to make a poem.
What I wanted to say was, that I liked that
idea in it that it was rough to get at what one
wanted by putting another to pain. That's
the right thing, Miss Lois. Keep to it. Noth-
ing is worth while having that hurts another
in the getting — even if it's the heart that is
all the world to us," he added, more to him-
self than to her.
Lois smiled. " I believe you do think so,
Mr. Prentiss. I believe you would let every-
thing go, even your own happiness, if you
thought it stood in any one's way, however
remotely."
" Yes, of course I would, because no hap-
piness could atone for causing others unhap-
piness. And I am glad you think so too. It
isn't often that we seem to agree of late, Miss
Lois."
" We are so different," she said. " Did you
ever see two people as different, Aunt Sarah ? "
" But you are different from everybody,"
answered Aunt Sarah, with a fond smile
across Prentiss at her darling. " There is no
one just like you, so fond of books and po-
etry, and so full of pretty dreams and fancies."
" Isn't there danger of being so overfull of
dreams and poetry as to be unfitted for real
things, and for mixing with prosy, ordinary
people ? " asked Prentiss gently.
" I can't help it," said Lois quickly. " I
never shall like ordinary people. I never
shall want to mix with them. I like culture
and refinement. I like soft voices and gentle
ways and cultivated minds. I like people
that have read and traveled and thought, and
that are fond of the beautiful, and have poet-
ical and sympathetic hearts. I should like
poets and artists and musicians, if I knew
any ; but I don't, and so in their place I like
people that are poetical and artistic and mu-
sical— when I meet them. I can't help it."
" But you are right in liking all that," an-
swered Prentiss. " You are that yourself, and
it is natural you should like your likeness.
Only don't be led away to believe all are like
you at heart who merely seem so. No amount
of outward polish will stand the test if there
is nothing solid underneath. To put culture
in the place of principles, and refinement in
the place of truth, would be a sad mistake,
Miss Lois. Look at the real man, and don't
pin your faith too closely to appearances."
11 You are thinking of Count von Linden-
fels, I suppose," said Lois, diving headlong
at the truth with a woman's illogical intuition.
" Yes, I am. I am thinking of him, and of
all these polished princes whom you may meet
over here, beside whom you will look upon
plain home-folk as peasants, may be; and I am
dreading lest your fancy should lead you as
far astray in judging of downright human char-
acter, and weighing its respective merits and
demerits, as my lack of fancy would lead me
astray in judging of the true worth in art or
literature. And, depend upon it, Miss Lois,
your mistake would be the worse of the two
to make. God keep you from it."
Her heart misgave her as he spoke. His
tone was so grave, so solemn even, she felt
as if he were drawing away a veil from a mis-
take already made, rather than warning her
from one to come.
BETTY READING THE POEM.
Vol. XXIX.— 34.
354
THE MAKING OF A MUSEUM.
" Why do you frighten me so ? " she said,
petulantly. " Why do you try to take all the
beauty out of the beautiful, and say there is
nothing real but ugliness ? Why should not
the most beautiful be the best and the truest
too ? "
" It should be, surely," he responded, " if
there were perfection anywhere on earth. But
I don't believe there is, Miss Lois. And it is
because I would rather lose every vestige of
your friendship than see so much as a shadow
of sorrow come to you that perhaps my words
might avert, that I risk offending you by warn-
ing you against a false beauty which exists as
surely as the real, and which your young, in-
experienced eyes might so easily mistake. I
dare say I put it very blunt and plain. I am
sorry. I never wish so much for all that I
lack as when I am talking with you, Miss
Lois."
" I don't quite see what you two are talk-
ing about," said Aunt Sarah, while Lois didnot
speak, keeping her eyes resolutely fixed on the
ground, unwilling to meet his. " But of one
thing I am very certain, Mr. Prentiss. Our
Count is a real one. His name is in the Peer-
age, and Kreuzner says there is no doubt
about it. He will warrant him."
Lois laughed — a soft laugh, that neverthe-
less jarred on Prentiss strangely.
" Yes, he is real enough," she said. " I do
not know that he even needs Kreuzner's
stamp to testify to his genuineness. There
is no mistake whatever about the Count."
(To be concluded.)
THE MAKING OF A MUSEUM.
In no single respect, perhaps, has the prog-
ress of the American capital been more
striking than in the history of the National
Museum. Originating in a quantity of "curi-
osities " which had been given to the United
States by foreign powers, or sent home by
consuls and naval officers, old visitors to
Washington remember it as a heterogeneous
cabinet in the Patent Office. It included such
diverse objects as the femur of a Missouri
mastodon, Washington's knee-breeches, and
the oriental spoils of the Wilkes expedi-
tion around the world. In 1846 a step was
taken toward something coherent and credit-
able, by an act of Congress establishing a Na-
tional Museum, following the precedent of a
dozen or more other nations ; but this inten-
tion took effect very slowly, though various
exploring expeditions and embassies largely
increased the bulk of the collections. When
the inventive faculty of this Yankee race had
crowded the Patent Office with models, the
"cabinet of curiosities" was trundled over
to the Smithsonian Institution.
This was not at all to the liking of Professor
Joseph Henry, then the Smithsonian secretary.
His idea of the aim and usefulness of the Insti-
tution was, in the words of its motto, the " dif-
fusion of knowledge " ; but his interpretation
restricted this to mean printed information.
To him the Institution was wholly studio and
laboratory, not at all cabinet. Since in scien-
tific studies apparatus, books, and specimens
are needful for proper experiment and com-
parison, he consented to the collection of
these whenever a definite reason was pre-
sented, but discouraged miscellaneous contri-
butions. He even caused the extremely use-
ful set of books belonging to the Smithsonian
to be turned over to the Congressional Li-
brary, and it is only since his death that the
National Museum has been able to begin the
collection of a working library for its curators,
independent of the distant and inconvenient
biblical catacombs on Capitol Hill. As for
specimens, Professor Henry considered them
of no value to the Institution or to the gov-
ernment, and would have cheerfully given
them away when the monograph they had
served to work out was finished.
Fortunately for zoologists, at least, he had
associated with him as assistant Spencer F.
Baird, who took quite the opposite view of
the value of the specimens of natural history
which came to hand, and so far as his author-
ity went not only carefully preserved every-
thing he could get, but acquired as much
more as possible. Thus the Museum grew in
spite of the indifference of its chief, and the
store-rooms became clogged with packages
acquired from western explorers, — Dr. F. V.
Hayden, Lieutenant Wheeler, Major Powell,
and others, — and from private donors.
The name National Museum, however, was
rarely heard. Everything was addressed to
the Smithsonian, and in popular parlance the
collectors and naturalists were all " Smith-
sonian men." They went westward and north-
ward and southward, and came back with
car-loads of Indian relics and modern imple-
ments of savagery, skins, shells, insects, min-
erals, fossils, skeletons, alcoholic preparations,
herbaria, and note-books, — the last crammed
with novel information. It was natural, there-
THE MAKING OF A MUSEUM.
355
SPENCER F. BAIRD. (FROM A PHOTOGRAPH BY T. W. SM1LLIE, SMITHSONIAN INSTITUTION.)
fore, that the Smithsonian regents should be
made custodians of the national collections,
and that the appropriations annually made
by Congress for the support of the Museum
should be administered by them. The Smith-
sonian itself, however, is supported by an
endowment, much of which redounds to the
advancement of the Museum.
When, upon the death of Professor Henry,
in 1877, the secretaryship of the Smithsonian
and the direction of the National Museum
passed to Professor Baird, he applied himself
with great energy to pushing the fortunes of
the latter. A few years later the general super-
vision was given to Dr. G. Brown Goode, a
gentleman whose specialty was fishes, but who
had shown in his college cabinet at Middle-
town, and as one of the assistants in the
United States Fish Commission, a special
aptitude for executive work in this direction.
In the Centennial Exhibition came the
opportunity of its directors ; and from the
" government exhibit," which everybody ad-
mired at Philadelphia, dates the real starting-
point, except in zoology. The creditable show-
ing made there, and the clever persuasion on
the part of its officers, secured to our collections
the gift of nearly all the government exhibits
of other countries, and gave us an enormous
mass of novel and most precious objects,
representing resources and humanity " from
China to Peru." The work of the United
States Fish Commission (greatly stimulated
at this time) also produced large accessions,
356
THE MAKING OF A MUSEUM.
G. BROWN GOODE. (FROM A PHOTOGRAPH BY CLINEDINST.)
until the previously uneven zoological collec-
tion became balanced.
" There have been three periods in the
history of the Museum," said Dr. Goode to
me. " At first it was a cabinet of the results
of research. When, in 1857, the Smithsonian
assumed its custody, it became also a museum
of records. Since 1876 the idea of public
education has been predominant."
" But in the third," I observed, " the two
earlier notions cannot be abandoned ! "
" Not at all. The three ideas are mutually
helpful and essential to the philosophic de-
velopment of any broadly organized museum.
Materials are gathered that they may serve
as a basis for scientific thought. Objects that
have fulfilled this purpose or have acquired
historical significance are treasured up against
destruction as permanent records of the prog-
ress of the world in thought, in culture, and in
industrial achievement, and constitute most
valuable materials for future study. But if no
other objects than research and record are
sought, a museum might well be stored away
accessible only to special students. A higher
purpose calls for the administration of these
objects in such a manner that masses of people
instead of a few should be profited by their
existence. We have no place in this age for
the treasure-houses of the eastern kings, locked
to all eyes but those of the court. Now, one
of the results of the Philadelphia exhibition
was that it made plain to the people how in-
spiring and instructive a great industrial mu-
seum could be, under proper classifications and
with assistance in the way of fully explanatory
THE MAKING OF A MUSEUM.
357
labels. The naturalists have long understood level aids the pleasing arrangement of ob-
the value of comprehensive collections in jects (though here I am aware of an op-
zoology, but heretofore the wider application posite opinion) and relieves the visitor of
has not been well enforced. Several museums much weariness. Finally, room remains in the
have admirably carried out a single idea, like corners for offices, laboratories, and storage,
THE NATIONAL MUSEUM. (FRONT VIEW.)
that of surgery, or practical geology, or in-
dustrial art, or archaeology ; but it may safely
be said that all the museums of anthropology,
economy, and industrial art now in existence are
by design or chance limited in their scope."
Such, briefly, is the idea I gathered of this
Museum's high aim. Let us now see how it
is to be carried out. The immense influx of
specimens of our natural resources sent by
the wagon-load from territorial surveys, and
derived from the Centennial Exhibition,
speedily amounted to such bulk that no room
existed for its storage, much less display.
Congress therefore gave two hundred and
fifty thousand dollars (and subsequently more)
to erect a fire-proof building, which was
nearly enough completed in the spring of
1 88 1 to serve as the ball-room at the inaugu-
ration of President Garfield. This build-
ing stands with its north-western corner al-
most touching the old Smithsonian, but is
as different from that as a terrapin from
a woodcock. The Norman architecture in
brown stone of the older structure is strongly
contrasted in the low, tent-like expanse of
red, blue, and cream-colored bricks, white
stone, and glass of its new neighbor. The
spacious halls are floored with vari-colored
marble and slate, are divided only by lines
of arches and low partitions of glass cases,
and are open above to the iron-work of the
lofty roof. All is light, airy, and graceful.
The illumination is perfect ; likewise the ven-
tilation. The fact that everything is on one
of great extent in the aggregate, without
wasting space or disturbing the artistic effect
of the whole grouping.
The ground-plan is a Greek cross, having in
the center a rotunda. This " rotunda " is octag-
onal on the ground, but is surmounted by
a sixteen-sided polygon, which contains a
tier of stained windows, and constitutes a
domical structure with a slate roof and a lan-
tern crowned by a decorative finial ; it is one
hundred and eight feet from the gold-fish in
the fountain-basin to the apex of this dome.
The four main halls or " naves " about the
rotunda are each one hundred and one feet
in length and sixty-two feet wide. Occupy-
ing the exterior angles are four rooms sixty-
five feet square, called " courts," of the same
height as the naves; and outside of these
naves and courts are a series of eight exhibi-
tion-rooms under lean-to metal roofs, known
as " ranges," whose outer walls form the ex-
terior of the building, and are lighted by very
large, round-topped windows, which ultimately
will be filled with photographic transparen-
cies of American scenery, antiquities, and so
forth. By this treatment wall-spaces are ob-
tained for the introduction of clear-story win-
dows, which light the square courts and assist
in lighting the naves. The building is thus
filled up from the Greek cross into a complete
square, the exterior walls of which are three
hundred and seventy-five feet in length.
The symmetrical exterior is broken by orna-
mental and projecting entrances in each fa-
358
THE MAKING OF A MUSEUM.
gade, and at the corners, where "pavilions"
rise to a less height than the towers, yet suf-
ficient to counteract the otherwise bad effect
of the long, low, outside walls. These pavilions,
to the height of three or four stories, are util-
ized as offices and store-rooms, as also are the
towers of the four entrances, and exceedingly
pleasant offices they make.
All the masonry above ground is com-
posed of brick-work, ornamented and laid in
black mortar for the exterior facings. The
money given to Professor Baird for the build-
ing was sufficient only for the erection of what
virtually was a temporary edifice. The ob-
ject of the persons in charge of the construction
was to secure the safe housing of the specimens
and the greatest possible convenience; the best
architectural effect consistent with this aim
was secured, but nothing was sacrificed to it.
The result is by far the cheapest museum
building in the world, it having cost only
$1.50 per square foot of superficial space.
I have been full in my account of these
architectural matters because this building was
a novelty in museum buildings, and is proving
satisfactory as to interior arrangement.
Not only the plan of the building, but all
arrangements for the display of its contents,
proceed from the architectural " unit of meas-
urement" of four feet and four inches. Thus
the walls, except the very exterior of the build-
ing, do not rise solidly from the base, but are
simply a series of arches eight feet eight inches
wide and twenty-seven feet high, resting on
rectangular pillars of four feet four inches
base.
To make these lines of arches serve as par-
titions, the aid of exhibition cases is called in
after two methods. This question of glass
cases and the proper exhibition of specimens
has been a problem that curators have strug-
gled with for many years, and our Museum,
profiting by the experience of the world,
thinks it has solved it well enough, at least. Its
cases are all of iron and mahogany (ebonized
and painted woods having been rejected),
framed as slightly as safety will permit, and
finished by oil-rubbing, which will darken
with time into the finest hue of old wood ; the
style of ornamentation is a simply carved form
of English Gothic. They stand upon solid
bases, but are not fastened to the floor, walls,
or anything else, except in a few instances
where they are put together with bolts so as
readily to be taken apart. Down the side of
each main hall, at a little distance from the
wall, will run a line of special cases, undivided,
and of a depth according to the objects they
are to contain, some being deep enough to
give plenty of room for the largest mammals,
like the buffalo and elk. Behind them will
remain a well-concealed space, very useful for
the storage of duplicates.
The bases of these cases are solid, and
raise them several inches above the floor.
The ends and front are of plate-glass ; the
backs of painted wood, very solid ; and the
tops (nine feet high) carry adjustable plates
of thick " hammered " glass, admitting a soft
and unreflected light, and are set flush with
the top of the cornice, so that there is no ob-
struction to an easy removal of dust.
These are the largest cases, and above the
standard size, which is a case eight feet eight
inches in length, seven feet high, and three
feet three inches broad. Except the solid base
and frames, they are wholly of plate-glass, and
are easily movable with the help of one of
the queer little trucks contrived for the pur-
pose ; furthermore, their parts are all inter-
changeable with the panels, boxes, drawers,
etc., of other cases, since everything is reduced
to a standard size or its multiple. No finer
example of these largest cases could be found
than that which contains the boat-models;
and it is conceded that in this important par-
ticular of museum furniture Europe can show
nothing equal to ours.
The doors of all cases are made to shut
with dust-proof and insect-defying precision ;
and a modification of the Yale lock operates
bolts at top and bottom simultaneously with
the middle catch, while no unsightly pro-
jection mars the outside of the door, the
strong pass-key serving as a handle when in-
serted. Each permanent case, furthermore, is
connected with the superintendent's office by
an electric alarm. Every entrance and win-
dow in the whole great building is similarly
guarded, the wires running in trenches be-
neath the floor, and forming part of an elec-
tric system, which includes the Museum, the
Smithsonian, the Fish Hatchery, and various
other allied institutions, in an elaborate private
telephone and alarm circuit.
The serviceability of cases of the size and
character I describe is very great, and is in-
creased by the ingenuity of the designers.
One of them is set into each arch, converting
the line of pillars into a perforated wall of
the most pleasing character. Each case so
placed may be transparent, or may be di-
vided by a central partition, so as to contain
in the side toward one room objects of one
class, and in the opposite side those of quite
another. The same kind of cases are set out
into the middle of a room wherever it is de-
sirable ; or here and there are built into the
form of three sides of a hollow square against
an outer blank wall, the space inclosed serv-
ing as a closet for duplicates.
Besides this standard upright case there is
THE MAKING OF A MUSEUM.
359
a kind of table-case conforming to the unit
by being eight feet eight inches long and three
feet three inches high and wide. These are in-
tended to alternate upon the open floor, in any
room where needed, with upright cases or
screens ; but they may bear light superstruct-
ures of glass, or they may be covered with sunk-
en plate-glass, and so become exhibition cases.
That containing the large series of diplomas,
medals, and other awards received by the Fish
Commission at various international exhibitions
of fishery matters, is a good example of this.
Many cases are filled with low drawers for
the reception of articles of small size, like in-
sects, shells, or the eggs of birds, which it is
not well to expose to the light, or not worth
while to exhibit more publicly, yet which
should be easily accessible. These drawers
are not only exchangeable, but may be sus-
pended on edge behind the glass door of a
case, or attached to a screen.
This remark introduces a second class of
what, practically, are upright cases, but which,
being narrower, lighter in weight, and elevated
upon feet instead of resting on a solid base,
are denominated screens. Some of them have
no doors or glass fronts or tops, but simply
constitute frames patterned like the narrow
case. The end of this is movable, and admits
a series of sliding panel-boxes with glass cov-
ers, in each of which a series of specimens is
permanently arranged. One or more of these
panels can thus be taken out and rearranged,
or transferred to another case and replaced by
a new one, without disturbing the remainder
or touching the specimens themselves. More-
over, these panels are interchangeable with the
drawers in the table-cases, and, by modification,
with the swinging leaves on the wing-cases.
The picturesque " wing-cases," by the way,
must not be omitted. They are ebonized, tri-
angular pillars of the regular height, upon
which are hung with pivotal hinges a series of
swinging frames of glass, which can be turned
one by one in review, as you would turn the
leaves of a volume suspended vertically before
you. These stand against the pillars, and there-
fore between the cases along the side of every
room, and will contain etchings, photographs,
and drawings of objects otherwise represented
in the cases (for example, the painting of a plant
and flower whose seeds are included among the
raw drugs), and such articles, like samples of
leather and textile fabrics, as will admit of com-
pression between two panes of glass.
This contrivance, and the construction of
all the cases, have in view the exhibition of
every object in a clear light, against a good
background, and as near to the eye as pos-
sible. Shelving is avoided by various clever
devices ; but where indispensable, it is hidden
as well as possible behind the horizontal sash
which crosses the middle of the doors. A fine
general effect is made by the tall and short cases
in the spacious halls, and the rich mahogany
and glass partition-cases, alternating with the
light-colored stuccoed pillars of the arches,
combined with the many large objects set
uncovered upon pedestals, surmounting the
cases, or suspended from the ceiling.
It would be idle, in this stage of incomplete-
ness, to describe the arrangement of the collec-
tions, and I must content myself with a sketch
of the plan of classification, illustrated here
and there by what is to be seen by a visitor.
The Museum is built up on a philosophic
classification, intended to embrace the whole
universe, and minute enough to find a legiti-
mate place for every object. This classifica-
tion is made ideally, and without reference to
the material at present in possession of the
Museum. The arrangement of the Museum
on the floor will have little or no reference to
the classification ; that is to say : though
visitors will be told to " keep to the right "
for convenience' sake, and certain special
avenues are arranged, the collections will not
be shown serially. If a student cared to go
into a complete study, however, after the
Museum plan, he would pursue his observa-
tions according to the following methodical
scheme, in which all creation has been set in
an ideal but scientific order, the chief heads
being lettered thus :
A. MAN.
I. Somatology — all men, as a unit.
a. Anatomy.
b. Physiology.
c. Pathology.
II. Ethnography — men grouped in races.
a. Physical characters of races.
b. Linguistic characters of races.
c. Geographical distribution of races.
d. History of races and nations.
III. Representative Men — man individually.
Etc., etc.
Now, the first of these divisions (I.) is so well
represented at the Army Medical Museum in
respect to anatomy and pathology, that a
skeleton or two, and a few models of different
organs, will cover the subject so far as our
needs are concerned ; but in the way of physi-
ology, an extremely interesting exhibit is being
prepared by the ingenious Mr. Hendley to
show of what a man's frame is composed, —
big jars of water, lesser packages of phos-
phates of lime, little bottles of fibrine, caseine,
etc., cubes representing the bulk of nitrogen
and other gases in the human body, etc., etc.,
all in precise proportion ; together with sim-
ilarly exact quantities of the excretions. A
corollary of this is the display of what is
proper nutrition to supply the waste of a man
in different vocations and under various cli-
36°
THE MAKING OF A MUSEUM.
PREPARING AN EXHIBIT.
mates. Marvelous models in plaster of a loaf
of bread of a particular size and weight, of so
many ounces of meat, or of butter, milk, vege-
tables, and so on, instruct an American laborer
what study and experience have shown to be
a sufficient quantity and variety of daily food
for his best health, and what it now costs.
Similarly are displayed the rations of the army
and navy in this and various other countries.
This is practical dietetics based upon known
physiological requirements.
Under Ethnography, the physical characters
of races will be compared by manikins and
portraits. Casts of the whole body, from liv-
ing persons, have been made to portray the
figures of various races, especially those native
to America or acclimated here, like the negro
and Chinese. They are posed in lifelike at-
titudes, made with the greatest truthfulness.
Another series of specimens belonging here
is the great Catlin collection of Indian por-
traits and scenes in the home-life of the red
man. This consists of nearly six hundred
pictures in oil, each about two and a half feet
square, which are now hung for the most part
in the lecture-hall. They are the product of
the painter's first travels in the Far West, and
were made in the field and by the lodge-fire.
He took them with him to Europe about 1840,
where they were shown in the principal con-
tinental cities. Lacking funds, he mortgaged
the collection to Mr. Joseph Harrison of
Philadelphia, for about forty thousand dol-
lars. Catlin then returned to America and
made a second trip into the West. Mr.
Harrison, finding that the debt was not to
be paid, had the pictures shipped to Philadel-
phia and stored them in a warehouse, where
THE MAKING OF A MUSEUM.
361
it was supposed they soon perished by fire.
A short time ago they were discovered intact,
and by the widow of their owner were pre-
sented to the National Museum. This series
is said to be superior artistically to the second
set which Catlin made. However this may be,
its historical importance cannot be overrated.
highest point known to this continent previous
to the arrival of Europeans.
The "Representative Men" of various
nations, ancient and modern, will appear in a
gallery of busts and portraits, and by auto-
graphs and personal souvenirs. Nowhere can
be found so many relics of the Father of his
Wan 1 , 1, 1 1 tin < ,!.li JO 1
11 II
I
■■
Hill
PUTTING UP A CHINESE PAGODA.
To return to our schedule, the item Lin-
guistics will be represented by books and
manuscripts in every language, charts of
the growth of linguistic stocks, etc. ; for the
whole subject of philology comes in here.
The chorography of races can be made plain
by maps; their history by charts of polit-
ical growth, medals, coins, schemes of gene-
alogy, and especially by the great store of
archaeological relics which now, in the upper
story of the Smithsonian building, forms the
most orderly array in the whole Museum. So
far as this collection refers to North America,
it is without a peer; and a most important
accession has lately been made in the shape
of a large number of stone images from Cen-
tral America, the gifts of Squier, Keith, and
other explorers, and of casts of pillars, altars,
bas-reliefs, and large fragments of inscribed
walls and slabs, the originals of which were
discovered in Yucatan by M. Desire Charnay,
at the expense of Mr. Pierre Lorillard, of New
York. Here are plentiful and trustworthy
materials for studying that ancient Maya
civilization, which probably reached the very
Vol. XXIX.— 35.
Country. All of the old Patent Office cabinet
is here, and to it has recently been added the
table-ware and household effects of all sorts
purchased by Congress for fifty thousand dol-
lars from the heirs. Near these stands an
equally precious heir-loom — the identical press
upon which Franklin worked when he went
as a lad to London.
The next division, "B," considers the
Earth under the successive heads of Astron-
omy, Geology, Physiography (including
changes that have been wrought in the earth's
surface by man, and in its fauna and flora),
Descriptive Geography, and the History of Ex-
ploration. From this division the Museum will
not derive much show, save in geology, which
(with palaeontology) ought certainly to be
provided with a building to itself for adequate
representation relating to this continent alone.
The enormous collections in hand are chiefly
the product of the United States Geological
Survey, and a building is needed for its offices
and laboratories. The two desiderata might
suitably be met in a single edifice adjacent
to the present Museum. To illustrate the his-
362
THE MAKING OF A MUSEUM.
INDIAN CANOES.
tory of exploration, the Museum has many-
arctic relics, and believes it possesses armor
left by Coronado's expedition on the Repub-
lican river — evidence, if trustworthy, of a
farther advance eastward than that adven-
turer is generally supposed to have made.
The next class, " C," takes up the natural
forces of the earth — Force, Inorganic Mat-
ter, and Organic Matter, the last embracing
the two grand divisions of botany and zool-
ogy. For illustrating the first division of this
theme, there is present the large series of
apparatus of phenomenal physics left by Pro-
fessor Henry ; but the practical utilization of
these forces as illuminators, motors, etc., is
shown elsewhere. Under the head of Inor-
ganic Matter comes the whole subject of miner-
alogy, in which vast accumulations are at hand.
The sub-head Organic Matter includes by
itself the widest limit of many great museums,
and has embraced hitherto the most conspicu-
ous part of this one. As for the botanical half,
it is now over at the Agricultural Department,
where is stored one of the finest herbariums
in the country. How rich the Smithsonian
collections are in all branches of zoology is
well understood by naturalists, who have prof-
ited throughout the world by its wide dis-
persion of specimens of American animals.
There are gathered not only a very extended
list of the groups of animals constituting the
fauna of the globe, but an extraordinary
number of specimens to represent each group
belonging to the land and seas of North
America. This is why it is the favorite center
for special students who want before them as
many individuals of each kind as possible,
in order to acquaint themselves thoroughly
with the broadest range of variation in every
characteristic. The largest part, the most
important part, of the zoology of the Museum,
then, is in its store-rooms. What is to be
displayed will not call for a mass of dupli-
cates, but be typical in its character, and
therefore more readily comprehended by the
uninstructed than is ordinarily the case in
public museums.
The taxidermy has been revised, also, and
is now in the hands of a new order of men,
who make an art of it. What is meant by
this, readers of The Century will understand
when they recall the article on that subject
printed in the magazine for December, 1882.
The birds have always shown a well-
mounted collection, and they have now the
whole of the lower hall of the old Smithso-
nian building to themselves. It is a pity, how-
ever, that a more conspicuous and better place
could not have been found for this most showy
part of a zoological cabinet. Hitherto this Mu-
seum, so rich in respect to the ornithology
of the rest of the world, has been almost
totally lacking in specimens of the avifauna
of eastern Asia; but the large additions
recently made by its collectors in China and
Japan place before the student an unrivaled
series, particularly from Japan. The mounted
specimens in the cases are only a small part
of the Museum's wealth in the way of birds
— a branch to which Professor Baird in
early years devoted so much attention as to
make his name the foremost of all in the
United States in this department.
New methods of taxidermy have been in-
THE MAKING OF A MUSEUM.
363
troduced in the other vertebrate classes with
most gratifying success. The short-haired,
thin-skinned mammals have hitherto baffled
taxidermic skill ; their hides would warp and
wrinkle out of all shape. This was met by
no longer trying to stuff them, but by casting
their effigies in plaster. Mr. Palmer, whose
skill in this direction is remarkable, will chlo-
roform an unfortunate pointer dog, for ex-
ample, place him in a life-like attitude, freeze
him into . sudden stiffness, and make a cast
so perfect that each separate hair is distinctly
reproduced. The image, after Herr von
Schindler has painted it, is exceedingly good ;
yet the taxidermists say that they now know
how to surpass this, even in the most diffi-
cult cases, such as a greyhound or one of
the Mexican hairless dogs. A cast is taken
of the flayed carcass, and from it all the un-
evenness of bone and cord and muscle is
molded into a clay copy, over which the
fresh skin is placed, fitting as snugly as
though it had been returned to its own frame-
work. No shrinkage is possible, and every
part of the skin is filled precisely as in life.
The seals, which are grouped in expressive
attitudes, are fine examples of this. Of the
larger mammals, one of the most interesting
pieces of taxidermy is that of the three orangs
engaged in a fight in the tree-tops.
The large turtles have been imitated in
papier-mache, and the smaller turtles and the
snakes cast in plaster, posed in the most natu-
ral attitudes, and painted with life-like fidelity.
In the case of the serpents, particularly, this
method has produced effects as superior to
stuffing as one of Landseer's drawings is be-
yond the etching on a shin-bone by an idle
savage of neolithic days. They lurk in tight
coils, with heads upheld and nervous tails; they
twine in sinuous folds over and under barky
twigs; they glide with undulating ease across a
path; in one instance they interlace in death-
struggles, the knots of which were not tied by
the imagination of the workman, but cast from
the bodies of two contestants whose fury was
caught in the fixity of a chloroform-sleep.
The greatest monument of ingenuity in this
department — all the tools and processes of
which, by and by, will be shown as an exhibit
by itself — is the whale. A whale's skin can-
not be stuffed. Pictures give no idea of him.
The uninstructed mind finds it hard to clothe
the skeletons to be seen in some cabinets,
and how to image him forth has therefore
been a problem hitherto unsolved. Two or
three winters ago a large " humpback " was
reported ashore on the tip of Cape Cod. At
once a force of men were sent thither with
a car-load of plaster of Paris. They built
a tight fence about his whaleship, poured
twenty barrels or so of plaster over the frozen
carcass, and brought away good molds of one
side and of his head and tail. These were set
up on stocks, like a ship to be launched,
and from them was made a hollow model in
paper, which is true to every point of life,
colored with exactness, and not too ponder-
ous to be managed. Inside this paper shell
the skeleton is mounted. Looking at him
from one side, therefore, you see the counter-
feit presentment of his full-bodied exterior;
on the other side you have the relations borne
by the bony frame to what it supports and dis-
tends. This is one of the most noticeable and
pleasing things in the Museum. Other huge
paper models are Emerton's images of the
giant squid of Newfoundland waters, and of the
spider-like octopus which attracted so much
attention at the London Fisheries Exhibition.
The next class is " Industries," divided into
" Exploitative " and " Elaborative " groups,
and " Ultimate Products."
D. EXPLOITATIVE INDUSTRIES.
(Primary.)
I. Quarrying and Mining.
II. Collection of Ice and Water.
III. Collection of Products of the Field and Forest.
IV. Fishing and Hunting.
(Secondary.)
V. Agriculture and Horticulture.
VI. Peaidiculture.
The first and second of these divisions
necessarily consist chiefly of pictures. The
IB'SfcJ
A MEXICAN CART.
third would include such subjects as lumber-
ing, wild fruits, berries and leaves useful to
man, Irish moss, turpentines, resins, gv.ms,
medicinal herbs, bark, etc. In exhibition of
the processes of hunting and fishing, no mu-
seum in the world has equal material with
ours at Washington. Its resources in respect
to savage weapons of the chase and of fishing
are enormous, and nowhere else is there to
be found so complete a set of angling imple-
364
THE MAKING OF A MUSEUM.
NEW ARRIVALS.
ments — rods and lines of every variety, fly-
books by the hundred, patented reels, hooks,
creels, everything. To this the Fish Commis-
sion adds its nets, trawls, seines, dredges, etc.,
for sea-fishing, in reality or by models un-
counted, derived from every quarter of the
globe.
The three international fisheries exhibi-
tions in which the United States has taken
part have been exceedingly productive of im-
plements used abroad. In no one feature is
this more manifest than in the item of boats.
They represent the evolution of smacks and
cutters from the rudest and earliest to the
most recent ; rafts, canoes, and coracles, skin-
boats and rush-boats ; oddities from India,
China, and the South seas ; strange rigs from
the Mediterranean and Baltic seas ; tub-like
craft from Holland, arch-keeled monstrosities
from Hindostan ; and every style of craft
used in the sea-fisheries of Great Britain
and the western shore of Europe. None of
them are prettier, but many are more costly,
and the majority are safer, than
" The fishing-smacks of Gloucester,
The sea-boats of Cape Ann."
Many of the scenes in a fisherman's work
are portrayed by the use of life-size lay-figures
stationed at a conspicuous elevation against
the wall. One hurls a harpoon from a whale-
boat ; another stands in harness on the look-
out at the mast-head; a third is spearing
sword-fish from the point of a bowsprit. Very
large drawings and photographs add their il-
lustration ; and a series of casts represent the
food-fishes. Lastly, the visitor may go over to
the armory and find a full exhibition of all the
processes of fish-culture in active operation.
This brings me to the most important class
of all in the Museum in its educational value,
since it embraces all industrial art.
E. ELABORATIVE INDUSTRIES.
I. Raw Materials.
II. Agents.
III. Implements.
IV. Processes.
V. Products.
Here comes in the general idea of manu-
factures, and its whole range may be cov-
ered, and will be represented. Such subjects
as pottery, textile fabrics, ornaments, and the
like, will, however, receive special attention
at first. In respect to pottery and porcelain,
a full exposition is marked out of every proc-
ess the clay, kaolin, etc., go through in the
course of forming into vessels, decoration, bak-
ing, and so on, according to the different meth-
ods in vogue. From the government potteries
have been presented full series to show how
the wares of Sevres and Dresden are made,
with samples of the clay used, the glazes, the
pigments concerned in decoration, the aids in
the firing, and specimens showing all the
stages of manufacture, together with charm-
ing examples of each style of ware in its
finished form. With this may be compared
the interesting methods pursued by primitive
races, especially our south-western village In-
dians, some of the odd results of which are
shown in the illustration of the making of the
model of Zuni ; while immense accumulations
of prehistoric and savage pottery are on hand
THE MAKING OF A MUSEUM.
365
from all over this continent and from the Old
World.
To exhibit the beauties of a delicate bit of
china to full advantage, the regulation stand
of the Museum has been so modified as to
show all sides of a cup or vase. This is ac-
complished in one way by a small slanting
mirror, and in another by placing a small ver-
tical mirror behind the specimen, which rests
upon a stand whose surface is of glass, half
seen in the successive stages of its change into
ribbons and dress-goods, etc., according to
machine methods, will make clear how the
finest specimens of that brilliant fabric are
woven. The same is true of cotton goods,
toward which the State Department has given
three thousand specimens of cotton cloths col-
lected by United States consuls abroad, which
show the kind of cloth made and used in each
foreign country — two-thirds of the world, it
SETTING UP THE PAPER WHALE.
an inch underneath which is a second dimin-
utive mirror. By this arrangement you have
at a glance the whole surface of the object
outside and inside, and can read the maker's
mark on the bottom — a matter of no small
importance in the eye of the collector or
connoisseur of ceramic masterpieces.
Another full display in this department
will be that of textile fabrics, and particularly
articles manufactured from silk and cotton.
The silk- worm, its eggs, food, etc., and the
odd native contrivances for securing and spin-
ning the thread of its cocoon in eastern coun-
tries, are to be seen ; among other things, a
very amusing series of quaintly diminutive
Chinese models, representing a group of peas-
ants working at the thread and weaving the
cloth on their hand-looms out-of-doors. Silk
is said, is supplied by hand-looms — and the
patterns which prevail. Manufacturers can
get many a hint from such a collection, as
a part of a grand whole which aims to in-
clude a specimen of every kind of textile
fabric that has a name.
The next class is :
F. ULTIMATE PRODUCTS.
I.
II.
III.
IV.
V.
VI.
VII.
Tools and Utensils.
Motors and Appliances for Utilization of Force.
Foods and their Preparation.
Stimulants and Narcotics.
Drugs and Medicines.
Perfumes and Cosmetics.
Dress and Personal Adornment.
VIII. Buildings and A rch itectural Devices.
IX. Costume.
X. Furniture and Domestic Economy.
XI. Fuel and Heating.
366
THE MAKING OF A MUSEUM.
XII. Illumination.
XIII. Refrigeration and Ventilation.
XIV. Water Supply and Utilization.
XV. Transportation.
XVI. Printing and Book-making.
.\v.#*
Nf
y\
Transportation, can be thrown out of the actual
exhibition, or shown only by a few compre-
hensive drawings or models. Others may be
represented only on a limited scale. Tools
are possessed in great numbers by the Mu-
seum, but it only seeks to show, by a few
types, their development to perfection from
the simplest beginnings, — tracing, for exam-
ple, the instruments of writing up from
the primitive stylus to the latest type-
■■ :-
-r i . jSa
I ■ i m
'PrilL
EflfelXS
filMlil
The reader will see
how large a theme
this is — what a world
of space and material
it would require to represent it
fully to the eye, to carry out the
classification completely. When
what is attempted is in good shape,
however, the visitor will be surprised
to note how large a story can be told
with the limited facilities at command.
Certain subdivisions, such as Mo-
tors, Architecture, Towns,* Furniture
Fuels
and Heating, Ventilation, Water Supply, and
writer and hektograph. In
the same way, with methods of light-
ing, you will see the little bird with
the wick pulled through his unfor-
tunately fat body, serving as the lu-
minary of some arctic igloo, the ancient
lamp of a Pompeian bath, the elaborate
MODEL OF
ZUNI.
* There is one notable exception under this head — a model of Zufii. It consists of clay, and occupies a
frame standing two feet above the floor and about four times as big as a billiard table. The uneven surface
of the site ; the groups of pueblos set around their plazas ; the goat-corrals behind each ; the estufas and lad-
ders and chimney-pots, and all the details of the adobe Indian town with which readers of The Century
have become familiar, are here faithfully reproduced. This uniform bluish-clay tint, exactly the same in
house and ground, through the utter bareness of everything, is exceedingly natural, and none admire this
model (with other smaller ones) more than those who have visited those Indian towns.
THE MAKING OF A MUSEUM.
367
candelabra of mediaeval ca-
thedrals, the student-lamp,
the gas-burner, the Fresnel
lens-lantern, and the electric
points of to-day.
"Foods" will be shown in
a series of exquisite models
in plaster and wax, excelling
even the finest French art of
that kind ; and there is now
being got together in Paris
a wonderful collection of per-
fumes and cosmetics, which
will delight (if it does not
dismay) women. Dozens of
cases, under the head of Ma-
teria Medica, exhibit every
article named in the pharma-
copoeias of the whole world.
Side by side with each article
prepared in pharmacy will
appear the crude materials
of the drug, a description of
its process of manufacture,
and a sample of its perfected
condition ; if the drug is of
vegetable origin, there will
be an herbarium specimen
and a large colored plate of
the plant and its flower, the
latter in the wing-cases.
With the same complete-
ness a department of book-
making is being carried out ;
and merchants in New York
in the lines of drugs, grocer-
ies, printing materials, — espe-
cially for engravings, — and other departments,
have volunteered to contribute collections in
each line as full as can be made. The display
of costumes — from kingly robes down to red
Indianbuckskin-dress,and even to tattooing —
will be among the most showy series in the
whole Museum, being mounted upon capital
lay-figures, which put the features and coiffure
of the proper person into his clothes or armor.
Colored plates will do much to enlarge this
display without undue consumption of space.
The next class can be dismissed in short
order. It is " G — Social Relations of Man."
It embraces the Communication of Ideas;
Domestic and Social Customs and Ceremo-
nies; Societies; Trade and Commerce; Gov-
ernment and Law; Ceremony; War.
The first of these, as will be seen, includes,
besides writing and printing (the last already
considered), mails, telegraphs, etc. The sec-
ond, such observances as marriage and the
funeral, varying greatly in different countries
and periods. The third, " Societies," means re-
galia chiefly, so far as a museum is concerned ;
IN THE REPAIRING-ROOM.
and the fourth, an exhibition of moneys and
methods of book-keeping, banking, and com-
mercial documents, like bills of lading. Under
the fifth would come instruments of torture
and punishment, police matters and models
of prisons, public buildings, etc. " Ceremony"
exhibits to us badges, flags, coats of arms,
etc., while "War" gives an opportunity to
display the great collection of savage and
civilized weapons, armor, models of fortifica-
tions, and so on, which the Museum possesses,
and which will be among the most noteworthy
features in its halls.
This introduces " H — Physical Condition of
Man," having the subdivisions Physical Cul-
ture, Public Health, Medicine and Surgery,
Hospitals and Remedial Institutions; and
"I — Intellectual Condition of Man," under
which are classified his Games and Amuse-
ments, his Folk-lore, his Pictorial and Plastic
Arts, his Music, Drama, Literature, Science,
Philosophy, Education and Educational In-
struments. Then comes " K — Moral Condition
of Man," divided into Crime and Error, Su-
368
THE MAKING OF A MUSEUM.
perstition, Religious Systems, Benevolent and
Reformatory Institutions.
What is to be said of the elucidation to the
eye of an ideal classification whose minor
points are such simple heads as Philosophy
and Literature and Science ? Certain exhibi-
tions can be made under " H," such as the
apparatus of athletics, models of sanitary
appliances, the mechanics of surgery and
medical practice, models, inventions, and sta-
tistics in respect to hospitals and asylums, but
only in the most general way. Under " I,"
the first head, " Amusements," admits an ex-
hibition of toys, which is Professor Goode's
pet department, and for which there is a vast
variety of material from foreign countries, as
well as from our own business partners of
old Santa Claus in New York and London.
The most wonderful kites are here, — kites
that play cymbals and ring bells ; kites like
birds, with movable wings, legs, and claws;
kites of all colors, shapes, sizes, and skill
in queer performances ; dancing figures from
Japan; rattles that were meant for babies
in Africa, in South America, in Alaska, in
Hindostan, in Lapland, and everywhere
else; dolls by the hundred, according to
the taste of every kind of nursery toddler
in every part of the world; marvelously
intricate toys from Europe; games played
by the boys and girls of all latitudes ; and so
many puzzles that it would take a dozen life-
times to solve them all.
The subject of Art has been shown by its
processes and results in notable pictures and
statues. This will include many details of
photography, wood-cutting, " process " and
" solar " printing, and lithography, which are
mysteries to the general public. Musical in-
struments make one of the most beautiful
parts of the show, for their forms, often ex-
tremely curious in the case of savage and
barbarous makers, are always ornamented with
great care ; and the collection is very complete.
Exposition of the drama must now restrict
itself largely to special costumes belonging to
actors, like those strange and vivid masks
worn by the Japanese in their play called
No. " Literature," " Science," and " Phi-
losophy " belong to the library; but educational
matters can be displayed in a way most in-
structive to studious people, by a set of mod-
ern appliances for facilitating study, and
economizing time and strength in reading and
investigation. A glimpse into the Museum
offices would show all these time- and brain-
saving aids to learning, together with some
inventions not down in the advertisements.
MARIANA.
369
One might well ask how the public is to
know that it is gazing upon so perfect a scheme
and profit accordingly. This is answered in
the one word Labels. So important is this
^matter that it is not too much to say that the
Museum is to be a vast systematic collection
of labels illustrated by specimens, just as en-
gravings illustrate the text of a universal
encyclopaedia. Upon these labels great time
and thought is being spent in each class, and
they are models of multum in parvo. Each
is intended to give the class and name of the
object, and essential particulars as to its origin,
process of manufacture or growth, use, etc.
These labels are printed upon conspicuous
cards in bold type, and with the cross-refer-
ences and the citations to books which they
contain, they make a compendium of the
most carefully sifted knowledge of the whole
class to which they refer, and a directory
where the student may enlarge his informa-
tion. To this matter of labeling is brought
the sharpest attention, and upon its contin-
ued high execution depends more than on
anything else the success of this ambitious
undertaking.
Ernest IngersolL
MARIANA.
"'He cometh not!' she said."
He never came whose step and loving call
I waited long to hear,
But thou hast come, last Messenger of all,
A friend well nigh as dear!
Peace if not joy! — yet peace itself were gain,
That must supremely bless
The soul sore travailed that in vain, in vain
Hungered for happiness!
Draw closer, oh, thou voiceless Guest and pale,
Whose drooping torch burns low:
Thy face is hid, but through the somber veil
Thine eyes' dark light I know '
Nay, closer still ! — I yearn on brow and heart
Thy cool, strong hand to feel ;
Fevered with wounds, and throbbing with a smart
Thy touch alone can heal.
I go with joy ! Lead me to him at last, —
How dim the path and lone —
Him, whose far footsteps, echoing through the past,
Have never met mine own.
Stuart Sterne.
Vol. XXIX.— 36.
[Begun in the November numbei.1
THE RISE OF SILAS LAPHAM*
BY W. D. HOWELLS,
Author of " Venetian Life," "A Chance Acquaintance," "A Modern Instance," "A Woman's Reason," etc.
VI.
The Coreys had always had a house at Na-
hant, but after letting it for a season or two they
found they could get on without it, and sold it
at the son's instance, who foresaw that if
things went on as they were going, the family
would be straitened to the point of chang-
ing their mode of life altogether. They began
to be of the people of whom it was said that
they staid in town very late ; and when the
ladies did go away, it was for a brief summer-
ing in this place and that. The father re-
mained at home altogether; and the son
joined them in the intervals of his enterprises,
which occurred only too often.
At Bar Harbor, where he now went to find
them, after his winter in Texas, he confessed to
his mother that there seemed no very good
opening there for him. He might do as well as
Loring Stanton, but he doubted if Stanton
was doing very well. Then he mentioned
the new project which he had been thinking
over. She did not deny that there was some-
thing in it, but she could not think of any
young man who had gone into such a busi-
ness as that, and it appeared to her that he
might as well go into a patent medicine or a
stove-polish.
" There was one of his hideous advertise-
ments," she said, " painted on a reef that we
saw as we came down."
Corey smiled. " Well, I suppose, if it was
in a good state of preservation, that is proof
positive of the efficacy of the paint on the
hulls of vessels."
" It's very distasteful to me, Tom," said his
mother; and if there was something else in
her mind, she did not speak more plainly of
it than to add : " It's not only the kind of
business, but the kind of people you would be
mixed up with."
" I thought you didn't find them so very
bad," suggested Corey.
" I hadn't seen them in Nankeen Square
then."
" You can see them on the water side of
Beacon street when you go back."
Then he told of his encounter with the
Lapham family in their new house. At the
end his mother merely said, " It is getting
very common down there," and she did not
try to oppose anything further to his scheme.
The young man went to see Colonel Lap-
ham shortly after his return to Boston. He
paid his visit at Lapham's office, and if he
had studied simplicity in his summer dress he
could not have presented himself in a figure
more to the mind of a practical man. His
hands and neck still kept the brown of
the Texan suns and winds, and he looked as
business-like as Lapham himself.
He spoke up promptly and briskly in the
outer office, and caused the pretty girl to
look away from her copying at him. "Is Mr.
Lapham in ? " he asked ; and after that mo-
ment for reflection which an array of book-
keepers so addressed likes to give the inquirer,
a head was lifted from a ledger and nodded
toward the inner office.
Lapham had recognized the voice, and he
was standing, in considerable perplexity of
mind, to receive Corey, when the young man
opened his painted glass door. It was a
hot afternoon, and Lapham was in his shirt-
sleeves. Scarcely a trace of the boastful
hospitality with which he had welcomed
Corey to his house a few days before lin-
gered in his present address. He looked at
the young man's face, as if he expected him
to dispatch whatever unimaginable affair he
had come upon.
" Wont you sit down ? How are you ?
You'll excuse me," he added, in brief allusion
to the shirt-sleeves. " I'm about roasted."
Corey laughed. " I wish you'd let me take
off my coat."
" Why, take it off! " cried the Colonel, with
instant pleasure. There is something in human
nature which causes the man in his shirt-
sleeves to wish all other men to appear in the
same dishabille.
" I will, if you ask me after I've talked
with you two minutes," said the young fellow,
companionably pulling up the chair offered
him toward the desk where Lapham had
again seated himself. " But perhaps you
haven't got two minutes to give me ? "
" Oh, yes, I have," said the Colonel. " I
was just going to knock off. I can give you
Copyright, 1884, by W. D. Howells. All rights reserved.
THE RISE OF SILAS LAPHAM.
37i
twenty, and then I shall have fifteen minutes
to catch the boat."
" All right," said Corey. " I want you to
take me into the mineral paint business."
The Colonel sat dumb. He twisted his
thick neck, and looked round at the door to
see if it was shut. He would not have liked
to have any of those fellows outside hear him,
but there is no saying what sum of money he
would not have given if his wife had been
there to hear what Corey had just said.
" I suppose," continued the young man,
1 1 could have got several people whose names
you know to back my industry and sobriety,
and say a word for my business capacity.
But I thought I wouldn't trouble anybody
for certificates till I found whether there was
a chance, or the ghost of one, of your want-
ing me. So I came straight to you."
Lapham gathered himself together as well
as he could. He had not yet forgiven Corey
for Mrs. Lapham's insinuation that he would
feel himself too good for the mineral paint
business; and though he was dispersed by
that astounding shot at first, he was not going
to let any one even hypothetically despise his
paint with impunity. " How do you think I
am going to take you on ? " They took on
hands at the works; and Lapham put it as
if Corey were a hand coming to him for em-
ployment. Whether he satisfied himself by
this or not, he reddened a little after he had
said it.
Corey answered, ignorant of the offense :
1 1 haven't a very clear idea, I'm afraid ; but
I've been looking a little into the matter from
the outside "
" I hope you haint been paying any atten-
tion to that fellow's stuff in the ' Events ' ? "
Lapham interrupted. Since Bartley's interview
had appeared, Lapham had regarded it with
very mixed feelin gs. At first it gave him a glow
of secret pleasure, blended with doubt as to how
his wife would like the use Bartley had made
of her in it. But she had not seemed to notice
it much, and Lapham had experienced the
gratitude of the man who escapes. Then his
girls had begun to make fun of it; and though
he did not mind Penelope's jokes much, he
did not like to see that Irene's gentility was
wounded. Business friends met him with the
kind of knowing smile about it that implied
their sense of the fraudulent character of its
praise — the smile of men who had been there
and who knew how it was themselves. Lap-
ham had his misgivings as to how his clerks
and underlings looked at it ; he treated them
with stately severity for a while after it came
out, and he ended by feeling rather sore about
it. He took it for granted that everybody
had read it.
" I don't know what you mean," replied
Corey. " I don't see the ' Events' regularly."
" Oh, it was nothing. They sent a fellow
down here to interview me, and he got every-
thing about as twisted as he could."
" I believe they always do," said Corey.
" I hadn't seen it. Perhaps it came out before
I got home."
" Perhaps it did."
" My notion of making myself useful to
you was based on a hint I got from one of
your own circulars."
Lapham was proud of those circulars; he
thought they read very well. " What was
that ? "
" I could put a little capital into the busi-
ness," said Corey, with the tentative accent
of a man who chances a thing. " I've got a
little money, but I didn't imagine you cared
for anything of that kind."
" No, sir, I don't," returned the Colonel
bluntly. " I've had one partner, and one's
enough."
" Yes," assented the young man, who
doubtless had his own ideas as to eventual-
ities— or perhaps rather had the vague hopes
of youth. " I didn't come to propose a part-
nership. But I see that you are introducing
your paint into the foreign markets, and there
I really thought I might be of use to you, and
to myself, too."
" How ? " asked the Colonel scantly.
" Well, I know two or three languages pretty
well. I know French, and I know German,
and I've got a pretty fair sprinkling of
Spanish."
" You mean that you can talk them ? "
asked the Colonel, with the mingled awe and
slight that such a man feels for such accom-
plishments.
" Yes ; and I can write an intelligible letter
in either of them."
Lapham rubbed his nose. " It's easy enough
to get all the letters we want translated."
" Well," pursued Corey, not showing his
discouragement if he felt any, " I know the
countries where you want to introduce this
paint of yours. I've been there. I've been in
Germany and France, and I've been in South
America and Mexico ; I've been in Italy, of
course. I believe I could go to any of those
countries and place it to advantage."
Lapham had listened with a trace of per-
suasion in his face, but now he shook his
head.
" It's placing itself as fast as there's any
call for it. It wouldn't pay us to send any-
body out to look after it. Your salary and
expenses would eat up about all we should
make on it."
" Yes," returned the young man intrepidly,
372
THE RISE OF SILAS LAPHAM.
" if you had to pay me any salary and ex-
penses."
"You don't propose to work for nothing?"
" I propose to work for a commission."
The Colonel was beginning to shake his head
again, but Corey hurried on. " I haven't come
to -you without making some inquiries about
the paint, and I know how it stands with
those who know best. I believe in it."
Lapham lifted his head and looked at the
young man, deeply moved.
" It's the best paint in God's universe," he
said, with the solemnity of prayer.
" It's the best in the market," said Corey;
and he repeated, " I believe in it."
"You believe in it," began the Colonel, and
then he stopped. If there had really been any
purchasing power in money, a year's income
would have bought Mrs. Lapham's instant
presence. He warmed and softened to the
young man in every way, not only because
he must do so to any one who believed in his
paint, but because he had done this innocent
person the wrong of listening to a defamation
of his instinct and good sense, and had been
willing to see him suffer for a purely supposi-
titious offense.
Corey rose.
" You mustn't let me outstay my twenty
minutes," he said, taking out his watch. " I
don't expect you to give a decided answer
on the spot. All that I ask is that you'll con-
sider my proposition."
" Don't hurry," said Lapham. " Sit still !
I want to tell you about this paint," he added,
in a voice husky with the feeling that his hearer
could not divine. " I want to tell you all
about it."
" I could walk with you to the boat," sug-
gested the young man.
" Never mind the boat ! I can take the
next one. Look here ! " The Colonel pulled
open a drawer, as Corey sat down again, and
took out a photograph of the locality of the
mine. " Here's where we get it. This photo-
graph don't half do the place justice," he said,
as if the imperfect art had slighted the fea-
tures of a beloved face. " It's one of the sight-
liest places in the country, and here's the
very spot" — he covered it with his huge
forefinger — " where my father found that
paint, more than forty — years — ago. Yes, sir ! "
He went on, and told the story in unsparing
detail, while his chance for the boat passed
unheeded, and the clerks in the outer office
hung up their linen office coats and put on
their seersucker or flannel street coats. The
young lady went, too, and nobody was left
but the porter, who made from time to time
a noisy demonstration of fastening a distant
blind, or putting something in place. At last
the Colonel roused himself from the autobio-
graphical delight of the history of his paint.
" Well, sir, that's the story."
" It's an interesting story," said Corey, with
a long breath, as they rose together, and
Lapham put on his coat.
" That's what it is," said the Colonel.
" Well ! " he added, " I don't see but what
we've got to have another talk about this
thing. It's a surprise to me, and I don't see
exactly how you're going to make it pay."
" I'm willing to take the chances," an-
swered Corey. " As I said, I believe in it. I
should try South America first. I should try
Chili."
" Look here ! " said Lapham, with his
watch in his hand. " I like to get things over.
We've just got time for the six o'clock boat.
Why don't you come down with me to Nan-
tasket ? I can give you a bed as well as not.
And then we can finish up."
The impatience of youth in Corey re-
sponded to the impatience of temperament in
his elder.
" Why, I don't see why I shouldn't," he
allowed himself to say. " I confess I should
like to have it finished up myself, if it could
be finished up in the right way."
" Well, we'll see. Dennis ! " Lapham called
to the remote porter, and the man came.
" Want to send any word home ? " he asked
Corey.
"No; my father and I go and come as we
like, without keeping account of each other.
If I don't come home, he knows that I'm not
there. That's all."
" Well, that's convenient. You'll find you
can't do that when you're married. Never
mind, Dennis," said the Colonel.
He had time to buy two newspapers on
the wharf before he jumped on board the
steam-boat with Corey. " Just made it," he
said ; " and that's what I like to do. I can't
stand it to be aboard much more than a min-
ute before she shoves out." He gave one of
the newspapers to Corey as he spoke, and set
him the example of catching up a camp-stool
on their way to that point on the boat which
his experience had taught him was the best.
He opened his paper at once and began to
run over its news, while the young man
watched the spectacular recession of the city,
and was vaguely conscious of the people about
him, and of the gay life of the water round
the boat. The air freshened ; the craft thinned
in number; they met larger sail, lagging slowly
inward in the afternoon light ; the islands of
the bay waxed and waned as the steamer ap-
proached and left them behind.
" I hate to see them stirring up those
Southern fellows again," said the Colonel,
THE RISE OF SILAS LAPHAM.
373
speaking into the paper on his lap. " Seems
to me it's time to let those old issues go."
" Yes," said the young man. " What are
they doing now ? "
" Oh, stirring up the Confederate brigadiers
in Congress. I don't like it. Seems to me, if our
party haint got any other stock-in-trade, we
better shut up shop altogether." Lapham
went on, as he scanned his newspaper, to
give his ideas of public questions, in a frag-
mentary way, while Corey listened patiently,
and waited for him to come back to busi-
ness. He folded up his paper at last, and
stuffed it into his coat pocket. " There's one
thing I always make it a rule to do," he said,
" and that is to give my mind a complete
rest from business while I'm going down on
the boat. I like to get the fresh air all through
me, soul and body. I believe a man can give
his mind a rest, just the same as he can give
his legs a rest, or his back. All he's got to
do is to use his will-power. Why, I suppose,
if I hadn't adopted some such rule, with the
strain I've had on me for the last ten years,
I should 'a' been a dead man long ago. That's
the reason I like a horse. You've got to give
your mind to horse ; you can't help it, unless
you want to break your neck ; but a boat's
different, and there you got to use your will-
power. You got to take your mind right up
and put it where you want it. I make it a
rule to read the paper on the boat — Hold
on ! " he interrupted himself to prevent Corey
from paying his fare to the man who had
come round for it. "I've got tickets. And
when I get through the paper, I try to get
somebody to talk to, or I watch the people.
It's an astonishing thing to me where they
all come from. I've been riding up and down
on these boats for six or seven years, and I
don't know but very few of the faces I see on
board. Seems to be a perfectly frestT lot
every time. Well, of course ! Town's full of
strangers in the summer season, anyway, and
folks keep coming down from the country.
They think it's a great thing to get down to
the beach, and they've all heard of the elec-
tric light on the water, and they want to see
it. But you take faces now ! The astonishing
thing to me is not what a face tells, but what
it don't tell. When you think of what a man
is, or a woman is, and what most of 'em have
been through before they get to be thirty, it
seems as if their experience would burn right
through. But it don't. I like to watch the
couples, and try to make out which are en-
gaged, or going to be, and which are married,
or better be. But half the time I can't make
any sort of guess. Of course, where they're
young and kittenish, you can tell ; but where
they're anyways on, you can't. Heigh ? "
" Yes, I think you're right," said Corey, not
perfectly reconciled to philosophy in the place
of business, but accepting it as he must.
" Well," said the Colonel, " I don't suppose
it was meant we should know what was in
each other's minds. It would take a man out
of his own hands. As long as he's in his own
hands, there's some hopes of his doing some-
thing with himself; but if a fellow has been
found out — even if he hasn't been found out
to be so very bad — it's pretty much all up
with him. No, sir. I don't want to know
people through and through."
The greater part of the crowd on board —
and, of course, the boat was crowded — looked
as if they might not only be easily but safely
known. There was little style and no distinc-
tion among them; they were people who were
going down to the beach for the fun or the
relief of it, and were able to afford it. In face
they were commonplace, with nothing but
the American poetry of vivid purpose to light
them up, where they did not wholly lack fire.
But they were nearly all shrewd and friendly-
looking, with an apparent readiness for the
humorous intimacy native to us all. The
women were dandified in dress, according to
their means and taste, and the men differed
from each other in degrees of indifference to
it. To a straw-hatted population, such as ours
is in summer, no sort of personal dignity is
possible. Wre have not even the power over
observers which comes from the fantasticality
of an Englishman when he discards the con-
ventional dress. In our straw hats and our
serge or flannel sacks we are no more impos-
ing than a crowd of boys.
" Some day," said Lapham, rising as the
boat drew near the wharf of the final landing,
" there's going to be an awful accident on
these boats. Just look at that jam."
He meant the people thickly packed on
the pier, and under strong restraint of locks
and gates, to prevent them from rushing on
board the boat and possessing her for the re-
turn trip before she had landed her Nantasket
passengers.
" Overload 'em every time," he continued,
with a sort of dry, impersonal concern at the
impending calamity, as if it could not possibly
include him. " They take about twice as
many as they ought to carry, and about ten
times as many as they could save if anything
happened. Yes, sir, it's bound to come. Hello!
There's my girl ! " He took out his folded
newspaper and waved it toward a group of
phaetons and barouches drawn up on the
pier a little apart from the pack of people,
and a lady in one of them answered with a
flourish of her parasol.
When he had made his way with his guest
374
through the crowd, she
THE RISE OE SILAS LAPHAM.
began
to speak to
her father before she noticed Corey. " Well,
Colonel, you've improved your last chance.
We've been coming to every boat since four
o'clock, — or Jerry has, — and I told mother
that I would come myself once, and see
if I couldn't fetch you; and if I failed, you
could walk next time. You're getting per-
fectly spoiled."
The Colonel enjoyed letting her scold him
to the end before he said, with a twinkle of
pride in his guest and satisfaction in her
probably being able to hold her own against
any discomfiture, " I've brought Mr. Corey
down for the night with me, and I was show-
ing him things all the way, and it took time."
The young fellow was at the side of the
open beach-wagon, making a quick, gentle-
manly bow, and Penelope Lapham was cozily
drawling, " Oh, how do you do, Mr. Corey ? "
before the Colonel had finished his explanation.
" Get right in there, alongside of Miss
Lapham, Mr. Corey," he said, pulling himself
up into the place beside the driver. " No, no,"
he had added quickly, at some signs of polite
protest in the young man, " I don't give up the
best place to anybody. Jerry, suppose you let
me have hold of the leathers a minute."
This was his way of taking the reins from
the driver; and in half the time he speci-
fied, he had skillfully turned the vehicle on
the pier, among the crooked lines and groups
of foot-passengers, and was spinning up the
road toward the stretch of verandaed hotels
and restaurants in the sand along the shore.
" Pretty gay down here," he said, indicat-
ing all this with a turn of his whip, as
he left it behind him. " But I've got about
sick of hotels ; and this summer I made up
my mind that I'd take a cottage. Well, Pen,
how are the folks ? " He looked half-way
round for her answer, and with the eye thus
brought to bear upon her he was able to give
her a wink of supreme content. The Colonel,
with no sort of ulterior design, and nothing
but his triumph over Mrs. Lapham definitely
in his mind, was feeling, as he would have
said, about right.
The girl smiled a daughter's amusement at
her father's boyishness. " I don't think there's
much change since morning. Did Irene have
a headache when you left ? "
" No," said the Colonel.
" Well, then, there's that to report."
" Pshaw ! " said the Colonel, with vexation
in his tone.
" I'm sorry Miss Irene isn't well," said
Corey politely.
" I think she must have got it from walk-
ing too long on the beach. The air is so cool
here that you forget how hot the sun is."
" Yes, that's true," assented Corey.
" A good night's rest will make it all right,"
suggested the Colonel, without looking round.
" But you girls have got to look out."
" If you're fond of walking," said Corey,
" I suppose you find the beach a temptation."
" Oh, it isn't so much that," returned the
girl. " You keep walking on and on because
it's so smooth and straight before you. We've
been here so often that we know it all by
heart — just how it looks at high tide, and
how it looks at low tide, and how it looks
after a storm. We're as well acquainted with
the crabs and stranded jelly-fish as we are
with the children digging in the sand and the
people sitting under umbrellas. I think they're
always the same, all of them."
The Colonel left the talk to the young peo-
ple. When he spoke next it was to say, " Well,
here we are ! " and he turned from the highway
and drove up in front of a brown cottage with
a vermilion roof, and a group of geraniums
clutching the rock that cropped up in the
loop formed by the road. It was treeless and
bare all round, and the ocean, unnecessarily
vast, weltered away a little more than a stone's
cast from the cottage. A hospitable smell of
supper filled the air, and Mrs. Lapham was
on the veranda, with that demand in her eyes
for her belated husband's excuses, which she
was obliged to check on her tongue at sight
of Corey.
VII.
The exultant Colonel swung himself lightly
down from his seat. " I've brought Mr.
Corey with me," he nonchalantly explained.
Mrs. Lapham made their guest welcome,
and the Colonel showed him to his room,
briefly assuring himself that there was noth-
ing wanting there. Then he went to wash his
own hands, carelessly ignoring the eagerness
with which his wife pursued him to their
chamber.
" What gave Irene a headache ? " he asked,
making himself a fine lather for his hairy paws.
" Never you mind Irene," promptly re-
torted his wife. " How came he to come ?
Did you press him ? If you did, I'll never for-
give you, Silas ! "
The Colonel laughed, and his wife shook
him by the shoulder to make him laugh lower.
" 'Sh ! " she whispered. " Do you want him
to hear every thing ? Did you urge him ? "
The Colonel laughed the more. He was
going to get all the good out of this. " No,
I didn't urge him. Seemed to want to come."
" I don't believe it. Where did you meet
him ? "
" At the office."
THE RISE OF SILAS LAPHAM.
375
" What office ? "
" Mine."
" Nonsense ! What was he doing there ? "
" Oh, nothing much."
" What did he come for ? "
" Come for ? Oh ! He said he wanted to
go into the mineral paint business."
Mrs. Lapham dropped into a chair, and
watched his bulk shaken with smothered
laughter. " Silas Lapham," she gasped, " if
you try to get off any more of those things
on me "
The Colonel applied himself to the towel.
I Had a notion he could work it in South
America. / don't know what he's up to."
" Never mind ! " cried his wife. " I'll get
even with youjj^/."
" So I told him he had better come down
and talk it over," continued the Colonel, in
well-affected simplicity. " I knew he wouldn't
touch it with a ten-foot pole."
" Go on ! " threatened Mrs. Lapham.
" Right thing to do, wa'n't it ? "
A tap was heard at the door, and Mrs.
Lapham answered it. A maid announced
supper. " Very well," she said, " come to tea
now. But I'll make you pay for this, Silas."
Penelope had gone to her sister's room as
soon as she entered the house.
" Is your head any better, 'Rene ? " she
asked.
" Yes, a little," came a voice from the pil-
lows. " But I shall not come to tea. I don't
want anything. If I keep still, I shall be all
right by morning."
" Well, I'm sorry," said the elder sister.
" He's come down with father."
" He hasn't ! Who ? " cried Irene, starting
up in simultaneous denial and demand.
" Oh, well, if you say he hasn't, what's the
use of my telling you who ? "
" Oh, how can you treat me so ! " moaned
the sufferer. " What do you mean, Pen ? "
" I guess I'd better not tell you," said
Penelope, watching her like a cat playing
with a mouse. " If you're not coming to tea,
it would just excite you for nothing."
The mouse moaned and writhed upon the
bed.
" Oh, I wouldn't treat you so ! "
The cat seated herself across the room and
asked quietly :
" Well, what could you do if it was Mr.
Corey ? You couldn't come to tea, you say.
But ^'11 excuse you. I We told him you had
a headache. Why, of course you can't come!
It would be too barefaced. But you needn't be
troubled, Irene ; I'll do my best to make the
time pass pleasantly for him." Here the cat
gave a low titter, and the mouse girded itself
up with a momentary courage and self-respect.
" I should think you would be ashamed to
come here and tease me so."
" I don't see why you shouldn't believe
me," argued Penelope. " Why shouldn't he
come down with father, if father asked him ?
and he'd be sure to if he thought of it. I
don't see any p'ints about that frog that's any
better than any other frog."
The sense of her sister's helplessness was
too much for the tease; she broke down in a
fit of smothered laughter, which convinced her
victim that it was nothing but an ill-timed joke.
" Well, Pen, I wouldn't use you so," she
whimpered.
Penelope threw herself on the bed beside
her.
" Oh, poor Irene ! He is here. It's a sol-
emn fact." And she caressed and soothed her
sister, while she choked with laughter. " You
must get up and come out. I don't know
what brought him here, but here he is"
" It's too late now," said Irene, desolately.
Then she added, with a wilder despair: " What
a fool I was to take that walk ! "
"Well," coaxed her sister, " come out and
get some tea. The tea will do you good."
" No, no ; I can't come. But send me a
cup here."
" Yes, and then perhaps you can see him
later in the evening."
" I shall not see him at all."
An hour after Penelope came back to her
sister's room and found her before her glass.
" You might as well have kept still, and been
well by morning, 'Rene," she said. " As soon
as we were done father said, ' Well, Mr. Corey
and I have got to talk over a little matter of
business, and we'll excuse you, ladies.' He
looked at mother in a way that I guess was
pretty hard to bear. 'Rene, you ought to have
heard the Colonel swelling at supper. It
would have made you feel that all he said the
other day was nothing."
Mrs. Lapham suddenly opened the door.
" Now, see here, Pen," she said, as she
closed it behind her, " I've had just as much
as I can stand from your father, and if you
don't tell me this instant what it all means- "
She left the consequences to imagination,
and Penelope replied, with hermock soberness :
" Well, the Colonel does seem to be on his
high horse, ma'am. But you mustn't ask
me what his business with Mr. Corey is,
for I don't know. All that I know is that I
met them at the landing, and that they con-
versed all the way down — on literary topics."
" Nonsense ! What do you think it is ? "
" Well, if you want my candid opinion, I
think this talk about business is nothing but
a blind. It seems a pity Irene shouldn't have
been up to receive him," she added.
376
THE RISE OE SILAS LAPHAM.
Irene cast a mute look of imploring at her
mother, who was too much preoccupied to af-
ford her the protection it asked.
" Your father said he wanted to go into the
business with him."
Irene's look changed to a stare of astonish-
ment and mystification, but Penelope preserved
her imperturbability.
" Well, it's a lucrative business, I believe."
" Well, I don't believe a word of it ! " cried
Mrs. Lapham. " And so I told your father."
" Did it seem to convince him ? " inquired
Penelope.
Her mother did not reply. " I know one
thing," she said. " He's got to tell me every
word, or there'll be no sleep for him this night."
" Well, ma'am," said Penelope, breaking
down in one of her queer laughs, " I shouldn't
be a bit surprised if you were right."
" Go on and dress, Irene," ordered her
mother, " and then you and Pen come out
into the parlor. They can have just two
hours for business, and then we must all be
there to receive him. You haven't got head-
ache enough to hurt you."
" Oh, it's all gone now," said the girl.
At the end of the limit she had given the
Colonel, Mrs. Lapham looked into the dining-
room, which she found blue with his smoke.
" I think you gentlemen will find the parlor
pleasanter now, and we can give it up to you."
" Oh, no, you needn't," said her husband.
"We've got about through." Corey was al-
ready standing, and Lapham rose too. " I
guess we can join the ladies now. We can
leave that little point till to-morrow."
Both of the young ladies were in the par-
lor when Corey entered with their father, and
both were frankly indifferent to the few books
and the many newspapers scattered about on
the table where the large lamp was placed.
But after Corey had greeted Irene he glanced
at the novel under his eye, and said, in the
dearth that sometimes befalls people at such
times : " I see you're reading ' Middlemarch.'
Do you like George Eliot ? "
" Who ? " asked the girl.
Penelope interposed. " I don't believe
Irene's read it yet. I've just got it out of the
library; I heard so much talk about it. I
wish she would let you find out a little about
the people for yourself," she added. But here
her father struck in :
" I can't get the time for books. It's as
much as I can do to keep up with the news-
papers ; and when night comes, I'm tired, and
I'd rather go out to the theater, or a lecture,
if they've got a good stereopticon to give you
views of the places. But I guess we all like
a play better than 'most anything else. I want
something that'll make me laugh. I don't
believe in tragedy. I think there's enough
of that in real life without putting it on the
stage. Seen ' Joshua Whitcomb ' ? "
The whole family joined in the discussion,
and it appeared that they all had their opin-
ions of the plays and actors. Mrs. Lapham
brought the talk back to literature. " I guess
Penelope does most of our reading."
" Now, mother, you're not going to put it
all on me ! " said the girl, in comic protest.
Her mother laughed, and then added, with
a sigh : " I used to like to get hold of a good
book when I was a girl ; but we weren't al-
lowed to read many novels in those days. My
mother called them all lies. And I guess she
wasn't so very far wrong about some of them."
" They're certainly fictions," said Corey,
smiling.
" Well, we do buy a good many books,
first and last," said the Colonel, who prob-
ably had in mind the costly volumes which
they presented to one another on birthdays
and holidays. " But I get about all the
reading I want in the newspapers. And v/hen
the girls want a novel, I tell 'em to get it out
of the library. That's what the library's for.
Phew ! " he panted, blowing away the whole
unprofitable subject. "How close you
women-folks like to keep a room ! You go
down to the sea-side or up to the mountains
for a change of air, and then you cork your-
selves into a room so tight you don't have
any air at all. Here ! You girls get on your
bonnets and go and show Mr. Corey the
view of the hotels from the rocks."
Corey said that he should be delighted.
The girls exchanged looks with each other,
and then with their mother. Irene curved
her pretty chin in comment upon her father's
incorrigibility, and Penelope made a droll
mouth, but the Colonel remained serenely
content with his finesse. " I got 'em out of
the way," he said, as soon as they were gone,
and before his wife had time to fall upon
him, " because I've got through my talk with
him, and now I want to talk with you. It's
just as I said, Persis; he wants to go into the
business with me."
" It's lucky for you," said his wife, meaning
that now he would not be made to suffer for
attempting to hoax her. But she was too in-
tensely interested to pursue that matter fur-
ther. " What in the world do you suppose
he means by it ? "
" Well, I should judge by his talk that he
had been trying a good many different things
since he left college, and he haint found just
the thing he likes — or the thing that likes
him. It aint so easy. And now he's got an
idea that he can take hold of the paint and
push it in other countries — push it in Mexico
THE RISE OF SILAS LAPHAM.
377
and push it in South America. He's a splen-
did Spanish scholar," — this was Lapham's
version of Corey's modest claim to a smatter-
ing of the language, — " and he's been among
the natives enough to know their ways. And
he believes in the paint," added the Colonel.
" I guess he believes in something else
besides the paint," said Mrs. Lapriam.
" What do you mean ? "
" Well, Silas Lapham, if you can't see now
that he's after Irene, I don't know what ever
can open your eyes. That's all."
The Colonel pretended to give the idea
silent consideration, as if it had not occurred
to him before. " Well, then, all I've got to
say is, that he's going a good way round. I
don't say you're wrong, but if it's Irene, I
don't see why he should want to go off to
South America to get her. And that's what
he proposes to do. I guess there's some paint
about it too, Persis. He says he believes in
it," — the Colonel devoutly lowered his voice,
— " and he's willing to take the agency on his
own account down there, and run it for a
commission on what he can sell."
" Of course ! He isn't going to take hold
of it any way so as to feel beholden to you.
He's got too much pride for that."
" He aint going to take hold of it at all, if
he don't mean paint in the first place and
Irene afterward. I don't object to him, as I
know, either way, but the two things wont
mix; and I don't propose he shall pull the
wool over my eyes — or anybody else. But,
as far as heard from, up to date, he means
paint first, last, and all the time. At any rate,
I'm going to take him on that basis. He's
got some pretty good ideas about it, and he's
been stirred up by this talk, just now, about
getting our manufactures into the foreign
markets. There's an overstock in everything,
and we've got to get rid of it, or we've go! to
shut down till the home demand begins again.
We've had two or three such flurries before
now, and they didn't amount to much. They
say we can't extend our commerce under the
high tariff system we've got now, because
there aint any sort of reciprocity on our side,
• — we want to have the other fellows show
all the reciprocity, — and the English have
got the advantage of us every time. I don't
know whether it's so or not ; but I don't see
why it should apply to my paint. Anyway, he
wants to try it, and I've about made up my
mind to let him. Of course I aint going to let
him take all the risk. I believe in the paint
too, and I shall pay his expenses anyway."
" So you want another partner after all ? "
Mrs. Lapham could not forbear saying.
" Yes, if that's your idea of a partner. It
isn't mine," returned her husband dryly.
" Well, if you've made up your mind, Si,
I suppose you're ready for advice," said Mrs.
Lapham.
The Colonel enjoyed this. "Yes, I am.
What have you got to say against it ? "
" I don't know as I've got anything. I'm
satisfied if you are."
" Well ? "
" When is he going to start for South
America ? "
" I shall take him into the office awhile.
He'll get off some time in the winter. But he's
got to know the business first."
" Oh, indeed ! Are you going to take him
to board in the family ? "
" What are you after, Persis ? "
" Oh, nothing ! I presume he will feel free
to visit in the family, even if he don't board
with us."
" I presume he will."
" And if he don't use his privileges, do you
think he'll be a fit person to manage your
paint in South America ? "
The Colonel reddened consciously. " I'm
not taking him on that basis."
" Oh, yes, you are ! You may pretend you
aint to yourself, but you mustn't pretend so
to me. Because I know you."
The Colonel laughed. " Pshaw ! " he said.
Mrs. Lapham continued : " I don't see any
harm in hoping that he'll take a fancy to her.
But if you really think it wont do to mix
the two things, I advise you not to take Mr.
Corey into the business. It will do all very
well if he does take a fancy to her ; but if he
don't, you know how you'll feel about it. And
I know you well enough, Silas, to know that
you can't do him justice if that happens. And
I don't think it's right you should take this
step unless you're pretty sure. I can see that
you've set your heart on this thing "
" I haven't set my heart on it at all," pro-
tested Lapham.
" And if you can't bring it about, you're
going to feel unhappy over it," pursued his
wife, regardless of his protest.
" Oh, very well," he said. " If you know
more about what's in my mind than I do,
there's no use arguing, as I can see."
He got up, to carry off his consciousness,
and sauntered out of the door on to his piazza.
He could see the young people down on the
rocks, and his heart swelled in his breast. He
had always said that he did not care what a
man's family was, but the presence of young
Corey as an applicant to him for employment,
as his guest, as the possible suitor of his
daughter, was one of the sweetest flavors that
he had yet tasted in his success. He knew
who the Coreys were very well, and, in his
simple, brutal way, he had long hated their
378
THE RISE OE SILAS LAPHAM.
name as a symbol of splendor which, unless
he should live to see at least three generations
of his descendants gilded with mineral paint,
he could not hope to realize in his own. He
was acquainted in a business way with the
tradition of old Phillips Corey, and he had
heard a great many things about the Corey
who had spent his youth abroad and his
father's money everywhere, and done nothing
but say smart things. Lapham could not see
the smartness of some of them which had been
repeated to him. Once he had encountered the
fellow, and it seemed to Lapham that the tall,
slim, white-mustached man, with the slight
stoop, was everything that was offensively
aristocratic. He had bristled up aggressively
at the name when his wife told how she had
made the acquaintance of the fellow's family
the summer before, and he had treated the
notion of young Corey's caring for Irene with
the contempt which such a ridiculous super-
stition deserved. He had made up his mind
about young Corey beforehand ; yet when he
met him he felt an instant liking for him, which
he frankly acknowledged, and he had begun
to assume the burden of his wife's superstition,
of which she seemed now ready to accuse
him of being the inventor.
Nothing had moved his thick imagination
like this day's events since the girl who taught
him spelling and grammar in the school at
Lumberville had said she would have him for
hei husband.
The dark figures, stationary on the rocks,
began to move, and he could see that they
were coming toward the house. He went in-
doors so as not to appear to have been watch-
ing them.
VIII.
A week after she had parted with her son
at Bar Harbor, Mrs. Corey suddenly walked
in upon her husband in their house in Boston.
He was at breakfast, and he gave her the
patronizing welcome with which the husband
who has been staying in town all summer re-
ceives his wife when she drops down upon
him from the mountains or the sea-side.
For a little moment she feels herself strange
in the house, and suffers herself to be treated
like a guest, before envy of his comfort vexes
her back into possession and authority. Mrs.
Corey was a lady, and she did not let her
envy take the form of open reproach.
" Well, Anna, you find me here in the luxury
you left me to. How did you leave the girls ? "
" The girls were well," said Mrs. Corey,
looking absently at her husband's brown vel-
vet coat, in which he was so handsome. No
man had ever grown gray more beautifully.
His hair, while not remaining dark enough to
form a theatrical contrast with his mustache,
was yet some shades darker, and, in becoming
a little thinner, it had become a little more
gracefully wavy. His skin had the pearly tint
which that of elderly men sometimes assumes,
and the lines which time had traced upon it
were too delicate for the name of wrinkles. He
had never had any personal vanity, and there
was no consciousness in his good looks now.
" I am glad of that. The boy I have with
me," he returned; " that is, when hew with me."
" Why, where is he ? " demanded the
mother.
" Probably carousing with the boon Lapham
somewhere. He left me yesterday afternoon
to go and offer his allegiance to the Mineral
Paint King, and I haven't seen him since."
" Bromfield ! " cried Mrs. Corey. " Why
didn't you stop him ? "
" Well, my dear, I'm not sure that it isn't a
very good thing."
" A good thing ? It's horrid ! "
" No, I don't think so. It's decent. Tom
had found out — without consulting the land-
scape, which I believe proclaims it every-
where "
" Hideous ! "
" That it's really a good thing ; and he
thinks that he has some ideas in regard to its
dissemination in the parts beyond seas."
" Why shouldn't he go into something else ? "
lamented the mother.
" I believe he has gone into nearly every-
thing else, and come out of it. So there is
a chance of his coming out of this. But
as I had nothing to suggest in place of it, I
thought it best not to intertere. In fact, what
good would my telling him that mineral paint
was nasty have done ? I dare say you told
him it was nasty."
" Yes ! I did."
" And you see with what effect, though he
values your opinion three times as much as
he values mine. Perhaps you came up to tell
him again that it was nasty ? "
" I feel very unhappy about it. He is throw-
ing himself away. Yes, I should like to pre-
vent it if I could ! "
The father shook his head.
"If Lapham hasn't prevented it, I fancy it's
too late. But there may be some hopes of
Lapham. As for Tom's throwing himself
away, I don't know. There's no question but
he is one of the best fellows under the sun.
He's tremendously energetic, and he has
plenty of the kind of sense which we call
horse ; but he isn't brilliant. No, Tom is
not brilliant. I don't think he would get on
in a profession, and he's instinctively kept out
of everything of the kind. But he has got to
THE RISE OE SILAS LAPHAM.
379
do something. What shall he do ? He says
mineral paint, and really I don't see why he
shouldn't. If money is fairly and honestly
earned, why should we pretend to care what
it comes out of, when we don't really care ?
That superstition is exploded everywhere."
" Oh, it isn't the paint alone," said Mrs.
Corey ; and then she perceptibly arrested her-
self, and made a diversion in continuing : " I
wish he had married some one."
" With money ? " suggested her husband.
I From time to time I have attempted Tom's
corruption from that side, but I suspect Tom
has a conscience against it, and I rather like
him for it. I married for love myself," said
Corey, looking across the table at his wife.
She returned his look tolerantly, though
she felt it right to say, " What nonsense! "
" Besides," continued her husband, " if you
come to money, there is the paint princess.
She will have plenty."
" Ah, that's the worst of it," sighed the
mother. " I suppose I could get on with the
paint "
" But not with the princess ? I thought
you said she was a very pretty, well-behaved
girl?"
" She is very pretty, and she is well-be-
haved ; but there is nothing of her. She is in-
sipid ; she is very insipid."
" But Tom seemed to like her flavor, such
as it was ? "
" How can I tell ? We were under a terri-
ble obligation to them, and I naturally wished
him to be polite to them. In fact, I asked
him to be so."
" And he was too polite ? "
" I can't say that he was. But there is no
doubt that the child is extremely pretty."
" Tom says there are two of them. Per-
haps they will neutralize each other."
" Yes, there is another daughter," assented
Mrs. Corey. " I don't see how you can joke
about such things, Bromfield," she added.
" Well, I don't either, my dear, to tell you
the truth. My hardihood surprises me. Here
is a son of mine whom I see reduced to mak-
ing his living by a shrinkage in values. It's
very odd," interjected Corey, "that some
values should have this peculiarity of shrink-
ing. You never hear of values in a picture
shrinking; but rents, stocks, real estate — all
those values shrink abominably. Perhaps it
might be argued that one should put all his
values into pictures ; I've got a good many
of mine there."
" Tom needn't earn his living," said Mrs.
Corey, refusing her husband's jest. "There's
still enough for all of us."
"That is what I have sometimes urged
upon Tom. I have proved to him that with
economy, and strict attention to business, he
need do nothing as long as he lives. Of course
he would be somewhat restricted, and it would
cramp the rest of us ; but it is a world of
sacrifices and compromises. He couldn't
agree with me, and he was not in the least
moved by the example of persons of quality
in Europe, which I alleged in support of the
life of idleness. It appears that he wishes to
do something — to do something for himself.
I am afraid that Tom is selfish."
Mrs. Corey smiled wanly. Thirty years be-
fore, she had married the rich young painter
in Rome, who said so much better things than
he painted — charming things, just the things
to please the fancy of a girl who was disposed
to take life a little too seriously and practi-
cally. She saw him in a different light when
she got him home to Boston; but he had kept
on saying the charming things, and he had
not done much else. In fact, he had fulfilled
the promise of his youth. It was a good trait
in him that he was not actively but only pas-
sively extravagant. He was not adventurous
with his money; his tastes were as simple as
an Italian's ; he had no expensive habits. In
the process of tiir^e he had grown to lead a
more and more secluded life. It was hard to
get him out anywhere, even to dinner. His
patience with their narrowing circumstances
had a pathos which she felt the more the
more she came into charge of their joint life.
At times it seemed too bad that the children
and their education and pleasures should cost
so much. She knew, besides, that if it had not
been for them she would have gone back to
Rome with him, and lived princely there for
less than it took to live respectably in Boston.
" Tom hasn't consulted me," continued his
father, " but he has consulted other people.
And he has arrived at the conclusion that
mineral paint is a good thing to go into. He
has found out all about it, and about its
founder or inventor. It's quite impressive to
hear him talk. And if he must do something
for himself, I don't see why his egotism
shouldn't as well take that form as another.
Combined with the paint princess, it isn't so
agreeable; but that's only a remote possibility,
for which your principal ground is your moth-
erly solicitude. But even if it were probable
and imminent, what could you do ? The chief
consolation that we American parents have in
these matters is that we can do nothing. If
we were Europeans, even English, we should
take some cognizance of our children's love
affairs, and in some measure teach their young
affections how to shoot. But it is our custom
to ignore them until they have shot, and then
they ignore us. We are altogether too delicate
to arrange the marriages of our children ; and
38o
THE RISE OF SILAS LAPHAM.
when they have arranged them we don't like
to say anything, for fear we should only make
bad worse. The right way is for us to school
ourselves to indifference. That is what the
young people have to do elsewhere, and that
is the only logical result of our position here.
It is absurd for us to have any feeling about
what we don't interfere with."
" Oh, people do interfere with their chil-
dren's marriages very often," said Mrs. Corey.
" Yes, but only in a half-hearted way, so
as not to make it disagreeable for themselves
if the marriages go on in spite of them, as
they're pretty apt to do. Now, my idea is
that I ought to cut Tom off with a shilling.
That would be very simple, and it would be
economical. But you would never consent,
and Tom wouldn't mind it."
" I think our whole conduct in regard to
such things is wrong," said Mrs. Corey.
" Oh, very likely. But our whole civiliza-
tion is based upon it. And who is going to
make a beginning ? To which father in our
acquaintance shall I go and propose an alli-
ance for Tom with his daughter ? I should feel
like an ass. And will you go to some mother,
and ask her sons in marriage for our daugh-
ters ? You would feel like a goose. No ; the
only motto for us is, Hands off altogether."
" I shall certainly speak to Tom when the
time comes," said Mrs. Corey.
"And I shall ask leave to be absent from your
discomfiture, my dear," answered her husband.
The son returned that afternoon, and con-
fessed his surprise at finding his mother in
Boston. He was so frank that she had not
quite the courage to confess in turn why she
had come, but trumped up an excuse.
"Well, mother," he said promptly, "I have
made an engagement with Mr. Lapham."
" Have you, Tom ? " she asked faintly.
" Yes. For the present I am going to have
charge of his foreign correspondence, and if
I see my way to the advantage I expect to
find in it, I am going out to manage that side
of his business in South America and Mexico.
He's behaved very handsomely about it. He
says that if it appears for our common inter-
est, he shall pay me a salary as well as a
commission. I've talked with Uncle Jim, and
he thinks it's a good opening."
" Your Uncle Jim does ? " queried Mrs.
Corey in amaze.
" Yes ; I consulted him the whole way
through, and I've acted on his advice."
This seemed an incomprehensible treachery
on her brother's part.
"Yes; I thought you would like to have
me. And besides, I couldn't possibly have
gone to any one so well fitted to advise me."
His mother said nothing. In fact, the min-
eral paint business, however painful its inter-
est, was, for the moment, superseded by a
more poignant anxiety. She began to feel
her way cautiously toward this.
" Have you been talking about your busi-
ness with Mr. Lapham all night ? "
" Well, pretty much," said her son, with a
guiltless laugh. " I went to see him yesterday
afternoon, after I had gone over the whole
ground with Uncle Jim, and Mr. Lapham
asked me to go down with him and finish up."
" Down ? " repeated Mrs. Corey.
" Yes, to Nantasket. He has a cottage
down there."
"At Nantasket?" Mrs. Corey knitted her
brows a little. " What in the world can a
cottage at Nantasket be like ? '*
" Oh, very much like a ' cottage ' any-
where. It has the usual allowance of red
roof and veranda. There are the regulation
rocks by the sea ; and the big hotels on the
beach about a mile off, flaring away with
electric lights and roman-candles at night.
We didn't have them at Nahant."
" No," said his mother. " Is Mrs. Lapham
well ? And her daughter ? "
" Yes, I think so," said the young man.
" The young ladies walked me down to the
rocks in the usual way after dinner, and then
I came back and talked paint with Mr. Lap-
ham till midnight. We didn't settle anything
till this morning coming up on the boat."
" What sort of people do they seem to be at
home ? "
" What sort ? Well, I don't know that I
noticed." Mrs; Corey permitted herself the
first part of a sigh of relief; and her son
laughed, but apparently not at her. " They're
just reading ' Middlemarch. ' They say there's
so much talk about it. Oh, I suppose they're
very good people. They seemed to be on very
good terms with each other."
" I suppose it's the plain sister who's read-
ing ' Middlemarch.' "
" Plain ? Is she plain ? " asked the young
man, as if searching his consciousness. " Yes,
it's the older one who does the reading, ap-
parently. But I don't believe that even she
overdoes it. They like to talk better. They
reminded me of Southern people in that."
The young man smiled, as if amused by some
of his impressions of the Lapham family.
" The living, as the country people call it, is
tremendously good. The Colonel — he's a
colonel — talked of the coffee as his wife's
coffee, as if she had personally made it in the
kitchen, though I believe it was merely in-
spired by her. And there was everything in
the house that money could buy. But money
has its limitations."
This was a fact which Mrs. Corey was be-
THE RISE OE SILAS LAPHAM.
3Si
ginning to realize more and more unpleasantly
in her own life ; but it seemed to bring her a
certain comfort in its application to the Lap-
hams. " Yes, there is a point where taste has
to begin," she said.
" They seemed to want to apologize to me
for not having more books," said Corey. " I
don't know why they should. The Colonel said
they bought a good many books, first and
last; but apparently they don't take them to
the sea-side."
" I dare say they never buy a new book.
I've met some of these moneyed people lately,
and they lavish on every conceivable luxury,
and then borrow books, and get them in the
cheap paper editions."
" I fancy that's the way with the Lapham
family," said the young man, smilingly. " But
they are very good people. The other daugh-
ter is humorous."
" Humorous ? " Mrs. Corey knitted her
brows in some perplexity. " Do you mean
like Mrs. Sayre ? " she asked, naming the
lady whose name must come into every Bos-
ton mind when humor is mentioned.
" Oh, no ; nothing like that. She never
says anything that you can remember ; noth-
ing in flashes or ripples; nothing the least
literary. But it's a sort of droll way of looking
at things ; or a droll medium through which
things present themselves. I don't know. She
tells what she's seen, and mimics a little."
" Oh," said Mrs. Corey, coldly. After a
moment she asked : " And is Miss Irene as
pretty as ever ? "
" She's a wonderful complexion," said the
son, unsatisfactorily. " I shall want to be by
when father and Colonel Lapham meet," he
added, with a smile.
"Ah, yes, your father ! " said the mother, in
that way in which a wife at once compassion-
ates and censures her husband to their children.
" Do you think it's really going to be a
trial to him ? " asked the young man, quickly.
" No, no, I can't say it is. But I confess I
wish it was some other business, Tom."
" Well, mother, I don't see why. The prin-
cipal thing looked at now is the amount of
money; and while I would rather starve than
touch a dollar that was dirty with any sort
of dishonesty "
" Of course you would, my son ! " inter-
posed his mother, proudly.
" I shouldn't at all mind its having a little
mineral paint on it. I'll use my influence with
Colonel Lapham — if I ever have any — to
have his paint scraped off the landscape."
" I suppose you wont begin till the autumn."
" Oh, yes, I shall," said the son, laughing
at his mother's simple ignorance of business.
" I shall begin to-morrow morning."
" To-morrow morning ! "
"Yes. I've had my desk appointed al-
ready, and I shall be down there at nine in
the morning to take possession."
" Tom ! " cried his mother, " why do you
think Mr, Lapham has taken you into busi-
ness so readily ? I've always heard that it
was so hard for young men to get in."
" And do you think I found it easy with
him ? We had about twelve hours' solid talk."
" And you don't suppose it was any sort
of — personal consideration ? "
" Why, I don't know exactly what you
mean, mother. I suppose he likes me."
Mrs. Corey could not say just what she
meant. She answered, ineffectually enough :
"Yes. You .wouldn't like it to be a favor,
would you ? "
" I think he's a man who may be trusted to
look after his own interest. But I don't mind
his beginning by liking me. It'll be my own
fault if I don't make myself essential to him."
" Yes," said Mrs. Corey.
" Well," demanded her husband, at their
first meeting after her interview with their
son, " what did you say to Tom ? "
" Very little, if anything. I found him
with his mind made up, and it would only
have distressed him if I had tried to change it."
" That is precisely what I said, my dear."
" Besides, he had talked the matter over
fully with James, and seems to have been ad-
vised by him. I can't understand James."
" Oh ! it's in regard to the paint, and not
the princess, that he's made up his mind.
Well, I think you were wise to let him alone,
Anna. We represent a faded tradition. We
don't really care what business a man is in,
so it is large enough, and he doesn't adver-
tise offensively ; but we think it fine to affect
reluctance."
" Do you really feel so, Bromfield ? " asked
his wife, seriously.
" Certainly I do. There was a long time
in my misguided youth when I supposed
myself some sort of porcelain ; but it's a re-
lief to be of the common clay, after all, and
to know it. If I get broken, I can be easily
replaced."
" If Tom must go into such a business,"
said Mrs. Corey, " I'm glad James approves
of it."
" I'm afraid it wouldn't matter to Tom if
he didn't ; and I don't know that I should
care," said Corey, betraying the fact that he
had perhaps had a good deal of his brother-
in-law's judgment in the course of his life.
" You had better consult him in regard to
Tom's marrying the princess."
" There is no necessity at present for that,"
said Mrs. Corey, with dignity. After a mo-
382
THE RISE OF SILAS LATHAM.
ment, she asked, " Should you feel quite so
easy if it were a question of that, Bromfield ? "
" It would be a little more personal."
" You feel about it as I do. Of course, we
have both lived too long, and seen too much
of the world, to suppose we can control such
things. The child is good, I haven't the least
doubt, and all those things can be managed
so that they wouldn't disgrace us. But she
has had a certain sort of bringing up. I should
prefer Tom to marry a girl with another sort,
and this business venture of his increases the
chances that he wont. That's all."
" ' 'Tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide
as a church door, but 'twill serve.' "
" I shouldn't like it."
" Well, it hasn't happened yet."
" Ah, you never can realize anything be-
forehand."
" Perhaps that has saved me some suffering.
But you have at least the consolation of two
anxieties at once. I always find that a great
advantage. You can play one off against the
other."
Mrs. Corey drew a long breath as if she
did not experience the suggested consolation;
and she arranged to quit, the following after-
noon, the scene of her defeat, which she had
not had the courage to make a battle-field.
Her son went down to see her off on the
boat, after spending his first day at his desk
in Lapham's office. He was in a gay humor,
and she departed in a reflected gleam of' his
good spirits. He told her all about it, as he
sat talking with her at the stern of the boat,
lingering till the last moment, and then step-
ping ashore, with as little waste of time as
Lapham himself, on the gang-plank which the
deck-hands had laid hold of. He touched his
hat to her from the wharf to reassure her of
his escape from being carried away with her,
and the next moment his smiling face hid
itself in the crowd.
He walked on smiling up the long wharf,
encumbered with trucks and hacks and piles
of freight, and, taking his way through the
deserted business streets beyond this bustle,
made a point of passing the door of Lapham's
warehouse, on the jambs of which his name
and paint were lettered in black on a square
ground of white. The door was still open,
and Corey loitered a moment before it, tempted
to go upstairs and fetch away some foreign
letters which he had left on his desk, and
which he thought he might finish up at home.
He was in love with his work, and he felt the
enthusiasm for it which nothing but the work
we can do well inspires in us. He believed
that he had found his place in the world, after
a good deal of looking, and he had the relief,
the repose, of fitting into it. Every little inci-
dent of the momentous, uneventful day was
a pleasure in his mind, from his sitting down
at his desk, to which Lapham's boy brought
him the foreign letters, till his rising from it
an hour ago. Lapham had been in view
within his own office, but he had given Corey
no formal reception, and had, in fact, not
spoken to him till toward the end of the
forenoon, when he suddenly came out of his
den with some more letters in his hand, and
after a brief " How d'ye do ? " had spoken a
few words about them, and left them with
him. He was in his shirt-sleeves again, and
his sanguine person seemed to radiate the
heat with which he suffered. He did not go
out to lunch, but had it brought to him in his
office, where Corey saw him eating it before
he left his own desk to go out and perch on a
swinging seat before the long counter of a
down-town restaurant. He observed that all
the others lunched at twelve, and he resolved
to anticipate his usual hour. When he re-
turned, the pretty girl who had been clicking
away at a type-writer all the morning was
neatly putting out of sight the evidences of
pie from the table where her machine stood,
and was preparing to go on with her copying.
In his office Lapham lay asleep in his arm-
chair, with a newspaper over his face.
Now, while Corey lingered at the entrance
to the stairway, these two came down the
stairs together, and he heard Lapham saying,
" Well, then, you better get a divorce."
He looked red and excited, and the girl's
face, which she veiled at sight of Corey, showed
traces of tears. She slipped round him into
the street.
But Lapham stopped, and said, with the
show of no feeling but surprise : " Hello,
Corey ! Did you want to go up ? "
" Yes ; there were some letters I hadn't
quite got through with."
" You'll find Dennis up there. But I guess
you better let them go till to-morrow. I al-
ways make it a rule to stop work when I'm
done."
" Perhaps you're right,"said Corey, yielding.
" Come along down as far as the boat with
me. There's a little matter I want to talk over
with you."
It was a business matter, and related to
Corey's proposed connection with the house.
The next day the head book-keeper, who
lunched at the long counter of the same res-
taurant with Corey, began to talk with him
about Lapham. Walker had not apparently
got his place by seniority; though, with his
bald head, and round, smooth face, one might
have taken him for a plump elder, if he had
not looked equally like a robust infant. The
thick, drabbish-yellow mustache was what ar-
THE RISE OF SILAS LAPHAM.
3*3
rested decision in either direction, and the
prompt vigor of all his movements was that
of a young man of thirty, which was really
Walker's age. He knew, of course, who Corey
was, and he had waited for a man who might
look down on him socially to make the over-
tures toward something more than business ac-
quaintance ; but, these made, he was readily
responsive, and drew freely on his philosophy
of Lapham and his affairs.
" I think about the only difference between
people in this world is that some know what
they want, and some don't. Well, now,"
said Walker, beating the bottom of his salt-
box to make the salt come out, " the old man
knows what he wants every time. And gen-
erally he gets it. Yes, sir, he generally gets
it. He knows what he's about, but I'll be
blessed if the rest of us do half the time.
Anyway, we don't till he's ready to let us.
You take my position in most business
houses. It's confidential. The head book-
keeper knows right along pretty much every-
thing the house has got in hand. I'll give
you my word I don't. He may open up to
you a little more in your department, but, as
far as the rest of us go, he don't open up any
more than an oyster on a hot brick. They
say he had a partner once; I guess he's
dead. I wouldn't like to be the old man's
partner. Well, you see, this paint of his is
like his heart's blood. Better not try to joke
him about it. I've seen people come in occa-
sionally and try it. They didn't get much fun
out of it."
While he talked, Walker was plucking up
morsels from his plate, tearing off pieces of
French bread from the long loaf, and feeding
them into his mouth in an impersonal way,
as if he were firing up an engine.
" I suppose he thinks," suggested Corey,
" that if he doesn't tell, nobody else will."*
Walker took a draught of beer from his
glass, and wiped the foam from his mustache.
" Oh, but he carries it too far ! It's a weak-
ness with him. He's just so about everything.
Look at the way he keeps it up about that
type-writer girl of his. You'd think she was
some princess traveling incognito. There
isn't one of us knows who she is, or where
she came from, or who she belongs to. He
brought her and her machine into the office
one morning, and set 'em down at a table,
and that's all there is about it, as far as we're
concerned. It's pretty hard on the girl, for I
guess she'd like to talk ; and to any one that
didn't know the old man — " Walker broke
off and drained his glass of what was left in it.
Corey thought of the words he had over-
heard from Lapham to the girl. But he said,
" She seems to be kept pretty busy."
" Oh, yes," said Walker ; " there aint much
loafing round the place, in any of the depart-
ments, from the old man's down. That's just
what I say. He's got to work just twice as
hard, if he wants to keep everything in his
own mind. But he aint afraid of work.
That's one good thing about him. And Miss
Dewey has to keep step with the rest of us.
But she don't look like one that would take
to it naturally. Such a pretty girl as that
generally thinks she does enough when she
looks her prettiest."
" She's a pretty girl," said Corey, non-com-
mittally. " But I suppose a great many pretty
girls have to earn their living."
" Don't any of 'em like to do it," returned
the book-keeper. " They think it's a hard-
ship, and I don't blame 'em. They have got
a right to get married, and they ought to
have the chance. And Miss DewTey's smart,
too. She's as bright as a biscuit. I guess
she's had trouble. I shouldn't be much more
than half surprised if Miss Dewey wasn't
Miss Dewey, or hadn't always been. Yes,
sir," continued the book-keeper, who pro-
longed the talk as they walked back to Lap-
ham's warehouse together, " I don't know
exactly what it is, — it isn't any one thing in
particular, — but I should say that girl had
been married. I wouldn't speak so freely to
any of the rest, Mr. Corey, — I want you to
understand that, — and it isn't any of my
business, anyway ; but that's my opinion."
Corey made no reply, as he walked beside
the book-keeper, who continued :
" It's curious what a difference marriage
makes in people. Now, I know that I don't
look any more like a bachelor of my age than
I do like the man in the moon, and yet I
couldn't say where the difference came in, to
save me. And it's just so with a woman.
The minute you catch sight of her face, there's
something in it that tells you whether she's
married or not. What do you suppose it is ? "
" I'm sure I don't know," said Corey,
willing to laugh away the topic. "And from
what I read occasionally of some people who
go about repeating their happiness, I shouldn't
say that the intangible evidences were always
unmistakable."
" Oh, of course," admitted Walker, easily
surrendering his position. " All signs fail in
dry weather. Hello ! What's that ? " He
caught Corey by the arm, and they both
stopped.
At a corner, half a block ahead of them, the
summer noon solitude of the place was broken
by a bit of drama. A man and woman issued
from the intersecting street, and at the mo-
ment of coming into sight the man, who
looked like a sailor, caught the woman by the
;84
CHRISTIANITY AND POPULAR AMUSEMENTS.
arm, as if to detain her. A brief struggle en-
sued, the woman trying to free herself, and
the man half coaxing, half scolding. The
spectators could now see that he was drunk;
but before they could decide whether it was
a case for their interference or not, the woman
suddenly set both hands against the man's
breast and gave him a quick push. He lost
his footing and tumbled into a heap in the
gutter. The woman faltered an instant, as if
to see whether he was seriously hurt, and then
turned and ran.
When Corey and the book-keeper reentered
the office, Miss Dewey had finished her lunch,
and was putting a sheet of paper into her
type-writer. She looked up at them with her
eyes of turquoise blue, under her low white
forehead, with the hair neatly rippled over it,
and then began to beat the keys of her
machine.
(To be continued.)
CHRISTIANITY AND POPULAR AMUSEMENTS.
The historical relation of Christianity to
popular amusements is one of antagonism.
The philosophy of the church respecting the
whole subject maybe summed up in the cyn-
ical counsel of Douglas Jerrold to persons
about to marry, " Don't ! " There have been
contrary voices, and not a little practical dis-
sent has found expression ; but the tenor of
the ecclesiastical utterances respecting amuse-
ments has been prohibitory, not to say objur-
gatory. In some of the sects a less stringent
doctrine has been taught ; but it is not very
long since the average Protestant church-mem-
ber took no diversion without some compunc-
tions or questionings of conscience. John
Bunyan's experience was by no means excep-
tional ; and the keen remorse which he expe-
rienced at the time of his conversion for the
awful wickedness of his youth — which awful
wickedness consisted in ringing the bells in the
church-tower, in dancing with the girls on the
village green, and in playing the nefarious game
of tip-cat — shows in what light all worldly
amusements have been held by great numbers.
of Christians in the reformed churches. " In
the middle of a game of tip-cat," says Ma-
caulay, " he paused and stood staring wildly
upward, with his stick in his hand. He had
heard a voice asking him whether he would
leave his sins and go to heaven, or keep his
sins and go to hell ; and he had seen an aw-
ful countenance frowning on him from the
sky." When we reflect that this game of tip-
cat was regarded by Bunyan as one of his
darling sins, continuance in which would land
him in perdition, and remember that it is none
other than that innocuous diversion still played
by small boys in the streets of our cities un-
der the various titles of " cat " or " kitty " or
" shinny," we discover how conventional the
treatment of this subject has been, and what
grievous burdens of ascetic self-denial have
been bound upon men's consciences.
Doubtless this inveterate hostility to amuse-
ments of all sorts is partly traditional, a sur-
vival of that wholesome horror and righteous
enmity with which the first Christians resisted
the amusements in vogue throughout the
Roman Empire. The frightful debaucheries
and cruelties which constituted the sports of
the Romans merited the holy indignation
with which the disciples of the early days de-
nounced them. The conflict of Christianity
with heathenism began in this very arena.
One of the broad lines of distinction which
the Christians drew between themselves and
their pagan neighbors was their refusal to
attend the Roman games. When we know
that the best actor was the one who could
behave the most obscenely ; that the chariot
races at the circus, where there were seats for
three hundred and eighty-five thousand spec-
tators, were deemed most successful when
horses and men were killed in the contest ;
that the spectacles at the amphitheater de-
rived all their relish from the butchery of
gladiators by scores and hundreds in their
battles with wild beasts and with one an-
other ; that the public executions also offered
a delectable entertainment for the populace,
the condemned sometimes appearing " in
garments interwoven with threads of gold,
and with crowns on their heads, when sud-
denly flames burst from their clothing and
consumed them," all for the amusement of the
people, — we are not disposed to find fault
with the protest of the early Christians against
the popular diversions. " Bread and games ! "
was the cry of the Roman populace. " Work
and prayer ! " was the watch- word of the Chris-
tians. Against the indolence and savage fri-
volity of the people about them, they lifted up
their standard of industry and soberness. It
was a great conflict on which they thus en-
tered ; and there was small opportunity for
compromise or discrimination. The senti-
ments and maxims which had their origin in
this early warfare have been perpetuated in
CHRISTIANITY AND POPULAR AMUSEMENTS.
385
the Church, and the judgments of the early
Christians upon popular amusements have
been repeated in modern times against sports
altogether different from those of Rome in
the first century.
At the time of the Reformation in Eng-
land, the hostility of the Puritans to popular
amusements was even more bitter than that
of the early Christians to the Roman games,
though "the reasons for this hostility were
much less cogent. Doubtless there was good
cause to protest against the roystering sports
of that period. The desecration of the Lord's
Day by noisy and wanton pastimes was com-
mon everywhere, and this called forth their
loudest protest. But when they entered upon
their crusade against the diversions of the
people, they became so extravagant in their
judgments, including in their denunciations
so many harmless things and failing so ut-
terly to preserve any moral perspective in
their teachings, that they never could have
carried with them the consciences of intelli-
gent persons. Those who were trained in
their own households and who were sub-
jected to the strenuous pressure of their pub-
lic opinion could be brought to adopt their
theories. By an educational process as care-
ful and insistent as that, for example, to
which John Stuart Mill was subjected, a child
can be made to believe or to disbelieve almost
anything. Bunyan was not a fool, yet he
honestly thought that he was in danger of
being sent to hell for playing tip-cat. By such
rigid training the Puritans did create in the
minds that were brought under their influence
the strong belief that every species of amuse-
ment was sinful; and this theory they en-
forced with all the fervor of religious enthusi-
asm, and, when they were able, by all the
power of the State. But it was only from
those who had been subjected from childhood
to the pressure of this intense philosophy that
any steady conformity to its rules could be
expected. Nature and reason were against
it. The utter disproportion of its judgments
must soon become evident. The moralist to
whom the dancing of the boys and girls around
I the May-pole on the village green is a " horri-
ble vice "; who cries out, with old Stubbes,
I Give over your occupations, you pipers, you
fiddlers, you musicians, you tabretters, and you
fluters, and all other of that wicked brood,"
holding that " sweet music at the first delight-
eth the ears, but afterward corrupteth and de-
praveth the mind"; who damns the simplest
and most wholesome sports quite as roundly
as the worst debaucheries, — will soon find him-
self speaking to a limited audience. If it be
true, as Knight tells us, that "drinking, dic-
ing, bear-baiting, cock-fighting — the coarsest
Vol. XXIX.— 37.
temptations to profligacy — were not such
abominations in the eyes of the Puritans as
"stage plays, interludes, and comedies," then
the Puritans ought to have lost their influence
with the English people.
Macaulay's remark that the Puritans op-
posed bear-baiting less because it gave pain
to the bear than because it gave pleasure to
the spectators, has often been quoted as an
example of his vicious fondness for antithe-
sis ; but it is by no means clear that the cyn-
icism lacks justice. Many a Puritan did think
merriment a worse sin than cruelty to animals.
The story of the Highlander who reported
that he saw, on the Sabbath, men and women
walking along the streets of Edinburgh, and
" smiling as if they were perfectly happy,"
adding, " It was an awfu' sight ! " illustrates
the view of life which was taken by the more
strenuous Puritans. Knight says that the
Judicious Hooker's statement about the Ana-
baptists was indirectly pointed at them : " Ev-
ery word otherwise than severely and sadly
uttered seemed to pierce like a sword through
them. If any man were pleasant, their man-
ner was fervently with sighs to repeat those
words of our Saviour Christ, ' Woe be to you
which now laugh, for ye shall lament.' "
That this overstrained asceticism of the
Puritans was excusable, in view of the ex-
cesses against which they testified, may be
freely admitted; albeit the reveling Cavaliers
might doubtless claim some similar mitigation
of their condemnation, in view of the rigors
of the Roundheads. Each party was driven
into worse extremes by the extravagances of
the other. The philosophy of life which un-
derlay the Puritan regimen has given way
slowly. Down to the present generation it
has been the received doctrine in most of the
reformed churches, that all " worldly pleas-
ures" ought to be eschewed. If personal
testimony may be offered, the writer remem-
bers very well that, when a boy of twelve, he
mentally debated the question of conversion,
under the impression that the change involved
the sacrifice of base-ball, and base-ball was
then an innocent game. This impression was
gained in the religious services upon which
he was a constant attendant. It is true that
at that time, and long before, members of
churches did engage to some extent in sport
and merriment, but generally under some pro-
test of conscience, and with the feeling that the
indulgence was a charge against their piety.
The ideal Christian of the reformed churches
was a man who had no use for any kind of di-
version, and whose neighbors would have been
shocked if they had seen him unbending in a
merry game. The only enjoyment deemed
strictly legitimate for the eminent saint was re-
3S6
CHRISTIANITY AND POPULAR AMUSEMENTS.
ligious rapture — the "awful mirth " described
by Dr. Watts in his psalms. It was the implicit,
if not the avowed, doctrine of the Church, that
all kinds of diversions were substitutes for this
holy ecstasy, and as such sinful. It was said,
indeed, in sermons and in songs, that
" Religion never was designed
To make our pleasures less";
but by this was meant that the pleasure to
be found in prayer and meditation, and in
the anticipation of heaven, was superior to
the i: worldly" pleasures abandoned; not that
the common diversions of life could them-
selves be continued and sanctified. The time
is within the memory of many of those who
will read this essay, when ministers first be-
gan to say frequently and freely that a long
face and an ascetic habit were not signs of
saintliness. Those who were so bold as to
make these assertions in the pulpit were re-
garded at first as somewhat erratic; it was
not easy for the average Christian to com-
prehend that a genuine piety could consist
with cheery manners and a hearty joy in the
good things of this life.
Out of this traditional estimate of the na-
ture of religion, and its relation to what is
known as the secular life, came the maxims
which the Church for many years applied to
amusement. It is needless to say that these
maxims are obsolete. In this case, at any
rate, prohibition has not prohibited. The
parson, with the pitchfork of excommunica-
tion, has not prevailed over nature. The rig-
orous rule of the Puritan, long enforced by
the most tremendous motives, is utterly
broken, and will not in our day be restored.
Failing to prohibit, the Church has now for
some time undertaken to regulate amusements
by drawing the line between the clean and
the unclean. Certain diversions have been
allowed, and certain others forbidden. Much
casuistry of a dubious sort has been expended
on this discussion ; the questions whether
dancing is sinful, and whether billiards are
worse than croquet, and whether cards are
always an abomination, and whether church-
members ought to be disciplined for attending
the theater or the opera, have been widely
and hotly debated ; most of us have had a
hand in the threshing of this chaff. Whether
these controversies have aided greatly in the
formation of a sound public opinion on this
subject may well be doubted ; the grounds on
which the permission of some amusements
and the prohibition of others have been rested
are often inconsistent and irrational ; and the
Church would be far wiser to give over these
questions of casuistry, and insist upon a few
general principles, such as these :
i. Amusement is not an end, but a means
— a means of refreshing the mind and replen-
ishing the strength of the body; when it
begins to be the principal thing for which
one lives, or when, in pursuing it, the mental
powers are enfeebled and the bodily health
impaired, it falls under just condemnation.
2. Amusements that consume the hours
which ought to be sacred to sleep are, there-
fore, censurable.
3. Amusements that call us away from
work which we are bound to do are pernicious,
just to the extent to which they cause us to
be neglectful or unfaithful.
4. Amusements that rouse or stimulate mor-
bid appetites or unlawful passions, or that
cause us to be restless or discontented, are
always to be avoided.
5 Any indulgence in amusement which
has a tendency to weaken our respect for the
great interests of character, or to loosen our
hold on the eternal verities of the spiritual
realm, is, so far forth, a damage to us.
These principles will apply to all kinds of
amusements, but the application must be made
by individuals. Parents must reduce these
principles to rules for the guidance of their
children, for the power to comprehend and
use principles is only gradually gained ; chil-
dren do not always possess it ; authority rather
than reason must often be their guide. But
the Church must use reason rather than
authority; and the pulpit can do no better
than faithfully to enforce some such general
maxims as I have suggested. Whatever the
Church can do in the regulation of amuse-
ments, can best be done by this method.
But is this all that the Church has to do with
the amusements of the people ? Is its function
fulfilled, in this important realm of human con-
duct, by repressing or regulating the diver-
sions of the people, — by preventing excess and
abuse ? Has the Church no positive duties
to perform in providing popular amusement?
Let me say at the outset that the churches
are doing already all that they ought to do in
the way of furnishing amusements of various
kinds in connection with their own organiza-
tions and in their own houses of worship. The
church sociable has become a recognized in-
stitution ; and, in spite of certain scandalous
reports, its influence, on the whole, has been
salutary. It is certain, however, that the
churches have gone fully as far in this direction
as it is safe for them to go. It is not the business
of the Church to organize dramatic troupes
or minstrel companies for the amusement of
the people in its own edifice. The proper
function of the Church is that of teaching and
moral influence ; and when it goes extensively
into the show business, it is apt to lose its
CHRISTIANITY AND POPUIAR AMUSEMENTS.
387
hold upon the more serious interests with
which it is charged. The duty of the Church,
with respect to the provision and direction
of popular amusements, will be discharged,
if at all, as its duty to the unfortunates of the
community is discharged, — by inspiring and
forming outside agencies to do this very thing.
The hospitals and the asylums are the work
of the Church ; it is neither economical nor
desirable that each church should undertake
to provide in connection with its own edifice,
and under the care of its own officers, a hos-
pital, an asylum for the insane, and a home
for the friendless. When it is said that the
Church ought to provide wholesome diversions
for the people, it is meant, therefore, that
the Church ought to stir up the intelligent and
benevolent men and women under its influence
to attend to this matter, and ought to make
them feel that this is one of the duties resting
on them as Christians. And the question now
before us is whether any such obligation as
this is now resting on the Church; whether
this is a field which Christian philanthropy
can and should enter and cultivate. In an-
swering this question several considerations
must be borne in mind.
1. Popular amusement is a great fact. A
large share of the people are seeking amuse-
ment of one sort or another continually. In
every city or considerable town the opera-
houses, the concert-halls, the rinks, the mu-
seums, the beer-gardens, as well as many lower
and less reputable places of diversion, are al-
ways open and generally well patronized. It
is probable that more persons attend places
of amusement than attend church ; or, rather,
that there is a larger number of persons in
almost any large town or city who seldom or
never attend any place of worship, than of
those who seldom or never visit any place of
amusement. The places of amusement are
generally open six or seven days in the week,
while most churches are open only two or
three days. Even the poorest people, those
who obtain but a meager subsistence by their
labor, and who often appeal to their neighbors
for charity, spend a good part of their scanty
earnings for amusements. A family, known
to the writer, that sold the last feather pillows
in the house for money to go to the circus, is
a type of a large class. Church-going is a luxury
too expensive for multitudes who spend three
times as much as a seat in church would cost
on the theater and the variety show.
2. The business of amusement constitutes
a great financial interest. An army of men
and women get their living by providing di-
version for the people. Millions of dollars are
invested in buildings, furniture, instruments,
equipage, scenery, animals, vehicles, and appli-
ances of all sorts, devoted to this purpose. Busy
brains are all the while contriving new forms
of diversion that shall prove attractive to the
people and remunerative to their projectors.
Large fortunes are made by successful mana-
gers; indeed, the capital of a millionaire is
required for the handling of some of our great
popular amusements. This liberal outlay and
this enterprising provision involve a general
and large expenditure of money on the part
of the people. In one inland city of sixty
thousand inhabitants there are two opera-
houses. In each of these there is an average
of five performances a week during the sea-
son, which lasts about forty weeks. Four hun-
dred performances a year, with average receipts
of two hundred and fifty dollars, give us one
hundred thousand dollars expended for amuse-
ments every year in these two houses — more
than is paid for the support of all the Protest-
ant churches in the city. A base-ball club
in the same city received during the last sea-
son, for gate money, about twenty thousand
dollars. Add all the money that was paid for
diversions of various sorts at the other halls,
and the rinks, and the public gardens of the
city; all that was taken by several circuses
and other outdoor shows ; all that was devoted
to billiards, and to dances, and to horse-races,
and to a multitude of other amusements,
more or less refined, — and it can be easily seen
that the amusement bill of a city of this size
must reach a formidable figure. Not count-
ing the cost of drink or debauchery, which is
not properly reckoned against amusements, —
counting only the expense of what may be
fairly classed among the diversions of the
people, — we see that a large share of their
earnings is devoted to this purpose. Complaint
is sometimes made of the cost of education
and of religious privileges ; but it is safe to
say that the people of this country spend
every year for amusements more than they
pay for their schools, and three times as much
as they pay for their churches.
3. Amusement is not only a great fact and
a great business interest, it is also a great
factor in the development of the national
character. If a wise philanthropist could
choose between making the laws of any peo-
ple and furnishing their amusements, it would
not take him long to decide. The robust vir-
tues are nurtured under the discipline of
work ; if the diversions can be kept healthful,
a sound national life will be developed. The
ideals of the people are shaped, and their
sentiments formed, to a large extent, by pop-
ular amusements. It is claimed that the drama
renders important service to public morality
in this direction ; but the claim can hardly be
allowed. A careful collection and analysis,
388
CHRISTIANITY AND POPULAR AMUSEMENTS.
by a well-known clergyman, of the plays pro-
duced at the leading theaters of Chicago dur-
ing a given period, clearly indicated that the
actual drama is far from being a great teacher
of morality. Doubtless many plays are pro-
duced whose moral lesson is helpful and
stimulating; but it cannot be claimed t^at
the preponderance of the influence of the
drama is on the side of virtue. It is conceiv-
able that the drama might be a great friend
of morality ; it is possible that it will be one
day , it is undeniable that there are a few
noble men and women now upon the stage
who are doing what they can to lift up its
standards ; it is not necessary to indulge in
any sweeping censures when we speak of it ;
but it is quite clear that this form of popular
amusement, as at present administered, tends
to the degradation rather than the elevation
of the people. It is not only nor chiefly by
the questionable morality of many of the
plays that this injury is done; it is by their
flippancy, their silliness, their sensationalism,
their unreality. Their effect upon the intellect
is like that produced by the reading of the
most trashy novels, only more debilitating.
So far as the drama is concerned, therefore,
I fear that it must be said that the net result
of its influence upon the national character is
injurious rather than beneficial. And the
same thing must be said of popular amuse-
ments in general, as at present organized and
conducted. Although the people receive
much wholesome refreshment and innocent
pleasure from the diversions now provided
for them, yet the effect of these amusements,
as a whole, upon their minds and their morals
and their physical health, is not salutary. I
am not inclined to pessimism on this or any
other subject, and I am able to look without
horror on many diversions commonly regarded
as wholly pernicious : yet careful observation
of the effect of the popular amusements upon
the people at large leads me to believe that
the balance of their influence is on the side
of injury. They are a great factor in the life
of the people, but their product, on the whole,
is evil ; they do much good, but more harm.
4. Seeing that amusement is so large an
element in the life of the people, seeing that
it lays so heavy a tax on their resources and
affects their character so powerfully, the ques-
tions naturally arise : How is it managed ?
By whom is it furnished ? How much of in-
telligence and of philanthropic purpose enters
into the plans of those who provide the amuse-
ments of the people ?
Concerning the class of persons who devote
their lives to the business of amusing the
people, it is not best to make any unqualified
statements. Among them are many who are
exemplary in their conduct, and who would
never engage in any enterprise the tendency
of which would be immoral or degrading.
But if what has been said is true, that the
preponderance of the influence of the popular
amusements is on the side of evil, then it is
reasonable to conclude that the majority of
those who furnish them are not persons of
exalted character. As a matter of fact, the
business of diverting the people is largely in
the hands of men and women whose moral
standards are low, whose habits are vicious,
and whose influence upon those with whom
they come in contact must be evil. It is to
people chiefly of this class that this most im-
portant interest of life is intrusted.
When we ask on what basis the business
of amusement is conducted, the answer is that
it rests almost wholly on a pecuniary basis.
The main interest of those who furnish it is a
pecuniary interest. The principle that regu-
lates it is the principle of supply and demand;
and this principle is interpreted, as we have
seen, by persons who would not be likely to
discover a demand for diversions of an elevat-
ing nature, if there were such a demand.
The question now arises whether this great
interest of human life ought to be left to settle
itself in this manner, by the law of supply and
demand. It may be wise to allow the material
interests of men to adjust themselves accord-
ing to this law. But amusement is not one
of the material interests of men. Man's need
of amusement is one of the needs of his higher
nature — his spirit, as well as of his body ; his
use of amusement affects his mind and his
character directly and powerfully. And what-
ever may be said about the introduction of
the principle of good-will into the business
of producing and distributing commodities,
there can be no question, when you enter the
realm where those forces are at work by which
character is produced, that the principle of
good-will must come in, and must be allowed
to rule. If this is true, the business of provid-
ing amusement for the people ought not to be
merely or mainly a mercenary business ; the
intelligence, the conscience, and the benevo-
lence of the community ought to recognize
this realm of amusement as belonging to them,
and ought to enter in and take possession.
Does the Church leave the religious wants
of the community to be provided for under
the law of supply and demand ? Is it supposed
that this matter will properly regulate itself;
that the people will call for what they need and
get it ; that no care is so be exercised and no ef-
fort made to provide wise and safe religious
teaching for them ? By no means. It is as-
sumed to be the function of the Church to
provide Christian institutions and Christian
CHRISTIANITY AND POPUIAR AMUSEMENTS.
389
instruction for the people; to spread the gospel
feast before them and send forth the invita-
tions to them ; not to wait and see what they
would like, and give them what they may ask
for ; not to leave this matter to be attended to
by those who seek to make gain of godliness.
How is it with the intellectual wants of the
community ? Does the State leave these to
be supplied under the economical law ? Is it
imagined that the people will get all the edu-
cation that they need if they are left to pro-
vide it for themselves, irregularly and spas-
modically, according to their own notions of
what they want ? Not at all. The intelligence
and philanthropy of the best citizens, express-
ing themselves in the laws of the state, provide
education for the people, build school-houses,
organize systems of education, employ teach-
ers, offering thus to the public a large and
wise and constant supply of one of their
deepest needs. It may be said that the pro-
vision is only a response to the popular de-
mand, but this is not true. The great motive
power of education is not the cry of igno-
rance; it is the offer of intelligence. How is
it in our homes ? Is the education of our
children the result of their call for learning,
or of our constant and insistent proffer of
learning to them ? Here and there is a child
that hungers for useful knowledge ; but the
great majority need to have this hunger cre-
ated in them, and need to have it stimulated
continually by a wise and patient presenta-
tion to them of the knowledge which we
wish them to acquire. Thus all popular edu-
cation proceeds, and has always proceeded,
from an altruistic motive. The demand has
been created by furnishing the supply; it is
the intelligence, the conscience, the patriot-
ism, the philanthropy of the best citizens —
not always of the richest citizens — that have
taken this business of education in hand and
managed it for the benefit of the whole peo-
ple. A large part of the work of education —
the work of school-boards, and trustees, and
visitors — is done gratuitously. Philanthropy
is not the sole motive in the work of educa-
tion ; the self-regarding motives have large
scope among teachers as well as pupils; but
the philanthropic element is an integral ele-
ment in all our best educational work. Be-
nevolence is one of the forces that keep the
machinery in motion. Education deserves
always to rank as one of the great missionary
enterprises. The best reward of the faithful
teacher is not his salary, but the consciousness
that he is rendering a valuable service to those
whom he instructs and to the state. When a
prominent educator announced, not long ago,
his purpose of abandoning his profession that
he might devote himself to the getting of
money, a murmur of indignant comment was
heard from the noble fraternity of teachers.
Among them are thousands who fully appre-
ciate and adopt the saying of Professor
Agassiz, that he had no time for money-mak-
ing. If there are millions in the land to whom
such a statement is incredible, and the man
who makes it a hypocrite, this only indicates
how deeply we have sunk into that abyss of
mercantilism, wherein, as true prophets are
warning us, the best elements of our national
life are fast disappearing. A sorry day it will
be for this land when the work of education is
wholly or mainly done for mercenary reasons.
Now, amusement, like education and relig-
ion, is a real need of human beings — ■ not so
deep or vital a need as education or religion,
but a real and constant need, and a need of the
higher nature as well as of the lower ; an in-
terest that closely concerns their characters ;
and it is almost as great a mistake to leave
it to take care of itself, and to be furnished
mainly by those who wish to make money
out of it, and who have no higher motive,
as it would be to leave education or religion
to be cared for in that way.
It is time that we begin to comprehend the
idea that this is one of the great interests of
human life which Christianity must claim
and control — one of the kingdoms of the
world which, according to the prophecy, are
to " become the kingdoms of our Lord and of
his Christ." When these words are quoted,
the thoughts of disciples are apt to fly off to
Burmah and Siam and Timbuctoo ; these are
the kingdoms of this world that are to be Chris-
tianized. Doubtless they are; but the text ought
to mean more than this. It should signify
that all the wide realms of human thought
and action are to be brought under the sway
of the King of righteousness ; that the king-
dom of industry, and the kingdom of traffic,
and the kingdom of politics, and the kingdom
of amusement are all to be made subject to
his law ; that all these great interests of men
are to be brought under the empire of Chris-
tian ideas and Christian forces; that instead
of standing aloof from them and reproving
and upbraiding them, Christianity is to enter
into them and pervade them and transform
them by its own vital energy. The duty of
the Church with respect to popular amuse-
ments is not done when it has lifted up its
warning against the abuses that grow out of
them, and laid down its laws of temperance
and moderation in their use. It has a positive
function to fulfill in furnishing diversions that
shall be attractive, and, at the same time,
pure and wholesome. This cannot be done, as
we have seen, by the churches as churches,
but it can be done by men and women into
39°
CHRISTIANITY AND POPULAR AMUSEMENTS.
whom they breathe their spirit, and whom
they fill with their intelligence and good-will.
When I say that it can be done, I speak of
what I know and testify of what I have seen.
The most remarkable success in the way of
popular entertainment that I have ever wit-
nessed has been achieved along the line which
I have just been pointing out. And inasmuch
as an ounce of experience is worth a pound
of theory, I can do no better than to tell the
story of one successful experiment in this field.
The Cleveland Educational Bureau has
closed its third season and issued its annual
report. This enterprise owes its existence and
its success to many men and women of good-
will, who have heartily cooperated in sustain-
ing it, but chiefly to the ingenuity and enthu-
siasm of Mr. Charles E. Bolton, its secretary
and manager, to the literary skill and facility
of Mrs. Bolton, and to the liberality of Mr.
W. H. Doan,the treasurer, who owns and rents
to the Bureau for a nominal price the People's
Tabernacle, in which its work is done. The plan
of operations is varied slightly from year to year,
but the general design can be clearly indicated.
The " People's Tabernacle " is a plain but
capacious assembly-room, built on leased land,
and devoted to educational and religious pur-
poses ; it boasts few decorations, and not much
upholstery ; but it is clean, and well ventilated,
and brilliantly lighted by electricity. A gallery
runs around the hall, and the platform is
pushed forward so near the center that the
audience of four thousand or forty-five hun-
dred hears a distinct speaker without difficulty.
The platform is usually covered with a pro-
fusion of potted plants; and handsome bou-
quets of cut. flowers in baskets and vases wait
to be bestowed upon the performers at the
end of the entertainment.
The manager describes his evening's pro-
gramme as furnishing a " fourfold intellectual
treat," Very little is said about diversion in
connection with this enterprise ; it is not
called a bureau of amusement ; it is an educa-
tional bureau. The appeal is wisely addressed
to a higher principle than the mere craving
for diversion ; and the recreation is incidental
and secondary, as it ought always to be. If
the Bureau announced itself as a purveyor of
amusement, it would not amuse the people
half so successfully as it does. The play has
a better relish when it is brought in as the
sauce of a more solid intellectual repast. It
is a high compliment to the working people
of Cleveland that is paid by the managers in
the invitation to devote ten of their Saturday
evenings, every winter, to the exercises of an
Educational Bureau. The magnificent suc-
cess of the entertainment shows how well the
compliment is deserved.
The " fourfold intellectual treat " begins
usually at a quarter before seven, with an
excellent orchestral concert. During this time
the audience is assembling, and by seven
o'clock the building is packed to the walls.
No reserved seats are sold : the motto is, "first
come, first served." Early comers are not even
allowed to reserve seats for their friends. A
large force of neatly dressed ushers assists in
seating the audience. No single tickets are
sold before a quarter past seven ; season-ticket
holders have the exclusive right to the house
up to that time.
The orchestral concert ends with a grand
chorus by the entire audience, which rises and
joins, under the lead of a precentor, with the
orchestra, the organ, and a trained choir, in
singing one of the national hymns.
Following this, at precisely a quarter past
seven, is the "lecture-prelude," which is gen-
erally an off-hand address of half an hour on
some scientific or practical subject. Among
the topics treated in these lecture-preludes, I
find these: "The Pyramids," "Architecture
Illustrated," "Wonders of the House we Live
In," " Microscopic Objects Magnified," "The
Terminal Glacier — Illustrated," "Wrongs of
Workingmen and How to Right Them."
Next is a " singing-school," in which a vigor-
ous precentor, aided by the orchestra and the
choir, leads the great congregation for ten or
fifteen minutes in singing national hymns.
The precentor drills them finely, singing-mas-
ter-fashion ; he tells them how he wants the
piece sung, and gets them to sing it as he
wishes ; he divides them into choirs, and makes
them sing antiphonally ; they have the words
and music in their hands, and are able to join,
as most of them do, heartily in the great chorus.
After this comes the principal attraction of
the evening, in the shape of popular lecture,
dramatic reading, debate, or concert, which
begins at eight o'clock precisely, and always
closes promptly at half-past nine. Mr. Bolton
himself has contributed several lectures of
travel, finely illustrated with the stereopticon.
A debate on Protection vs. Free Trade, be-
tween Professor W. G. Sumner and Professor
Van Buren Denslow, filled one evening last
winter, and aroused the deepest interest.
Another debate, between Mrs. Livermore and
Professor Denslow, on the question whether
women ought to vote, closed the recent course
with great eclat. It is safe for the manager
to promise any speaker who has something
worth saying a cordial and appreciative hearing.
During the last season, five illustrated
lectures on the art of cooking were delivered
by Miss Juliet Corson to an average audience
of three thousand women. These lectures were
free to the holders of season tickets ; the ad-
CHRISTIANITY AND POPULAR AMUSEMENTS.
391
mission fee to those not members of the Bu-
reau was fifteen cents, or fifty cents for the
course. It is difficult to understand how
Miss Corson could make herself intelligible
to so large an audience, but we learn that her
lectures were very successful, and that they
were received with great enthusiasm. " Whole
carcasses of animals," says the report, " were
cut into suitable pieces on the platform, and
all kinds of plain cooking were done."
The Bureau also furnished during the
summer ten open-air evening concerts on the
public square, which were enjoyed by many
thousands of people.
Another important feature of the work is
the circulation of useful literature. Each per-
son who attends the winter's entertainments
receives on every evening a little book in
paper covers, printed by the Bureau for its
members. Four thousand of these little books
— a whole wagon-load — are distributed every
evening. They are continuously paged, and
the advertisements upon the fly-leaves can be
removed for binding. At the close of the
course a Cleveland binder puts the series of
ten pamphlets into neat red muslin covers for
thirty-five cents. Each pamphlet contains
about forty pages, and is devoted to the popu-
larization of science, or to some sort of useful
information. The series for 1882-3 includes
a "Short History of Modern France"; a
" Brief History of Science " ; a " Sketch of
the History of the United States " ; " The
Story of the Steam Engine"; an excellent
little archaeological essay on " Early Man,"
well illustrated ; a series of brief biographies
of "Great Artists"; a crisp and sensible essay
on " Secrets of Success" (of which twenty-five
thousand extra copies were distributed), and
other similar matter. Each pamphlet contains
also the national hymns sung by the great
chorus on the evening of its distribution, and
the programme for the evening.
For all this, how much are the patrons of
the Bureau required to pay ? The season
ticket, which admits to the ten " fourfold en-
tertainments" on successive Saturday evenings,
comprising the ten orchestral concerts, the ten
" singing-schools," the ten books, and the ten
"special attractions" (popular lecture, elocu-
tionary readings, debate, or grand concert),
costs for this year one dollar and a quarter, or
twelve and a half cents for each evening. These
tickets also admit to the course of lectures by
Miss Corson, and from the proceeds of their
sale the summer evening concerts are provided.
In only one sense is the Bureau a gratuity.
A great amount of unrewarded labor is per-
formed in its behalf by the ladies and gentle-
men who are directly interested in its manage-
ment ; and many of those who take part in
its entertainments volunteer their services.
The " lecture-preludes " are generally given
by gentlemen of the city or the vicinity, who
are glad to serve the Bureau, and whose care-
fully prepared addresses have been highly ap-
preciated by the audience. Most of the
" special attractions," however, come from a
distance and cost money. But the sale of
more than four thousand season tickets pays
the expenses of the Bureau, and leaves a bal-
ance in the treasury at the close of every sea-
son. The people get a great deal for their
money, but they have the satisfaction of know-
ing that they pay for what they get — all but
the good-will and kindly effort on their behalf
put forth by their employers and their neigh-
bors, which money will not buy.
I have spoken of the audience as com-
posed mainly of workingmen and their fam-
ilies. Last year three thousand two hundred
season tickets were sold in the shops of
Cleveland. When the work was begun, Mr.
Bolton visited all the great manufacturing es-
tablishments, obtained permission from the
managers to have the men collected ten min-
utes before the stroke of twelve, and then, in
a brief speech, explained to them his plan.
Tickets were placed on sale in the offices
connected with the shops, the employers
heartily cooperating. The interest of the me-
chanics was thus enlisted in the beginning,
and although about four hundred school-
teachers and a sprinkling of the dwellers on
" Algonquin Avenue " may be counted in the
evening audiences, they still consist, for the
most part, of working people and their fam-
ilies. Mr. Bolton says that many of the me-
chanics carry their suppers to their shops on
Saturdays, that they may be early at the
Tabernacle in the evening. Few signs of this
are visible from the platform, however; the
audience seems to be clad in its Sunday
clothes. It would be hard to find anywhere
a company whose attire was neater, whose
faces were brighter, whose behavior was more
decorous, or whose appreciation of wit or
eloquence was keener. It was my pleasure to
look into the faces of these people for an hour
and a half while two accomplished lady read-
ers were entertaining them, and a more respon-
sive audience I have rarely seen. It was an
exquisite pleasure to sit and watch their
movements, to note the eagerness with which
they hung upon the lips of these gifted
women, and the relish with which they list-
ened to the interpretation of the master-
pieces of English poetry and humor recited
to them, and to feel the surges of pure and
strong emotion that swept over the throng
and broke continually at my feet in a sym-
pathetic sigh, or in happy and wholesome
392
CHRISTIANITY AND POPULAR AMUSEMENTS.
laughter. That it is an extremely well-be-
haved audience will be understood when I
say that it has abolished encores and the pan-
demoniac practice of stamping the feet, and
- — ecce signumf — that it keeps its seat re-
spectfully until the performance is concluded.
It was impossible not to reflect that a large
share of these thousands would, if it were
not for this Bureau, be spending their Satur-
day evenings in such places of amusement as
might be open to them, admission to which
would cost them three or four times as much
as they pay at the Tabernacle ; that the great
majority of these would be places where their
minds would be debauched and their mor-
als damaged; where they would find a tem-
porary excitement, to be followed by disgust
and ennui ; where they would receive no
wholesome impulses and gain no new thoughts ;
and where they would often have their preju-
dices roused and their hearts inflamed against
their more prosperous neighbors; for the cheap
theater is one of the mouth-pieces of the com-
munist and the petroleuse. Now they are
brought together in this great assembly, that
is itself an inspiration, and, in its decorum, its
self-restraint, and its good-nature, an incarnate
Gospel ; good music charms their ears ; a
profusion of flowers on the platform delights
their eyes ; they join in the national songs,
and their best emotions are aroused ; they listen
to the kindling words of poet or orator or
teacher, and are instructed and quickened ;
they rejoice in this ample and admirable sup-
ply of one of their deepest wants, and recog-
nize the benevolence that has devised it, and
their hearts are filled with a kindlier feeling
toward all their fellow-men. They go home
sober, with all their week's earnings in their
pockets, and a little book to read in which
they will find something to divert and en-
lighten them ; and they are much more likely
to be found in church the next day than if
they had spent the Saturday night in the beer-
garden or at the variety show. A free gospel
service is held in the Tabernacle every Sun-
day afternoon, and the attendance upon this
service has greatly increased since the Edu-
cational Bureau was organized.
I have thus endeavored to set down a plain
account of what seems to me a most wise and
noble Christian enterprise. A charity it is
not, in the ordinary acceptation of that word,
and it is all the more charitable because it is
not a charity, and because it pays its own ex-
penses ; but it is one of those effective appli-
cations of Christianity to the social needs of
men that we may expect to see becoming more
and more common in the future. It is doubtful
whether any revival services held in Cleveland
during the winter help so efficiently in the
Christianization of the people as do the enter-
tainments given at the Tabernacle. Applied
Christianity is what the world wants, and this
is Christianity applied to one of the great in-
terests of human life.
Whether Mr. Bolton's enterprise is indebted
to any hint from Dr. Holland, I have not
heard him say ; but readers of this magazine
have not forgotten the story of " Nicholas
Minturn," nor the experiments of the hero in
entertaining the people of the " Beggars'
Paradise," in the " Athenaeum." The fiction
with which the name of Nicholas is connected
is far less remarkable than the facts which I
have just recited ; the enterprise of the novel
was undertaken in behalf of a more degraded
class of persons; but the ideal of the story
and the achievement of the Bureau are iden-
tical; both show us Christianity at work in
the same field, turning the love of diversion
into a pure channel and making it aid in the
enlightenment and elevation of the people.
The fiction was plausible enough, but the
accomplished fact admits of no gainsaying.
What has been done in Cleveland can be
done in every city and large town in this
country. The scheme may well be varied;
the application of the principle calls for in-
genuity and practical sense ; methods that are
successful in one city would need modification
to fit them to the conditions of another ; but the
purpose is easily understood, and the main
idea can be realized, with the expenditure of
very little money, wherever there are men of
good-will who will give to the enterprise the
necessary thought and care. It cannot be done
without work; nothing important is accom-
plished without large expenditure of time and
effort ; but it is work that brings in a large return.
Some of the conditions of success in such
an enterprise may be readily named :
i. A large and cheerful hall. That the prices
may be low, the audience must be large.
2. A capable manager. Enthusiasm, good
temper, fertility of resource, and sympathy
with the people are among his qualifications.
3. Variety in the entertainment, with no
hitches or wearying pauses between the parts.
The movement must be swift and sure.
4. Punctuality and business-like thorough-
ness in the management. Begin and end on
the minute. Give exactly what you promise,
or, if that be impossible, what will be recog-
nized as a full equivalent.
An institution of this nature, wisely man-
aged, would quickly prove itself to be a sem-
inary of sacred and benign influences, and an
agency more potent than many laws in the
preservation of peace and the reformation of
the public morals.
Washington Gladden.
HOW SQUIRE COYOTE BROUGHT FIRE TO THE CAHROCS.
rvv l//y Y « ■it • - *•■•
HOUSED IT SAFE WITH TWO BELDAMS DIRE.
In the beginning Chareya made fire
(That is, the Cahrocs say so),
Housed it safe with two beldams dire,
And meant to have it stay so.
But the Cahrocs declared that fire should
be free,
Not jealously kept under lock and key.
Crafty Squire Coyote,
— Counselor of note, he, —
Just such a case he was meant for :
Forthwith his honor was sent for.
Squire Coyote came. On hearing the case,
The cunningest smile passed over his face ;
Then, slyly winking,
In the midst of his thinking
Vol. XXIX.— 38.
He stopt, stopt short.
An emphatic snort,
And said he : " Tight spot,
'Twere vain to conceal it :
Very sorry you're in it.
But, though tight as a Gordian knot,
What are you 'bout
That you don't get out ?
It's only the work of a minute :
The way to get fire is to — steal it."
Squire Coyote was right — every Cahroc
knew it,
But (bless them!) how were they going to
do it?
" Ah ! " said Coyote,
Stroking his goatee
394 HOW SQUIRE COYOTE BROUGHT FIRE TO THE CAHROCS.
"away he flew."
And . taking his hat,
" Let me 'tend to that."
Then, airily bowing to left and right,
He scampered away, and was out of sight.
Fire for the Cahroc nation !
Coyote made preparation.
From the land of the Cahrocs afar to the
East
— The rogue, he knew every inch of the
road —
Was stationed, now here, now there, a beast,
All the way to the hut where the hags abode.
The weaklings farthest off he put,
The strong ones nearest the witches' hut ;
And lastly, hard by the guarded den,
Placed one of the sinewy Cahroc men.
This done, up he trotted, and tapped,
The gentlest possible, rapped
At the old crones' smoky door.
"Beg pardon for being so bold;
Fact is, I am numb with cold :
Pray give me a bed on your floor."
The trick succeeded; they let him in,
And, snug at the feet of the beldams dire.
He stretched his length to the open fire.
Not long he lay, when, oh, the din,
The drubbing sudden heard outside !
Such a bumping and banging,
Such a whacking and whanging !
" Itch to your skins ! " the witches cried,
And rushed from the hut to see
What the horrible noise could be.
Now, it was only the Cahroc man
Playing his part of Coyote's plan ;
But the simple old crones, you can well un-
derstand,
HOW SQUIRE COYOTE BROUGHT EIRE TO THE CAHROCS. 395
Didn't see through it,
And, before they knew it,
Coyote was off with a half-burnt brand.
Twitching and whisking it,
Switching and frisking it,
The best he knew,
Away he flew,
The Cahrocs' laughter
And the crones close after. f
And the race must soon be over.
Race over ? See there — who's that ?
Zounds ! What a monstrous cat !
It's the cougar sprung from his cover.
Ha, ha ! All but from the head crone's
hand
His jaws have rescued the precious brand,
And he's off like shot !
" On time to a dot,"
"his jaws have ^rescued the precious brand.
Over hill and dale,
Like a comet's tail,
Sweeps the borrowed brand
Toward Cahroc-land.
But the crones are fleet and strong,
And it can't be long
Before Coyote is made to feel
How wicked a thing it is to steal.
His spindling pegs
— Mere spider legs —
Nature never designed 'em
To match the big shanks behind 'em.
He runs as never wolf ran ;
Every muscle and nerve,
All his wild-wood verve,
Is put to the strain;
But, scratch it the fastest he can,
The gray hags gain,
Coughs Coyote, clearing the soot
From his throat and the specks from his
eyes ;
" Bravo, my gallant brute ! —
And still the good fire flies ! "
Fly it had to. You wouldn't believe old
bones
Could scuttle as now did the legs of the
crones.
The witches were marvelous fleet and
strong,
But, you see, the line of the beasts was too
long:
From the cougar the brand was passed to
the bear,
And so on down to the fox, to the hare,
Thence on and on, till, flat in their tracks,
The crones collapsed like empty sacks.
396
TO A FACE AT A CONCERT
Thus the brand was brought from the bel-
dams' den
Safe to the homes of the Cahroc men.
And only two mishaps
'Mongst all the scampering chaps
That, each from the proper place,
Took his turn in the fire-brand chase.
The squirrel, as sudden he whirled,
Turning a corner of stumps and bowlders,
Burned his beautiful tail, so it curled
Clean over his back,
And scorched a brown track,
Still seen (tail also) over his shoulders.
The frog, poor thing !
His was a harder fate.
Small as smallest coal in the grate
Was the brand when he got it.
Jump and spring
He did, till he thought it
Was safe ; when, pounce, like a stone,
Fell the claws of the foremost crone.
At last
He was fast;
No sort of use
To try to get loose.
His eyeballs bulged, his little heart thumped —
'Most broke his ribs, so hard it bumped.
So frightened he was, that, down to this day,
He looks very much in the same scared way.
The frog was caught,
Was squeezed
Till he wheezed ;
But not too tight
For just a mite
Of ranine thought :
" Co-roak, chug, choke,
Granny Hag, good joke.
Well you've followed it ;
So move up your hand
And take your old brand " —
Then he swallowed it !
And before the crone could wholly recover
From the sight of such a wonder,
Slipping her fingers from under,
He plunged into a pool all over.
He had saved the brand,
But the witch's hand
Still clutched his special pride and care —
His tail, piteously wriggling there.
Henceforth — he must grin and bear it —
The tadpole alone was to wear it.
At length, when the crones had gone,
He sought an old log, and got on :
" Rather short of beauty,
But I did my duty;
That's enough for a frog."
Then he spat on the log,
Spat the swallowed spark
Well into its bark.
Fire, fire to your heart's desire;
Fire, fire for the world entire :
It's free as air to everybody,
White man or Cahroc, wise man or noddy.
From the beldams' den,
A gift to all men,
Coyote brought it.
In the wettest weather
Rub two sticks together,
Presto — you've got it !
John Vance Cheney.
TO A FACE AT A CONCERT.
When the low music makes a dusk of sound
About us, and the viol or far-off horn
Swells out above it like a wind forlorn,
That wanders seeking something never found,
What phantom in your brain, on what dim ground,
Traces its shadowy lines ? What vision, born
Of unfulfillment, fades in mere self-scorn,
Or grows, from that still twilight stealing round ?
When the lids droop and the hands lie unstrung,
Dare one divine your dream, while the chords weave
Their cloudy woof from key to key, and die, —
Is it one fate that, since the world was young,
Has followed man, and makes him half believe
The voice of instruments a human cry ?
E. R. Sill.
ORPIMENT & GAMBOGE.
The firm was in leather, down in " the
Swamp," and Mr. Orpiment used to ride
down-town every morning from his house in
Bank street, regular as the almanac, in a
Bleecker street car. His house was one of
those eminently respectable, high-stooped
dwellings, between Fourth street and the old
Greenwich road — quite the court end of
what used to be Greenwich village three
score years or so ago, and about as pleasant
an abiding-place as you will find to-day in
all the city of New York. This house was
unnecessarily large for Mr. Orpiment's family
— for the whole of his family was himself;
but as he seemed to be entirely satisfied with
it, no one ventured to suggest to him that he
had better move. Indeed, there were few
people in the world who, knowing Mr. Orpi-
ment, would have willingly ventured to sug-
gest to him anything whatever, for he was
not a person who took suggestions kindly.
In point of fact, he usually took them with
a snap.
When young Orpiment, in a suggestive
sort of way, observed modestly from under
his blonde mustache that his uncle would be
doing a good thing if he would rescind the
edict under which he, young Orpiment, was
going through the form of learning the leather
business, and would permit him to betake
himself to the study of Art, — when young
Orpiment made this suggestion, I say, Mr.
Orpiment fell into such a rage that his
counting-house — large though it was and
small though he was — would not hold him ;
in his wrath he strode out into his warehouse,
among the kips and hides, and used language
in their presence strong enough to tan them.
The upshot of the matter was that young
Orpiment was given twenty-four hours in
which to make up his mind whether he would
stick to leather and his bread and butter, or
be an infernal idiot (such was Mr. Orpiment's
unparliamentary language) and starve among
his paint-pots. And young Orpiment, his
crisp blonde hair fairly bristling with deter-
mination, every muscle in his large, well-built
body tense with energy, in something less
than twenty-four seconds elected for starva-
tion and the pots of paint.
But for all his high temper and defiant way
of dealing with things, there was one thing
that Mr. Orpiment could not deal with de-
fiantly. One morning — only a few weeks after
this battle royal of the paint-pots had been
Vol. XXIX.— 39.
fought— to the astonishment of all the people
in Bank street, his front door did not open at
precisely twenty-seven minutes after eight
o'clock; and the conductor of the Bleecker
street car concluded that in some mysterious
way he must have got ahead of his schedule,
because at 8.30 Mr. Orpiment was not stand-
ing, like a block-signal, with his neatly-folded
umbrella thrust out straight before him, at the
Bank street crossing ; and Mr. Gamboge got
into a nervous fluster, and said that he knew
that something must be Wrong, when the
counting-house clock struck nine and Mr.
Orpiment did not make his appearance, as
was his invariable custom, between the sixth
stroke and the seventh. And something was
wrong : Mr. Orpiment was dead.
As through all his life Mr. Orpiment had
been setting himself to go off, like an alarm
clock, at definitely determined points in the
future, so did he carry this habit into the
testamentary disposition of his estate. His
will, so to speak, was double-barreled. The
first barrel went off immediately upon his de-
cease, and, as it were, set the alarm. After
devising certain small legacies to a few friends
and dependants, to be paid out of accruing
income, and a round ten thousand dollars in
Government bonds to the Protestant Home
for Half-Orphans, — an institution in which,
for many years, Mr. Orpiment had taken the
liveliest interest, probably because in his
early life he had been a half- orphan himself,
and knew how very disagreeable it was, —
after these rational and commendable be-
quests, the will took a new departure, and the
rest of it was as eccentric and as arbitrary as
even Mr. Orpiment himself had been ; and
that is saying a good deal.
It declared that all the rest, residue, and
remainder of Mr. Orpiment's estate, real and
personal, whatsoever and wheresoever, was
given, devised, and bequeathed unto his ex-
ecutors,— Mr. Gamboge and Mr. Mangan
Brown were the executors, — in trust, to col-
lect and receive the income thereof, and to
pay thereout all necessary charges and ex-
penses, and to invest the surplus income each
year, and to add the same to the principal of Mr.
Orpiment's estate, and thus to reinvest and
accumulate for the period of five years after
Mr. Orpiment's decease; and at the expira-
tion of the said period, to hold the said prin-
cipal, with its additions and accumulations,
upon the further trusts set out in a codicil
398
ORPIMENT fy GAMBOGE.
to this Mr. Orpiment's will, which codicil
would be found in the top drawer of the
small fire-proof safe in Mr. Orpiment's li-
brary ; and (here was the queerest part of all)
that until the expiration of the said five years
this codicil was not to be opened under any
circumstances whatsoever. The will further
provided that until the five years should be
ended Mr. Gamboge should carry on the
business of the firm under the firm name ;
and, in an extremely peremptory clause, he
was forbidden to give employment, in any
shape or way, to young Orpiment. The leather
business and the art business, the will stated
•dryly, were inharmonious; and inasmuch as
young Orpiment had chosen the latter, the
testator wished to leave him entirely free to
carry it on undisturbed by the claims of the
former upon his thought and time.
With this parting shot the will ended, as a
sailor would say, short — without giving, save
as such was to be found in the tidy legacy
to the Protestant half-orphans, the least hint
or suggestion as to what was to become of
Mr. Orpiment's fortune at the end of the five
years ; without throwing the faintest ray of
light upon the mystery that all this waiting
and trust-creating involved. It was as queer
a will as ever went to probate ; indeed, had
there been anybody besides young Orpiment
to contest it, the probabilities are that it would
not have been admitted to probate at all.
But young Orpiment was Mr. Orpiment's
sole kinsman ; and, as matters stood just then,
his pride was so thoroughly up that had he
been called upon to choose between breaking
the will and breaking his own neck, he would
have chosen the latter alternative with all
possible celerity.
And so, although he was dead and buried,
Mr. Orpiment had arranged matters in such a
fashion that for these five years at least it by no
means could be said with any sort of truthful-
ness that he had perished from off the earth.
About this time there was not a happier
family in all Greenwich, nor anywhere else,
for that matter, than the Browns. Mr. Man-
gan Brown, in the large-hearted way that be-
came his big body and big voice, and acting,
of course, with the warm approval of Miss
Caledonia, had urged Vandyke and Rose so
heartily to bring the baby and come and live
with them, that a refusal really was quite out
of the question. So it came to pass that Mr.
Mangan Brown, without the perceptible quiver
of so much as an eyelash, signed a check
big enough to pay for one of those delight-
ful houses, with gardens in front of them,
and broad verandas all the way up to their
third stories, in West Eleventh street — which
also is a part of Greenwich village, as may be
mentioned for the information of the mass of
New Yorkers who know nothing of New
York.
And in this pretty home, one bright May
day, when the trees and gardens were glad
in their fresh loveliness of delicious green,
they all harmoniously took up their abode.
Mr. Mangan Brown had the second-story
front, and Miss Caledonia and Verona had
the two second-story backs, and the third
floor was given over to the baby and Vandyke
and Rose. If anything could make brighter
the bright spring-time, it was the sight of Rose
and the baby on the veranda in the early
morning sunlight — Rose, prettier than ever,
laughing delightedly at the baby's earnest
efforts to reach out over the row of flower-
pots, and clutch the swaying branches of the
trees. Before going to his big studio on Four-
teenth street, to begin the work of the day,
Van liked to smoke his after-breakfast pipe
on the veranda and contemplate this pretty
picture.
In the two years which had slipped away
since his marriage a good deal more than he
ever had dared even to hope for had come to
pass. Thanks to his own pluck and hard
work, which had won for him Uncle Man-
gan's substantial backing, he now was as suc-
cessful an artist as there was to be found in
all New York. At times, in contemplation of
his good fortune, he was rather more than
half inclined to think that he must be some-
body else; an excess of mysticism that Rose
resolutely refused to countenance — for in
such a case to whom was she married ? she
pertinently asked. As to Mr. Mangan Brown,
from being rather a grumpy sort of an old
fellow, he had come to be positively beaming
— a sort of overgrown fairy godfather, as it
were, to the whole household. Not even the
most remote allusion did he now make to the
commercial rather than natural genesis of
Miss Caledonia's back hair ; and by this sign
Miss Caledonia knew that he had experienced
a change of heart. Moreover, he was instant
in good works to each of the several members
of the family ; indeed, the extraordinary gifts
which he constantly brought home to little
Madder (named for his grandfather, of
course) kept Rose constantly in a condition
between laughter and tears.
" What can Madder possibly do with a
grindstone, Uncle Mangan ? "
" Possibly nothing at present, my dear.
But I remember when I was a boy and lived
in the country, I wanted a grindstone more
than anything else in the world — especially
after David Heaton, the wheelwright, you
know, said that I couldn't use his; and I am
ORPIMENT Sr GAMBOGE.
399
sure that Madder will be glad enough, when
he is a little older, to have one of his own.
It can go in the cellar until he wants it, and
in the mean time it will be useful to sharpen
the carving knife."
Rose shuddered as her imagination con-
jured up a ghastly picture of Madder more
or less cut to pieces with the knives which the
grindstone had made cruelly sharp ; and she
registered a mental vow that only over her
dead body should her offspring ever come
into possession of this shocking gift.
Now two of the most constant of the rather
numerous visitors to this exceptionally happy
household were young Orpiment and Mr.
Gamboge. All the way along for the past
twenty years or so, Mr. Gamboge had been
in the habit of spending one or two evenings
in each and every week in company with
Mr. Mangan Brown — his friend and also his
associate in trade. Mr. Gamboge and Mr.
Mangan Brown had known each other ever
since they were boys; and M. Brown & Co.
and Orpiment & Gamboge owned in partner-
ship a tannery in Lycoming County, Penn-
sylvania, and in various other directions the
interests of the two firms were identical. Os-
tensibly, the visits of Mr. Gamboge were for
the purpose of quietly and comfortably talk-
ing over the affairs of the tannery ; but it was
an open secret — in part revealed by the ex-
ceptionally careful brushing bestowed upon
his fuzzy, close-cropped, grayish hair, by the
exceeding smoothness of his smooth-shaven,
fresh-colored face, by the admirable precision
of the cut and fit of his neat black clothes —
that their real object was Miss Caledonia.
And there was a pleasant twinkle in his kindly
gray eyes when they happened to meet — as
they very often did — Miss Caledonia's kindly
brown ones, that made this open secret more
open still.
In point of fact, for nearly the full term of
the twenty years during which Mr. Gamboge
had been making his weekly visits, he had
held toward Miss Caledonia the somewhat
trying position of an earnest but undeclared
lover. His earnestness could not for a mo-
ment be doubted; but although Miss Caledonia
— in a strictly proper and maidenly manner,
be it understood — had contrived that he
should have at least one opportunity in each
week during the past twenty years for making
to her a formal tender of the heart that she
well knew without such tender was hers, it
was a melancholy fact that each of these ten
hundred and forty opportunities successively
had been wasted.
" Did he say anything to-night, Caledonia ? "
" No, brother, not to-night. I think — I
think that next week "
" Um. Possibly. Good-night, Caledonia."
" Good-night, brother."
This conversation between Mr. Mangan
Brown and Miss Caledonia had come to be
stereotyped. Before Mr. Mangan experienced
his change of heart this was the occasion that
he usually took for referring to the commer-
cial characteristics of her back hair in terms
as pointed as they were unkind. And not
seldom would he go even further, and advise
that Miss Caledonia should investigate into
the requirements precedent to admission into
Saint Luke's Home for Aged Couples, on Hud-
son street — assuring her that if ever she and
Mr. Gamboge got so far along as to want a
home for couples of any sort, this certainly
would be the only home at all suited to their
needs. Many and many a night, her night-cap
being drawn well down over the thinly-thatched
region that was covered luxuriantly by the
hair of commerce by day, did Miss Caledonia
fall asleep with tears in her gentle brown eyes
and heaviness in her heart. But, being a
round little woman of sanguine temperament,
she managed on the whole to keep up her
courage pretty well. Each week, when Mr.
Gamboge meaningly pressed her plump little
hand as he bade her good-night, yet left still
unsaid what he had come expressly to say,
she believed that the next week would see his
moral strength established firmly at last; that
then the words would be spoken which he so
earnestly longed to utter, and which she so
earnestly longed to hear. And so believing,,
Miss Caledonia lived on always in hope.
Now the trouble with Mr. Gamboge that
made him keep silence in this provoking fash-
ion was a constitutional indecision that he
could in nowise overcome. Never did there
live a man with less of positiveness in his
nature than Mr. Gamboge had in his. This
was the reason why he and Mr. Orpiment al-
ways had got along so well together. Mr.
Orpiment, on the shortest notice, could be
positive enough about anything for six ordi-
nary people, and upon this superabundance
of resolution Mr. Gamboge was accustomed
to draw in order to make good his own lack.
Indeed, he could not have adopted any other
line of conduct without getting into difficulties,
for Mr. Orpiment, as is the way with positive
people the world over, could not tolerate
even the most remote approach to positiveness
on the part of anybody else. He might admit,
perhaps, though certainly disdainfully, that in
the abstract two or more opinions might be
entertained upon a given subject ; but the
moment that the matter became concrete, his
view narrowed into the unalterable conviction
that there was just one single tenable opinion
concerning it — and that was his. And, if
400
ORPIMENT $ GAMBOGE.
peace was to be preserved, that opinion had
to be adopted in a hurry. Mr. Gamboge,
whose love of peace was so great that it was
the only thing in the world that he would have
fought for, always adopted his partner's opin-
ions with a becoming alacrity. Nor did he,
while Mr. Orpiment's convictions were in
course of formation, venture to have any of
his own. If appealed to under such condi-
tions, his answer invariably was : " I am wait-
ing to confer with Mr. Orpiment." And upon
the rare occasions when, in some matter for-
eign to the affairs of the firm, he ventured so
far as to express views distinctively his own,
it had come to be his habit to preface his re-
marks with some such phrase as " Under these
conditions, I think that Mr. Orpiment would
say," or " In a case of this sort, I think that
Mr. Orpiment would do." The fact was ob-
served, however, by people who knew both
the members of the firm well, that what Mr.
Gamboge thus said or did under the suppositi-
tious shelter of Mr. Orpiment's mantle, usually
had a deal more of quiet good sense about it
than probably would have been manifested
had the matter really been settled by Mr.
Orpiment himself.
For some time after that morning when
Mr. Orpiment staid at home and died in his
bed instead of coming down-town in the
Bleecker street car, the habit of referring to
his late partner's opinions increased upon Mr.
Gamboge greatly. Not a hide, not even a
kip, did he buy or sell without having some-
thing to say to the seller or buyer as to what
Mr. Orpiment would have thought about the
terms upon which the transaction was con-
cluded. But again it was observed by cer-
tain long-headed leather-men down in the
Swamp, that since the decease of the senior
partner the firm of Orpiment & Gamboge was
doing a much larger and also a much safer
business than ever it had done while the
very positive Mr. Orpiment was alive.
However, the habit of a life-time cannot
be given over in a day. It is true that Mr.
Gamboge, now that Mr. Orpiment was
buried and done for, was beginning gradually
to have a few opinions and a trifling amount
of positiveness of his own ; but as yet it was
all too soon to expect him to possess, still
less to act upon, a positive opinion touching
this momentous matter of his own heart and
Miss Caledonia's hand.
As to the other visitor at the Brown's,
young Orpiment, matters were entirely differ-
ent. With an energetic promptness that was
strictly in keeping with the traditions of his
family, he had declared his love for Verona
under the most unfavorable circumstances
and in the most unmistakable terms. With a
disregard of prudence and reason that was
positively heroic, he had made this avowal
on the very day that his uncle had bidden
him begone to his paint-pots and starve.
Whether he thought that love, being had in
sufficient quantities, would make starvation
impossible, or that if he must starve it would
be pleasanter to do it in loving company, I
am not prepared to say ; but it is a fact that
in less than three hours after he had, as he
put it, disinherited his uncle, he had asked
Verona Brown to marry him — and Verona
Brown, collapsing from the pinnacle of dig-
nity upon which usually she was exalted,
suffered her beautiful dark hair to be shock-
ingly tumbled upon young Orpiment's shoul-
der, and, with infinite tenderness and infinite
love in her sweet, low voice, told him very
frankly that she would !
There was a suggestion, at least, of poetic
justice in this reckless entanglement of
Verona's affections by young Orpiment ; for it
was Vandyke Brown who had been very largely
the cause of the entanglement of young Orpi-
ment's affections by the goddess Art, to the
utter ruin of his exceptionally brilliant pros-
pects in the leather business. Young Orpiment
had artistic talent, possibly artistic genius, and
Brown had the wit to perceive it. Without
thinking of the harm that he might be doing,
he urged young Orpiment to abandon the
leather that he hated and to give himself to
the art that he loved ; and it was not until his
advice was taken, and he was called upon to
behold the pretty kettle of fish that had come
of it, that he perceived what a serious respon-
sibility the giving of advice involves. With his
own dreary experience still fresh in mind, he
realized far more clearly than young Orpiment
did, or could, how nearly hopeless is the strug-
gle for artistic success when the artist has to
earn his daily bread as he goes along. But he
kept these cheerful reflections to himself —
that is to say, to himself and Rose. They were
quite agreed that young Orpiment and Ver-
ona had a sufficiency of troubles in hand with-
out being called upon to take any upon interest.
To be sure, there was a ray of hope for a
moment when Mr. Orpiment died, for young
Orpiment was his legal and only heir. But
this hope was promptly extinguished, or pretty
nearly so, by Mr. Orpiment's extraordinary
double-barreled will — with that ominous
legacy in the first barrel to the Protestant
half-orphans.
" It will be just like the old wretch to have
left those miserable half-orphans every cent
of his money, Van," said Rose with energetic
determination. " And a nice thing that will
be, to be sure; turning all their heads by
making so many millionaires of them ! "
ORPIMENT Sr GAMBOGE.
401
"The 'ome 'alf-orphan," observed Jaune
d'Antimoine, who happened to be present
when Rose thus freed her mind. " Ah, 'e is
the estabelisment most curious in Tens street.
I 'ave much vondered at 'im. Tell me, my
Van, what is this 'ome 'alf-orphan ? "
" It's a place where they take care of chil-
dren born with only one leg and one arm.
Of course, children like that have to be taken
care of by somebody. It's a capital charity.
We'll go down there some day and see 'em.
They're a jolly queer lot; all go about hop-
ping, you know."
" Nonsense, Van. Don't believe him, M.
d'Antimoine. They are called half-orphans
because they have only one father or one
mother. I'm a half-orphan myself."
" Eh ? But, truly, Madame Brown, it is
not most common for the child to 'ave more
than one father or one mother — not, that is,
is it thought well that 'e should 'ave more.
Ah, pardon ! I forget that Madame says that
she is 'erself 'alf-orphan. No doubt to be so
is most well in this country. In America is
not as in France."
M. d'Antimoine no more comprehended
why Brown went off into such fits of laughter,
nor why Rose blushed a little and laughed
too, than he did the laborious explanation of
the constituent elements of a half-orphan that
Brown, under the circumstances, felt called
upon to make to him.
But whether Mr. Orpiment's money was
or was not destined for the use of this excel-
lent charity, there was no ground for hoping
that any part of it was destined for his nephew ;
the spiteful clause in the will forbidding Mr.
Gamboge to give employment to young
Orpiment cut hope in this direction short
off. Obviously, this clause was put in to serve
as a check upon any indiscretion that Mr. Qam-
boge might be led into by what Mr. Orpiment
always had styled his absurdly soft heart;
and it was a patent declaration of a tolerably
positive sort that young Orpiment was dis-
inherited. His sole fortune, under these cir-
cumstances, was a little property that had
come down to him from his father, and that
yielded him the magnificent income of four
hundred and seventy-one dollars a year.
However, this was enough to keep a roof over
his head, and to feed him and to give him at
very long intervals something in the way of
new clothes. Mr.' Gamboge, by artfully repre-
senting the solitariness of his own home, did
his best to make young Orpiment come and
share it with him ; but his uncommonly tall
stories about his melancholy loneliness — sto-
ries, let us hope, which were promptly blotted
out in the celestial account against him by the
friendly tears of the recording angel — did
not deceive his auditor. Gratefully, but decid-
edly, the tender thus made of exceedingly
comfortable free quarters was declined. But
the invitations to dinner that Mr. Gamboge
and the Browns showered upon him could not
be refused — at least not without giving pain;
and so, while his raiment was anything but
purple and fine linen, young Orpiment at
least fared sumptuously pretty nearly every
day. And he was cheered and comforted, as
only the love of a good woman can cheer and
comfort a man, by the love of Verona Brown.
Verona certainly manifested a most con-
spicuous lack of worldly wisdom in thus lavish-
ing her affections upon a man whose fortunes
were so near to being desperate. But then
— excepting in the case of Mr. Mangan —
worldly wisdom was not a prominent charac-
teristic of the Brown family ; and even Mr.
Mangan had less of it now than he had before
he experienced his change of heart. Only a
couple of years earlier in his life, acting in the
capacity of Verona's guardian, he would have
shown young Orpiment to the door with
amazing promptitude and energy, had he
ventured to present himself, under such cir-
cumstances as at present existed, in the guise
of Verona's suitor. And, in truth, he had no
great liking for what was going on now ; but
now, at least, he took a larger, a more liberal
view of life than had been his habit in the
past, — for the lesson that he had learned from
his relations with Van had made him more
tolerant. Therefore it was that, instead of
heaping maledictions upon young Orpiment's
head, he ordered a landscape from him. In
due time this order was filled, and the picture
was sent home. There was ever so much of it,
and its light and shade were ever so queer,
and there was something dreadfully wrong in
its perspective ; but, for all its eccentricities,
there were in it hints of genuine good quality.
It was a harrowing thing to look at, of
course ; but its badness was the badness of a
crudity in which there was hope.
So they had young Orpiment to dinner,
and after dinner the picture was hung solemnly
over the mantel-piece in the front parlor. This
was an honorable position for it to occupy,
and it was a position that possessed certain
practical advantages; for when the gas was
lighted, unless you climbed over one of the diag-
onally placed sofas and got quite into one of
the corners of the room, the picture had such
a glitter upon it that it simply was invisi-
ble. Old Madder, who also was dining with
them that night, began to comment upon this
fact — and only made matters worse by asking
Rose, in an aggrieved tone, what he was
saying that he shouldn't say to make her
pinch him so.
4C2
ORPIMENT fy GAMBOGE.
Of course this was not a genuine sale, look-
ing at the matter from an artist's standpoint ;
and certain other sales — to Mr. Gamboge
and to some of the friends of these two pur-
chasers — were not genuine either ; but they
served their well-meant purpose of keeping
the fire going under the pot that young Or-
piment so gallantly was striving to make boil.
Old Madder, by the way, much enjoyed
dining with the young people, and they and
Mr. Mangan and Miss Caledonia made him
very welcome. At these dinners he con-
ducted himself upon the lines of a serious
dignity, and seriously talked art to Mr.
Mangan, whose knowledge of art was lim-
ited to a commercial appreciation of the value
of gilt decorations on red leather boot-tops
designed for the Western trade ; or, when he
happened to be in a cantankerous mood,
made vicious thrusts at Van and the young
geniuses generally, under the guise of lamen-
tations over the degeneracy of modern paint-
ers. His own work, of course, continued to
be as exasperating as ever. He nearly drove
Van wild by insisting upon painting a por-
trait of little Madder, that was hung on the
line at the Academy, and that was described
in the catalogue as " Grandfather's Darling."
From the degenerate modern painters with
whom he associated Van did not hear the last of
that horrible caricature of his first-born for
years. Among the League men the picture was
styled " The Slaughter of the Innocent " —
which naturally enough led somebody to
speak of the artist as Herod, and so won for
old Madder the nickname of Herod Madder
that he bore, without knowing it, to the end
of his days. After this bitter experience, when
old Madder wanted to paint Rose and the
new baby, little Caledonia (to all intents and
purposes his " Soldier's Widow and Orphaned
Child " over again), and call it " The Young
Mother's First Love," Brown put his foot
down firmly and said that it should not be
done. And not until several months had
passed — in the course of which old Madder
gradually had convinced himself that Brown
was jealous of his superior work, and that,
under these circumstances, he could afford to
be magnanimous — did old Madder and
Brown get along well together again.
By the time that this second baby was
born Brown had conquered so firm a stand-
ing-place and was so crowded with work
that his acceptance of an order had come to
be considered something of a favor. Young
Orpiment, being present one day when an
order actually was rejected, and knowing that
Brown had fought and won just such a battle
as he was fighting, felt himself stirred with
hope.
And, in truth, as the season of his appren-
ticeship wore away, there came to be a good
deal for young Orpiment to feel hopeful about.
Working steadily and earnestly, the weeks
and the months slipped by until he found
behind him, since the day when he forswore
Leather as a master and took for his mistress
Art, three whole years ; and three years of -
honest hard work, if a man has got anything
in him to begin with, is bound to tell. His
little pictures — after those first orders he had
the sense not to paint big ones — had a fair
sale now on their merits. They did not sell
for much, it is true, and they still were a long
way off from being really good work ; but at
least the good quality that was in them no
longer was obscured by bad perspective and
by doubtful light and shade. They had a
clear, fresh tone, moreover, that was distinct-
ively their own. Being sent to the exhibitions,
they no longer were rejected; and some of
the more recent ones had taken a most en-
couraging step downward from the sky
toward the line. The newspapers began to
mention his work respectfully, and " The
Skeptic," with an amiable exercise of its pow-
ers of prophecy based upon its faculty for rec-
ognizing genius in embryo, even went so far as
to say that in him another landscape-painter
had been born.
All this was tremendously encouraging, of
course, and young Orpiment was heartened
and comforted by it greatly ; but even with
such good fortune attending him, he could
not but find weariness in his long time of
waiting for an income from his work that
would enable him to make Verona his wife.
Both Mr. Mangan Brown and Mr. Gamboge
had offered repeatedly to discount for him
the future that now pretty certainly was his ;
but this good offer, with Verona's entire ap-
proval, he decidedly refused. If Verona would
wait for him while he worked, he saidj — and
the light of a strong resolution shone in his blue
eyes, — he would work on until his success was
won. And Verona, with the gentle dignity that
was natural to her, drew up her tall, graceful fig-
ure to its full height, and answered simply that
she would wait — would wait, she said, and with
out the least intention of irony, for forty years.
For these expectant lovers, the example set
them by Miss Caledonia and Mr. Gamboge
was most encouraging. What was their three
years of probation in comparison with the
three-and-twenty years of probation that their
elders had endured ? And the encourage-
ment thus given was all the greater because,
as time went on, the matrimonial prospects
of Mr. Gamboge and Miss Caledonia appar-
ently stood still. In the past three years Miss
Caledonia had contrived near eight-score fresh
ORPIMENT $ GAMBOGE.
403
opportunities for the long-delayed proposal ;
and on each of these several occasions Mr.
Gamboge had hesitated until his opportunity
was lost. On the whole, however, Miss Cal-
edonia's sanguine nature found cause for en-
couragement in the perceptible change that
had come over Mr. Gamboge as these three
years sped by. No less than twice, to her
certain knowledge, had he expressed posi-
tively a positive opinion of his own. On a
memorable Saturday he had said, in a firm
voice, before the whole family assembled at
the dinner-table, that rare roast beef was
much improved by horse-radish. On a mem-
orable Thursday evening he had said, address-
ing Mr. Mangan Brown, and in a tone of
bold effrontery that thrilled her soul with
joy, that " this idiotic tinkering at the tariff
on foreign leather was simply unpardonable."
On neither of these occasions did Mr. Gam-
boge refer even remotely to Mr. Orpiment :
not a word about Mr. Orpiment's preferences
in the matter of applying horse-radish to
roast beef; not a word about Mr. Orpiment's
opinions in regard to the customs duties on
foreign hides. Here was living proof that
Mr. Gamboge was getting to have a mind
of his own ; and here, consequently, was sub-
stantial ground upon which Miss Caledonia
could found her conviction that a happy end-
ing to her long courting was near at hand.
Nor was this all. To the best of Miss Cale-
donia's belief, Mr. Gamboge actually once
had got so far as to make a real start toward
speaking the momentous words which would
resolve into a glad certainty their three-and-
twenty years of doubt. It was upon a pleas-
ant Sunday afternoon in the late spring-time
that Mr. Gamboge got started, — in the mel-
low weather when the buds of May were
bursting into the blossoms of June, and^all
nature was glad with the bright promise of
the coming summer's generous life. They two
were seated alone upon the veranda, screened
from the too-curious gaze of passers-by by
festoons of the climbing plants which had shot
up blithely since the warm days began ; and
Mr. Gamboge, in a state of post-prandial con-
tentment, was smoking an especially satisfac-
tory cigar. After the fashion of a dove-like
serpent, Miss Caledonia by degrees had shifted
the ground of their talk until it had come to
be of the dreary life that Mr. Gamboge was
leading in his great house wherein he dwelt
alone. There was a tender solicitude in Miss
Caledonia's tone that sunk deep into the heart
of Mr. Gamboge and wrought great havoc
there. Her low, gentle voice sounded sweetly
in his ears; her suggestions for his comfort
were practical without being revolutionary;
he felt — but more keenly than ever before in
all the twenty- three years — that in Miss Cale-
donia he would find a helpmate indeed. His
excellent dinner, — prepared, as he well knew,
under Miss Caledonia's supervision, — his ex-
cellent cigar, the soft spring weather, Miss
Caledonia's pleasingly plump person and sym-
pathetic words : all these agreeable forces, act-
ing upon his newly acquired disposition to
have a mind of his own and speak it, con-*
spired to make him utter the decisive wrords.
A nervous thrill went over him, and he
straightened himself in his chair. Miss Cale-
donia saw what was coming, and was struck
with awe. She ceased speaking ; her hands
fluttered with her handkerchief; there was a
trembling of her lips.
" In regard to our personal relations, Miss
Caledonia, I am sure that Mr. Orpiment would
have said — that is, I know that under these
conditions Mr. Orpiment would have done —
in fact, I am confident that Mr. Orpiment
would have approved — "
" Oh, confound old Orpiment," said that
wretched Vandyke Brown, stepping out upon
the veranda through the open window in
time to hear this last mention of Mr. Orpi-
ment's name. " Of course you know, Mr. Gam-
boge," he went on, "I don't want to hurt
your feelings, or anything," — for he saw that
Mr. Gamboge was very much upset, — "but
when I think what a lot of good that old
screw might have done by leaving his money
to his nephew, and so giving him a fair start
in the world, I really can't help hating the
very sound of his name.
" Aunt Caledonia, Rose wants to know if
you can tell what on earth has gone with
Madder's light cloak. You had him out yes-
terday, you know, and Rose can't find it any-
where."
" You will find it where it belongs," an-
swered Miss Caledonia frigidly, " on the third
shelf of the closet in the back room."
And so good fortune had come sailing down
over the sea of hope to Miss Caledonia, — even
had stopped to signal her, — and then had
sailed away ! After that rude interruption the
perturbed spirit of Mr. Gamboge — although
Miss Caledonia did her best to bring it —
could not be brought back to the tender mood
that so fairly had promised a fair solution of
the long-vexed problem of their lives. Still,
having come thus close to happiness, Miss
Caledonia felt more than ever certain that
happiness yet would be hers.
So the months went rolling on and on, and
the time drew near when Mr. Orpiment's five
years' lease upon posterity would end. Under
the judicious management of Mr. Gamboge,
his late partner's estate had increased prodi-
4°4
ORPIMENT $ GAMBOGE.
giously, and the prospects of the Protestant
half-orphans were amazingly fine.
" I don't doubt that the miserable little
creatures will get fifty thousand dollars
apiece — and I hope that it will choke them!"
said Rose in a fine burst of indignation and
in a fine mixture of metaphors. Nothing that
Van could say could convince Rose that Mr.
Drpiment's property would not be divided up
among the individual half-orphans in the asy-
lum at the time when the bequest became
operative.
As to young Orpiment, he really did not
care very much now whether the half-orphans
got his uncle's money or not. He was fairly
on his legs by this time, with a steady income
of two thousand dollars or so a year, and he
and Verona were to be married very soon.
Of course, they would have to live in a very
quiet way, and some of the things which they
most wanted to do — the trip to the glorious
mountain region of northern New Mexico, for
instance — would have to wait awhile. But
the great point was that at last he was earn-
ing enough by his own work to permit him,
without utterly defying Mr. Mangan Brown
and worldly wisdom, to make Verona his
wife.
For young Orpiment had fought bravely
and had won gallantly his battle for the stand-
ard of Art. And wasn't Verona proud of him,
though ! For Verona knew that his fight for
success as an artist was only the visible form
of his fight for success as a lover ; and all the
wealth of her strong love, all her- honoring
esteem, went out to this her hero, who, for
her love's sake, had conquered the world !
With the solemnity befitting so decisive an
occasion, Mr. Gamboge wrote a formal invi-
tation to young Orpiment to be present, on
the fifth anniversary of the day after the day
of Mr. Orpiment's death, at the going off of
the second barrel of Mr. Orpiment's will.
But in order to mitigate the formality a little,
and to make somewhat less solemn the solem-
nity, Mr. Gamboge himself handed the written
invitation to young Orpiment, and added to
it a verbal invitation to come and dine with
him as a preliminary to the reading. Under
the circumstances, the fact was obvious that
Verona had a constructive right to be present
when the will was read ; and as Verona could
not with propriety be present alone, the ne-
cessity presented itself of asking Miss Cale-
donia to come with her. Naturally, this sug-
gested the advisability of asking Mr. Mangan
Brown too. And having got this far, Mr.
Gamboge concluded that he might just as
well go a little farther and ask Van and Rose
and old Madder ; and so he did.
It was only a lucky accident, however,
that saved the party from being entirely-
broken up by a rash act of little Caledonia.
Van wanted Rose's hands for something that
he was painting, and she had gone up to the
studio the day before the will dinner-party —
as she styled the feast that Mr. Gamboge was
to give — taking the baby along with her.
There was not much of this baby, and she
was not quite two years old, but she had a
faculty for getting into pickles far beyond her
size and years. However, there did not seem
to be much chance for her to get into trouble
on the studio floor.
The fact must be confessed that, although
they had been married for five years, Rose
and Van had a shocking habit of philander-
ing; and so it fell out, when he had put in
her hands to his satisfaction, that he had laid
down his palette and brushes on the foot of
his easel, and somehow they had drifted into
the big chair, and had got to talking about
that autumn morning when "Lydia Darragh"
perished, and the great happiness of their
lives began.
" It was dreadful, Van, the way that I told
you, right out before all those men, that I
loved you ! I never can think of it without
blushing." (Rose was blushing most charm-
ingly, and that was a fact.) " But I really
never thought of them at all, and that's the
solemn truth. All that I thought of was your
ruined work, and of what you were working
for — it was me that you were working for,
you know, and I knew all about it ! — and of
trying to comfort you. Did it comfort you,
dear ? Are you sure, Van, that you are glad
that you married ? Have I really made you
happy ? You are so good to me
" Caledonia ! Caledonia / Stop ! Merciful
heaven, Van, she's got your palette and is
eating the paints ! Our child is poisoned !
She will die ! " And Rose shot up, much as-
she would have done had Van been a cata-
pult and suddenly gone off, and caught the
chromnivorous infant in her arms.
Van was pretty badly scared too, but he
had his wits about him, and looked at the
palette before giving his assent to Rose's
alarmed proposition that death by poison
must be the inevitable result of Caledonia's
unnatural repast.
" Steady, Rose. I guess it's all right. She's
begun at the black end of the palette, luckily,
and she's eaten only as far as asphaltum. No
doubt she'll have a lively time in her little in-
side, but she hasn't had a scrap of the light
colors, and there's nothing in the dark ones
to damage her much. But we'd better rush
her off to the doctor, all the same."
And Van was right. Caledonia did not
perish, but she had a tremendously large
ORPIMENT $ GAMBOGE.
405
PHILANDERING.
stomach-ache for so small a stomach, and she
kept her bed for the remainder of the day.
Mr. Mangan Brown, in a well-meant endeavor
to mitigate the severity of her sufferings, the
very next morning bought her a concertina,
and a pair of skates, and a richly illustrated
octavo Life of Washington. That these ap-
propriate gifts inured to her betterment is
problematical, but she certainly was so com-
pletely recovered by the ensuing evening that
her illness was no barrier to the success of the
will dinner-party given by Mr. Gamboge.
The dinner in every way was excellent —
although Miss Caledonia secretly noticed cer-
tain shortcomings in the service, which she
promptly resolved should be corrected wjien
she was called upon to take command. But
for all the excellence of the dinner, the as-
sembled company was disposed to slight it —
to hurry through with it in order to get at the
reading of the will. Even the fact that young
Orpiment on that very day had sold his big
picture, " Spring on the Hudson Highlands,"
for $450, — the highest price that anything of
his so far had brought, — scarcely made a
ripple upon the strong stream of curiosity that
was sweeping forward toward the moment
when positive knowledge would determine
what part the Protestant half-orphans were to
play in the final disposition of Mr. Orpiment's
estate.
" If it wasn't for Verona, he might pick
out the nicest looking of the girl half-
orphans for a wife, and get part of it back
that way," said Rose under her breath to Van,
Vol. XXIX.— 40.
as they passed from the dining-room to the
library, where Mr. Gamboge was to read the
will. " But as things are, though," she added
with a touch of melancholy in her tone, " that
is quite out of the question."
" Yes," said Van, " it is. And you are a
goose." And he stopped her in the shadow
to leeward of the eight-day clock and kissed
her.
" Of course you all know," said Mr. Gam-
boge in a slightly oratorical tone, holding the
sealed will in his hand, " that I have no
knowledge whatever of the contents of this
document. Should its contents be what I
fear they are, you all know that I shall feel,
as you all will feel, that a great injustice has
been done to our young and gifted friend;
to our friend, who by his noble force of
character, not less than by his great genius — "
" Don't," said young Orpiment, appeal-
ingly.
" Well, I wont," said Mr. Gamboge, drop-
ping suddenly from his oratorical heights.
" But I will say this : if the estate don't come
to you, my dear boy, I shall think less of Mr.
Orpiment's judgment than I ever did — and
I never did think much of it, anyway."
At these spirited words Miss Caledonia's
heart gave a bound — for she perceived that
now, beyond a doubt or a peradventure, Mr.
Gamboge had come into the kingdom of his
personal independence at last ; and she was
his waiting queen ! As for Mr. Mangan
Brown, his lower jaw dropped as though the
muscles had parted ; and Van gave utterance
406
ORPIMENT Sr GAMBOGE.
to a prolonged whistle that Rose had the pres-
ence of mind to conceal by coughing violently.
Oblivious to the sensation caused by his
revolutionary declaration, Mr. Gamboge ad-
justed his spectacles, broke the three black
seals, and began the reading of the will. It
set out with the affirmation that Mr. Orpi-
ment feared God and was in his right mind,
— statements which caused Miss Caledonia
to click her heels together doubtingly, — and
went on with a list of the testator's posses-
sions : the house in which he had lived, and
some other houses; his share in the tannery in
Lycoming County, Pennsylvania ; some ware-
houses down-town ; some building-lots on Sev-
enty-ninth street; various stocks and bonds;
and his interest in the leather business carried
on by the firm of Orpiment & Gamboge.
" I wonder how the half-orphans will settle
about the houses and building-lots ? " Rose
whispered inquiringly as Mr. Gamboge paused
at the end of the list.
" Draw lots for 'em, probably," Van whis-
pered in reply.
Mr. Gamboge read on : " Whereas, by my
will to which this codicil is supplement, I gave
all my residuary estate to my executors upon
certain trusts, now I appoint the further trusts
referred to in said will as contained in this
codicil."
At last Mr. Orpiment's intentions were to
be made plain. Everybody bent forward,
listening eagerly, and Mr. Gamboge could
not keep his voice from trembling : " At the
end of the said period of five years from the
time of my decease I direct my executors to
assign, convey, and pay over the whole of my
residuary estate with its increase and accumu-
lations to the person who, when the same is
payable, shall act as treasurer to the Society
for the Relief of Half-Orphan and Destitute
Children in the city of New York, to be ap-
plied to the charitable uses and purposes of
said society under its direction." Mr. Gam-
boge gave an audible groan, laid the will
down on his knee, took off his spectacles,
which suddenly had grown misty, and with
his silk handkerchief wiped them dry.
" The unfeeling, unnatural, heartless old
wretch ! " cried Rose.
" Never mind, dear; you have conquered
fortune for yourself, and I love you a thou-
sand times more for it," said Verona in a low
voice, as she took young Orpiment's hand
in both of hers.
" It is shameful ! " said Miss Caledonia.
" It is just what I expected," said Mr.
Mangan Brown; "but I'm uncommonly sorry
for you, all the same, Orpiment."
" It's all my fault, for leading you off into
painting ; I hope devoutly that you may live
long enough to forgive me, old fellow," said
Van ruefully.
" Nonsense, Van. You've been the mak-
ing of me, and I never can be sufficiently
thankful to you," young Orpiment answered
in a cheery tone that had a thoroughly genu-
ine ring to it.
" Art alone is worth living for, Mr. Orpi-
ment," said old Madder. " Because you have
escaped the thralldom of riches, I congratu-
late you with all my heart ! "
" There's another page of the thing," said
Mr. Gamboge dismally, and making as he
spoke a suspicious dab at his eyes with his
big handkerchief. " We . may as well get
done with it," and he turned the page and
read on :
" Provided, that at the end of said period
of five years from the time of my decease my
nephew shall not have proved, by earning
from the sale of his pictures an income of
not less than $2000 yearly, that in abandon-
ing the leather business and in adopting the
business of picture-painting, he was right in
the choice of his vocation and I was wrong.
Should this very improbable contingency arise,
then at the time aforesaid I direct my executors
to assign, convey, and pay over to him, my said
nephew, the whole of my residuary estate with
its increase and accumulations, to him, his
heirs, executors, administrators, and assigns
forever."
" God bless you, my dear boy ! " fairly
shouted Mr. Gamboge, dashing down the
will and his spectacles and his handkerchief
upon the floor, and rushing over to young
Orpiment and hugging him. " God bless you,
my dear boy, the estate really is yours after
all ! "
And everybody — everybody, that is, but
Verona and old Madder — in the delight and
excitement of the moment, followed Mr.
Gamboge's exhilarating example. Even the
staid Mr. Mangan Brown, even the decorous
Miss Caledonia, hugged young Orpiment as
hard as ever they knew how. Verona just sat
still and looked at him, and through the tears
in her lovely brown eyes there shone the light
of a great joy and the tenderness of a greater
love. The thought that she also was a gainer
by this revolution in young Orpiment's for-
tunes never once crossed her mind ; all that
she thought of was that his life of toil and
struggle now was at an end; that for her
hard-working hero the chance to do good
work restfully had come at last.
(It was not until an hour or so later, when
they were walking home together, that another
phase of the matter presented itself to Rose —
she was a great hand for seeing things in origi-
nal lights. " Do you know, Van," she said in a
ORPIMENT Sr GAMBOGE.
407
very melancholy voice, " I can't help feeling
dreadfully sorry for those poor little Protestant
half- orphans ? To think of their coming so
near to being heirs and heiresses, and then
not getting a single bit of their fortunes after
all ! ")
Old Madder, waiting till the storm had
subsided a little, and standing, as it were, afar
off, did what he could to throw a wet blanket
over the general joy by saying mournfully :
" I hope that this is for the best, Mr.
Orpiment ; but I fear that it is for the worst.
Art is a jealous mistress, and Wealth is her
sworn foe. You have my sincere pity, sir;
for I sincerely believe that you are a ruined
man ! "
However, old Madder's wet blanket was
not a success, for his genial gloom no more
could stay the eruption of happiness that
had begun than a real wet blanket could stay
an eruption of Vesuvius. Indeed, nobody
paid the least attention to what he was say-
ing, for just as he began his cheerful remarks
Mr. Gamboge, looking rather nervous, but
also looking very much resolved, rose to his
feet with the air of a man who is about to
make a speech. Somehow there was that in
his manner that made all the blood in Miss
Caledonia's body rush tumultuously to her
heart. Her prophetic soul told her that it
was coming now in very truth !
" My dear Brown," said Mr. Gamboge,
addressing Mr. Mangan, " there is a matter
very near to my heart, concerning which I
long have desired to speak with you. Possibly
you may have noticed that my attentions to
your sister, Miss Caledonia, for some time
past have been rather marked ? "
" I have observed the phenomenon to which
you refer," answered Mr. Mangan, for Mr.
Gamboge had spoken interrogatively, and had
paused for a reply — "I have observed the
phenomenon to which you refer, my dear
Gamboge, pretty constantly for the past
twenty-five years."
" Precisely," said Mr. Gamboge, in a tone
indicating that he felt encouraged. " You are
right, my dear Brown, as you always are.
My reckoning of the number of years during
which my attentions to Miss Caledonia have
been, as I say, rather marked corresponds with
yours exactly. And it seems to me, my dear
Brown, that this period has been of a sufficient
extent to enable us — that is, to enable Miss
T
/,<?> //A
r«
X/V. A • TW.at.
MISS CALEDONIA AND MR. GAMBOGE.
408
UNLOOKED-FOR RETURN.
Caledonia and me — to acquire such ample
knowledge of each other's tastes, habits, and
moral characteristics as will justify us in decid-
ing now whether or not we prudently may
advance to a yet closer relationship."
" Looking at the matter dispassionately, my
dear Gamboge, I should say that it had."
" My own sentiments, my dear Brown, I
may say, are, and for some years past have
been, unalterably established. I revere your
sister, Miss Caledonia, as the best and wisest
of women. Under the existing circumstances,
Mrs. Brown and Miss Verona will pardon, I
am sure, this expression of what, under any
other circumstances, might be considered, if
not a too exalted, at least a too exclusive,
estimate of her virtues."
" Certainly," said Rose.
" Of course," said Verona.
" Entertaining these unalterable sentiments,
therefore, my dear Brown, the strongest, the
holiest wish of my life is to make her my wife.
To you, as her natural protector, to her, as
the arbiter of her own destiny, I now appeal
— on this auspicious occasion when my young
friend Orpiment wears proudly in our pres-
ence his tripartite crown of riches, genius, and
requited love. My dear Brown, may I have
her ? Miss Caledonia, will you be mine ? "
" May he have you, Caledonia ? "
" Oh, brother! how can you ask? It — it
shall — be just as you say."
" Then I say, and I say it heartily, my dear
Gamboge, take her — and God bless you
both ! " and Mr. Mangan Brown led the blush-
ing Miss Caledonia to Mr. Gamboge and
placed her hand in his.
And so, young Orpiment having come into
his fortune, and Mr. Gamboge having come
into his kingdom, Mr. Orpiment's lease upon
posterity was canceled, and he really was
dead at last.
Ivory Black.
... , . ...1;,,.,... f ,,.,,. |;
inki , MlA
UNLOOKED-FOR RETURN.
When I had said good-bye, chance brought me back.
And I went softly in, by friendship's right ;
The room so lately left was lone and black,
The next, all gay with laughter and the light.
I listened. Just one voice I cared to hear,
That lately gave sweet answers unto mine;
But when it reached me, with a tone as dear,
It proffered others graceful things in wine.
Bitter at heart, I yet could hardly go
Without a reassurance for my doubt;
And gave a sign, it seemed my friend would know,
That, for a moment, she might slip without.
Nay ! far too loud for that, the mirth and jest,
So I withdrew, my presence all unknown ;
Naught left to show that I had been a guest,
The secret of my coming, mine alone.
Now, can I fancy well how it may be
If, after death, I sometimes so steal in, —
Newly engrossed the soul I come to see,
While lone and dark the room where I have been.
Charlotte Fiske Bates.
THE FREEDMAN'S CASE IN EQUITY.
The greatest social problem before the
American people to-day is, as it has been for
a hundred years, the presence among us of
the negro.
No comparable entanglement was ever
drawn round itself by any other modern na-
tion with so serene a disregard of its ultimate
issue, or with a more distinct national respon-
sibility. The African slave was brought here
by cruel force, and with everybody's consent
except his own. Everywhere the practice was
favored as a measure of common aggrandize-
ment. When a few men and women protested,
they were mobbed in the public interest, with
the public consent. There rests, therefore,
a moral responsibility on the whole nation
never to lose sight of the results of African-
American slavery until they cease to work
mischief and injustice.
It is true these responsibilities may not fall
everywhere with the same weight; but they
are nowhere entirely removed. The original
seed of trouble was sown with the full knowl-
edge and consent of the nation. The nation
was to blame; and so long as evils spring
from it, their correction must be the nation's
duty.
The late Southern slave has within two
decades risen from slavery to freedom, from
freedom to citizenship, passed on into politi-
cal ascendency, and fallen again from that
eminence. The amended Constitution holds
him up in his new political rights as well as a
mere constitution can. On the other hand,
certain enactments of Congress, trying to
reach further, have lately been made void t>y
the highest court of the nation. And another
thing has happened. The popular mind in
the old free States, weary of strife at arm's
length, bewildered by its complications, vexed
by many a blunder, eager to turn to the cure
of other evils, and even tinctured by that race
feeling whose grosser excesses it would so
gladly see suppressed, has retreated from its
uncomfortable dictational attitude and thrown
the whole matter over to the States of the
South. Here it rests, no longer a main party
issue, but a group of questions which are to be
settled by each of these States separately in the
light of simple equity and morals, and which
the genius of American government does not
admit of being forced upon them from beyond
their borders. Thus the whole question, be-
come secondary in party contest, has yet
reached a period of supreme importance.
Vol. XXIX.— 41.
Before slavery ever became a grave ques-
tion in the nation's politics, — when it seemed
each State's private affair, developing unmo-
lested,— it had two different fates in two dif-
ferent parts of the country. In one, treated
as a question of public equity, it withered
away. In the other, overlooked in that as-
pect, it petrified and became the corner-stone
of the whole social structure; and when men
sought its overthrow as a national evil, it first
brought war upon the land, and then grafted
into the citizenship of one of the most intelli-
gent nations in the world six millions of peo-
ple from one of the most debased races on the
globe.
And now t.his painful and wearisome ques-
tion, sown in the African slave-trade, reaped
in our civil war, and garnered in the na-
tional adoption of millions of an inferior race,
is drawing near a second seed-time. For this
is what the impatient proposal to make it a
dead and buried issue really means. It means
to recommit it to the silence and conceal-
ment of the covered furrow. Beyond that
incubative retirement no suppressed moral
question can be pushed ; but all such ques-
tions, ignored in the domain of private mor-
als, spring up and expand once more into
questions of public equity ; neglected as
matters of public equity, they blossom into
questions of national interest; and, despised
in that guise, presently yield the red fruits
of revolution.
This question must never again bear that
fruit. There must arise, nay, there has arisen,
in the South itself, a desire to see established
the equities of the issue ; to make it no longer
a question of endurance between one group
of States and another, but between the moral
d6bris of an exploded evil and the duty,
necessity, and value of planting society firmly
upon universal justice and equity. This, and
this only, can give the matter final burial.
True, it is still a question between States ; but
only secondarily, as something formerly par-
ticipated in, or as it concerns every house-
holder to know that what is being built against
his house is built by level and plummet. It is
the interest of the Southern States first, and
consequently of the whole land, to discover
clearly these equities and the errors that are
being committed against them.
If we take up this task, the difficulties of the
situation are plain. We have, first, a revision
of Southern State laws which has forced into
4io
THE FREEDMAN'S CASE IN EQUITY.
them the recognition of certain human rights
discordant with the sentiments of those who
have always called themselves the commu:
nity; second, the removal of the entire political
machinery by which this forcing process was
effected; and, third, these revisions left to be
interpreted and applied under the domination
of these antagonistic sentiments. These being
the three terms of the problem, one of three
things must result. There will arise a system
of vicious evasions eventually ruinous to public
and private morals and liberty, or there will
be a candid reconsideration of the sentiments
hostile to these enactments, or else there will
be a division, some taking one course and
some the other.
This is what we should look for from our
knowledge of men and history; and this is
what we find. The revised laws, only where
they could not be evaded, have met that
reluctant or simulated acceptance of their
narrowest letter which might have been
expected — a virtual suffocation of those prin-
ciples of human equity which the unwelcome
decrees do little more than shadow forth.
But in different regions this attitude 'has been
made in very different degrees of emphasis.
In some the new principles have grown, or
are growing, into the popular conviction, and
the opposing sentiments are correspondingly
dying out. There are even some limited dis-
tricts where they have received much prac-
tical acceptance. While, again, other sections
lean almost wholly toward the old senti-
ments; an easy choice, since it is the con-
servative, the unyielding attitude, whose
strength is in the absence of intellectual and
moral debate.
Now, what are the gains, what the losses
of these diverse attitudes ? Surely these are
urgent questions to any one in our country
who believes it is always a losing business to
be in the wrong. Particularly in the South,
where each step in this affair is an unprece-
dented experience, it will be folly if each
region, small or large, does not study the
experiences of all the rest. And yet this,
alone, would be superficial; we would still
need to do more. We need to go back to the
roots of things and study closely, analytically,
the origin, the present foundation, the ration-
ality, the Tightness, of those sentiments sur-
viving in us which prompt an attitude
qualifying in any way peculiarly the black
man's liberty among us. Such a treatment
will be less abundant in incident, less pic-
turesque ; but it will be more thorough.
First, then, what are these sentiments ?
Foremost among them stands the idea that
he is of necessity an alien. He was brought
to our shores a naked, brutish, unclean,
captive, pagan savage, to be and remain a
kind of connecting link between man and the
beasts of burden. The great changes to result
from his contact with a superb race of mas-
ters were not taken into account. As a social
factor he was intended to be as purely zero
as the brute at the other end of his plow-line.
The occasional mingling of his blood with
that of the white man worked no change in
the sentiment ; one, two, four, eight, multi-
plied upon or divided into zero, still gave zero
for the result. Generations of American nativ-
ity made no difference; his children and
children's children were born in sight of our
door, yet the old notion held fast. He
increased to vast numbers, but it never
wavered. He accepted our dress, language,
religion, all the fundamentals of our civiliza-
tion, and became forever expatriated from his
own land; still he remained, to us, an alien.
Our sentiment went blind. It did not see
that gradually, here by force and there by
choice, he was fulfilling a host of conditions
that earned at least a solemn moral right to
that naturalization which no one at first had
dreamed of giving him. Frequently he even
bought back the freedom of which he had
been robbed, became a tax-payer, and at
times an educator of his children at his own
expense; but the old idea of alienism passed
laws to banish him, his wife, and children by
thousands from the state, and threw him into
loathsome jails as a common felon for return-
ing to his native land.
It will be wise to remember that these were
the acts of an enlightened, God-fearing people,
the great mass of whom have passed beyond all
earthly accountability. They were our fathers.
I am the son and grandson of slave-holders.
These were their faults ; posterity will discover
ours; but these things must be frankly, fearlessly
taken into account if we are ever to understand
the true interests of our peculiar state of society.
Why, then, did this notion that the man
of color must always remain an alien stand so
unshaken ? We may readily recall how, under
ancient systems, he rose not only to high priv-
ileges, but often to public station and power.
Singularly, with us the trouble lay in a modern
principle of liberty. The whole idea of Amer-
ican government rested on all men's equal,
inalienable right to secure their life, liberty,
and the pursuit of happiness by governments
founded in their own consent. Hence, our
Southern forefathers, shedding their blood, or
ready to shed it, for this principle, yet propos-
ing in equal good conscience to continue
holding the American black man and mulatto
and quadroon in slavery, had to anchor that
conscience, their conduct, and their laws in
the conviction that the man of African tine-
THE FREEDMAN'S CASE IN EQUITY.
411
ture was, not by his master's arbitrary asser-
tion merely, but by nature and unalterably,
an alien. If that hold should break, one single
wave of irresistible inference would lift our
whole Southern social fabric and dash it upon
the rocks of negro emancipation and enfran-
chisement. How was it made secure ? Not
by books, though they were written among
us from every possible point of view, but, with
the mass of our slave-owners, by the calm hy-
pothesis of a positive, intuitive knowledge.
To them the statement was an axiom. They
abandoned the methods of moral and intel-
lectual reasoning, and fell back upon this
assumption of a God-given instinct, nobler than
reason, and which it was an insult to a freeman
to ask him to prove on logical grounds.
Yet it was found not enough. The slave mul-
tiplied. Slavery was a dangerous institution.
Few in the South to-day have any just idea
how often the slave plotted for his freedom.
Our Southern ancestors were a noble, manly
people, springing from some of the most
highly intelligent, aspiring, upright, and re-
fined nations of the modern world ; from the
Huguenot, the French Chevalier, the Old
Englander, the New Englander. Their acts
were not always right ; whose are ? But for
their peace of mind they had to believe them
so. They therefore spoke much of the negro's
contentment with that servile condition for
which nature had designed him. Yet there
was no escaping the knowledge that we dared
not trust the slave caste with any power that
could be withheld from them. So the perpet-
ual alien was made also a perpetual menial,
and the belief became fixed that this, too, was
nature's decree, not ours.
Thus we stood at the close of the civil war.
There were always a few Southerners who did
not justify slavery, and many who cared noth-
ing whether it was just or not. But what we
have described was the general sentiment of
good Southern people. There was one mod-
ifying sentiment. It related to the slave's spir-
itual interests. Thousands of pious masters
and mistresses flatly broke the shameful laws
that stood between their slaves and the Bible.
Slavery was right; but religion, they held,
was for the alien and menial as well as for the
citizen and master. They could be alien and
citizen, menial and master, in church as well
as out ; and they were.
Yet over against this lay another root of
to-day's difficulties. This perpetuation of the
alien, menial relation tended to perpetuate the
vices that naturally cling to servility, dense
ignorance and a hopeless separation from true
"liberty ; and as we could not find it in our
minds to blame slavery with this perpetuation,
we could only assume as a further axiom that
there was, by nature, a disqualifying moral
taint in every drop of negro blood. The tes-
timony of an Irish, German, Italian, French,
or Spanish beggar in a court of justice was
taken on its merits ; but the colored man's was
excluded by law wherever it weighed against
a white man. The colored man was a pre-
judged culprit. The discipline of the planta-
tion required that the difference between
master and slave be never lost sight of by
either. It made our master caste a solid mass,
and fixed a common masterhood and subser-
viency between the ruling and the serving
race.* Every one of us grew up in the idea
that he had, by birth and race, certain broad
powers of police over any and every person
of color.
All at once the tempest of war snapped off
at the ground every one of these arbitrary re-
lations, without removing a single one of the
sentiments in which they stood rooted. Then,
to fortify the freedman in the tenure of his
new rights, he was given the ballot. Before
this grim fact the notion of alienism, had it
been standing alone, might have given way.
The idea that slavery was right did begin to
crumble almost at once. " As for slavery,"
said an old Creole sugar-planter and former
slave-owner to me, " it was damnable." The
revelation came like a sudden burst of light.
It is one of the South's noblest poets who has
but just said:
" I am a Southerner ;
I love the South ; I dared for her
To fight from Lookout to the sea,
With her proud banner over me :
But from my lips thanksgiving broke,
As God in battle-thunder spoke,
And that Black Idol, breeding drouth
And dearth of human sympathy
Throughout the sweet and sensuous South,
Was, with its chains and human yoke,
Blown hellward from the cannon's mouth,
While Freedom cheered behind the smoke ! " f
With like readiness might the old alien re-
lation have given way if we could only, while
letting that pass, have held fast by the other
old ideas. But they were all bound together.
See our embarrassment. For more than a
hundred years we had made these sentiments
the absolute essentials to our self-respect.
And yet if we clung to them, how could we
* The old Louisiana Black Code says, " That free people of color ought never to . . . presume to
conceive themselves equal to the white ; but, on the contrary, that they ought to yield to them in every occasion,
and never speak or answer to them but with respect, under the penalty of imprisonment according to the
nature of the offense." (Section 21, p. 164.)
t Maurice Thompson, in the " Independent."
412
THE FREEDMAN'S CASE IN EQUITY.
meet the freedman on equal terms in the po-
litical field ? Even to lead would not com-
pensate us; for the fundamental profession of
American politics is that the leader is servant to
his followers. It was too much. The ex-master
and ex-slave — the quarter-deck and the fore-
castle, as it were — could not come together.
But neither could the American mind tolerate
a continuance of martial law. The agonies
of reconstruction followed.
The vote, after all, was a secondary point,
and the robbery and bribery on one side, and
whipping and killing on the other, were but
huge accidents of the situation. The twTo
main questions were really these : on the
freedman's side, how to establish republican
State government under the same recognition
of his rights that the rest of Christendom ac-
corded him ; and on the former master's side,
how to get back to the old semblance of re-
publican State government, and — allowing
that the freedman was de facto a voter — still
to maintain a purely arbitrary superiority of
all whites over all blacks, and a purely arbi-
trary equality of all blacks among themselves
as an alien, menial, and dangerous class.
Exceptionally here and there some one in
the master caste did throw off the old and
accept the new ideas, and, if he would allow
it, was instantly claimed as a leader by the
newly liberated thousands around him. But
just as promptly the old master race branded
him also an alien reprobate, and in ninety -nine
cases out of a hundred, if he had not already
done so, he soon began to confirm by his actions
the brand on his cheek. However, we need
give no history here of the dreadful episode
of reconstruction. Under an experimentative
truce its issues rest to-day upon the pledge
of the wiser leaders of the master class :
Let us but remove the hireling demagogue,
and we will see to it that the freedman is ac-
corded a practical, complete, and cordial rec-
ognition of his equality wTith the white man
before the law. As far as there has been any
understanding at all, it is not that the origi-
nally desired ends of reconstruction have been
abandoned, but that the men of North and
South have agreed upon a new, gentle, and
peaceable method for reaching them ; that,
without change as to the ends in view, com-
pulsory reconstruction has been set aside and
a voluntary reconstruction is on trial.
It is the fashion to say we paused to let the
" feelings engendered by the war" pass away,
and that they are passing. But let not these
truths lead us into error. The sentiments
we have been analyzing, and upon which
we saw the old compulsory reconstruction go
hard aground — these are not the " feelings
engendered by the war." We must disentan-
gle them from the " feelings engendered by
the war," and by reconstruction. They are
older than either. But for them slavery would
have perished of itself, and emancipation and
reconstruction been peaceful revolutions.
Indeed, as between master and slave, the
" feelings engendered by the war " are too
trivial, or at least were too short-lived, to de-
mand our present notice. One relation and
feeling the war destroyed : the patriarchal tie
and its often really tender and benevolent
sentiment of dependence and protection.
When the slave became a freedman the senti-
ment of alienism became for the first time
complete. The abandonment of this relation
was not one-sided ; the slave, even before the
master, renounced it. Countless times, since
reconstruction began, the master has tried, in
what he believed to be everybody's interest,
to play on that old sentiment. But he found
it a harp without strings. The freedman could
not formulate, but he could see, all our old
ideas of autocracy and subserviency, of master
and menial, of an arbitrarily fixed class to
guide and rule, and another to be guided and
ruled. He rejected the overture. The old
master, his well-meant condescensions slighted,
turned away estranged, and justified himself
in passively withholding that simpler protec-
tion without patronage which any one Amer-
ican citizen, however exalted, owes to any
other, however humble. Could the freedman
in the bitterest of those days have consented
to throw himself upon just that one old rela-
tion, he could have found a physical security
for himself and his house such as could not,
after years of effort, be given him by consti-
tutional amendments, Congress, United States
marshals, regiments of regulars, and ships of
war. But he could not ; the very nobility of
the civilization that had held him in slavery
had made him too much a man to go back
to that shelter; and by his manly neglect to
do so he has proved to us who once ruled
over him that, be his relative standing among
the races of men what it may, he is worthy
to be free.
To be a free man is his still distant goal.
Twice he has been a freedman. In the days
of compulsory reconstruction he was freed in
the presence of his master by that master's
victorious foe. In these days of voluntary
reconstruction he is virtually freed by the
consent of his master, but the master retain-
ing the exclusive right to define the bounds
of his freedom. Many everywhere have taken
up the idea that this state of affairs is the end
to be desired and the end actually sought in
reconstruction as handed over to the States.
I do not charge such folly to the best intelli-
gence of any American community; but I
THE FREEDMAN' S CASE IN EQUITY.
4i3
cannot ignore my own knowledge that the
average thought of some regions rises to no
better idea of the issue. The belief is all too
common that the nation, having aimed at a
wrong result and missed, has left us of the
Southern States to get now such other result
as we think best. I say this belief is not uni-
versal. There are those among us who see
that America has no room for a state of
society which makes its lower classes harm-
less by abridging their liberties, or, as one of
the favored class lately said to me, has " got
'em so they don't give no trouble." There is
a growing number who see that the one
thing we cannot afford to tolerate at large is
a class of people less than citizens ; and that
every interest in the land demands that the
freedman be free to become in all things, as
far as his own personal gifts will lift and sus-
tain him, the same sort of American citizen
he would be if, with the same intellectual and
moral caliber, he were white.
Thus we reach the ultimate question of fact.
Are the freedman's liberties suffering any real
abridgment ? The answer is easy. The let-
ter of the laws, with but few exceptions, rec-
ognizes him as entitled to every right of an
American citizen ; and to some it may seem
unimportant that there is scarcely one public
relation of life in the South where he is not
arbitrarily and unlawfully compelled to hold
toward the white man the attitude of an
alien, a menial, and a probable reprobate, by
reason of his race and color. One of the mar-
vels of future history will be that it was
counted a small matter, by a majority of our
nation, for six millions of people within it,
made by its own decree a component part of
it, to be subjected to a system of oppression
so rank that nothing could make it seem
small except the fact that they had already
been ground under it for a century and a
half.
Examine it. It proffers to the freedman a
certain security of life and property, and then
holds the respect of the community, that
dearest of earthly boons, beyond his attain-
ment. It gives him certain guarantees against
thieves and robbers, and then holds him
under the unearned contumely of the mass
of good men and women. It acknowledges
in constitutions and statutes his title to an
American's freedom and aspirations, and then
in daily practice heaps upon him in every
public place the most odious distinctions,
without giving ear to the humblest plea con-
cerning mental or moral character. It spurns
his ambition, tramples upon his languishing
self-respect, and indignantly refuses to let him
either buy with money, or earn by any excel-
lence of inner life or outward behavior, the
most momentary immunity from these public
indignities even for his wife and daughters.
Need we cram these pages with facts in evi-
dence, as if these were charges denied and
requiring to be proven ? They are simply the
present avowed and defended state of affairs
peeled of its exteriors.
Nothing but the habit, generations old, of
enduring it could make it endurable by men
not in actual slavery. Were we whites of the
South to remain every way as we are, and
our six million blacks to give place to any
sort of whites exactly their equals, man for
man, in mind, morals, and wealth, provided
only that they had tasted two years of Amer-
ican freedom, and were this same system of
tyrannies attempted upon them, there would
be as bloody an uprising as this conti-
nent has ever seen. We can say this
quietly. There is not a scruple's weight of
present danger. These six million freedmen
are dominated by nine million whites immeas-
urably stronger than they, backed by the
virtual consent of thirty-odd millions more.
Indeed, nothing but the habit of oppression
could make such oppression possible to a
people of the intelligence and virtue of our
Southern whites, and the invitation to practice
it on millions of any other than the children
of their former slaves would be spurned with
a noble indignation.
Suppose, for a moment, the tables turned.
Suppose the courts of our Southern States,
while changing no laws requiring the impan-
eling of jurymen without distinction as to
race, etc., should suddenly begin to draw their
thousands of jurymen all black, and well-nigh
every one of them counting not only himself,
but all his race, better than any white man.
Assuming that their average of intelligence and
morals should be not below that of jurymen
as now drawn, would a white man, for all that,
choose to be tried in one of those courts ?
Would he suspect nothing ? Could one per-
suade him that his chances of even justice
were all they should be, or all they would be
were the court not evading the law in order
to sustain an outrageous distinction against
him because of the accidents of his birth ?
Yet only read white man for black man, and
black man for white man, and that — I speak
as an eye-witness — has been the practice for
years, and is still so to-day ; an actual emas-
culation, in the case of six million people both
as plaintiff and defendant, of the right of trial
by jury.
In this and other practices the outrage falls
upon the freedman. Does it stop there ? Far
from it. It is the first premise of American
principles that whatever elevates the lower
stratum of the people lifts all the rest, and
414
THE FREEDMAN' S CASE IN EQUITY.
whatever holds it down holds all down. For
twenty years, therefore, the nation has been
working to elevate the freedman. It counts this
one of the great necessities of the hour. It has
poured out its wealth publicly and privately
for this purpose. It is confidently expected that
it will soon bestow a royal gift of millions
for the reduction of the illiteracy so largely
shared by the blacks. Our Southern States
are, and for twenty years have been, taxing
themselves for the same end. The private
charities alone of the other States have given
twenty millions in the same good cause. Their
colored seminaries, colleges, and normal
schools dot our whole Southern country, and
furnish our public colored schools with a large
part of their teachers. All this and much more
has been or is being done in order that, for the
good of himself and everybody else in the
land, the colored man may be elevated as
quickly as possible from all the debase-
ments of slavery and semi-slavery to the full
stature and integrity of citizenship. And it is
in the face of all this that the adherent of the
old regime stands in the way to every public
privilege and place — steamer landing, railway
platform, theater, concert-hall, art display, pub-
lic library, public school, court-house, church,
everything — flourishing the hot branding-
iron of ignominious distinctions. He forbids
the freedman to go into the water until he
is satisfied that he knows how to swim, and
for fear he should learn hangs mill-stones
about his neck. This is what we are told is a
small matter that will settle itself. Yes, like a
roosting curse, until the outraged intelligence
of the South lifts its indignant protest against
this stupid firing into our own ranks.
I say the outraged intelligence of the South;
for there are thousands of Southern -born
white men and women in the minority in all
these places — in churches, courts, schools,
libraries, theaters, concert-halls, and on steam-
ers and railway carriages — who see the wrong
and folly of these things, silently blush for
them, and withhold their open protests only
because their belief is unfortunately stronger
in the futility of their counsel than in the
power of a just cause. I do not justify their
silence ; but I affirm their sincerity and their
goodly numbers. Of late years, when con-
demning these evils from the platform in
Southern towns, I have repeatedly found that
those who I had earlier been told were the
men and women in whom the community
placed most confidence and pride — they
were the ones who, when I had spoken, came
forward with warmest hand-grasps and ex-
pressions of thanks, and pointedly and cor-
dially justified my every utterance. And were
they the young South? Not by half! The
gray-beards of the old times have always been
among them, saying in effect, not by any
means as converts, but as fellow-discoverers,
" Whereas we were blind, now we see."
Another sort among our good Southern
people make a similar but feebler admission,
but with the time-worn proviso that expe-
diency makes a more imperative demand
than law, justice, or logic, and demands the
preservation of the old order. Somebody
must be outraged, it seems; and if not the
freedman, then it must be a highly refined
and enlightened race of people constantly
offended and grossly discommoded, if not
imposed upon, by a horde of tatterdemalions,
male and female, crowding into a participa-
tion in their reserved privileges. Now, look
at this plea. It is simply saying in another
way that though the Southern whites far out-
number the blacks, and though we hold every
element of power in greater degree than the
blacks, and though the larger part of us claim
to be sealed by nature as an exclusive upper
class, and though we have the courts com-
pletely in our own hands, with the police on
our right and the prisons on our left, and
though we justly claim to be an intrepid peo-
ple, and though we have a superb military
experience, with ninety-nine hundredths of
all the military equipment and no scarcity
of all the accessories, yet with all the facts
behind us we cannot make and enforce that
intelligent and approximately just assortment
of persons in public places and conveyances
on the merits of exterior decency that is made
in all other enlightened lands. On such a
plea are made a distinction and separation
that not only are crude, invidious, humiliat-
ing, and tyrannous, but which do not reach
their ostensible end or come near it ; and all
that saves such a plea from being a confession
of driveling imbecility is its utter speciousness.
It is advanced sincerely ; and yet nothing is
easier to show than that these distinctions on
the line of color are really made not from
any necessity, but simply for their own sake —
to preserve the old arbitrary supremacy of the
master class over the menial without regard
to the decency or indecency of appearance
or manners in either the white individual or
the colored.
See its every-day working. Any colored
man gains unquestioned admission into innu-
merable places the moment he appears as the
menial attendant of some white person, where
he could not cross the threshold in his own
right as a well-dressed and well-behaved mas-
ter of himself. The contrast is even greater
in the case of colored women. There could
not be a system which when put into practice
would more offensively condemn itself. It does
THE FREEDMAN'S CASE IN EQUITY.
4i5
more: it actually creates the confusion it
pretends to prevent. It blunts the sensibili-
ties of the ruling class themselves. It waives
all strict demand for painstaking in either
manners or dress of either master or menial,
and, for one result, makes the average South-
ern railway coach more uncomfortable than
the average of railway coaches elsewhere.
It prompts the average Southern white pas-
senger to find less offense in the presence of a
profane, boisterous, or unclean white person
than in that of a quiet, well-behaved colored
man or woman attempting to travel on an
equal footing with him without a white mas-
ter or mistress. The holders of the old senti-
ments hold the opposite choice in scorn. It
is only when we go on to say that there are
regions where the riotous expulsion of a de-
cent and peaceable colored person is pre-
ferred to his inoffensive company, that it may
seem necessary to bring in evidence. And
yet here again it is prima facie evidence ; for
the following extract was printed in the Selma
(Alabama) " Times " not six months ago, and
not as a complaint, but as a boast :
"A few days since, a negro minister, of this city,
boarded the east-bound passenger train on the E. T.,
V. & G. Railway and took a seat in the coach occu-
pied by white passengers. Some of the passengers
complained to the conductor and brakemen, and ex-
pressed considerable dissatisfaction that they were
forced to ride alongside of a negro. The railroad
officials informed the complainants that they were not
authorized to force the colored passenger into the
coach set apart for the negroes, and they would lay
themselves liable should they do so. The white pas-
sengers then took the matter in their own hands and
ordered the ebony -hued minister to take a seat in the
next coach. He positively refused to obey orders,
whereupon the white men gave him a sound flogging
and forced him to a seat among his own color and
equals. We learned yesterday that the vanquished
preacher was unable to fill his pulpit on account of
the severe chastisement inflicted upon him. Now
[says the delighted editor] the query that puzzles is,
' Who did the flogging ?' "
And as good an answer as we can give is
that likely enough they were some of the men
for whom the whole South has come to a halt
to let them get over the " feelings engendered
by the war." Must such men, such acts, such
sentiments, stand alone to represent us of the
South before an enlightened world? No. I
say, as a citizen of an extreme Southern State,
a native of Louisiana, an ex-Confederate sol-
dier, and a lover of my home, my city, and my
State, as well as of my country, that this is
not the best sentiment in the South, nor the
sentiment of her best intelligence ; and that
it would not ride up and down that beautiful
land dominating and domineering were it not
for its tremendous power as the traditional
sentiment of a conservative people. But is
not silent endurance criminal ? I cannot but
repeat my own words, spoken near the scene
and about the time of this event. Speech
may be silvern and silence golden ; but if a
lump of gold is only big enough, it can drag
us to the bottom of the sea and hold us there
while all the world sails over us.
The laws passed in the days of compulsory
reconstruction requiring " equal accommoda-
tions," etc., for colored and white persons
were freedmen's follies. On their face they
defeated their ends ; for even in theory they
at once reduced to half all opportunity for
those more reasonable and mutually agreeable
self-assortments which public assemblages
and groups of passengers find it best to make
in all other enlightened countries, making
them on the score of conduct, dress, and price.
They also led the whites to overlook what
they would have seen instantly had these in-
vidious distinctions been made against them-
selves : that their offense does not vanish at
the guarantee against the loss of physical com-
forts. But we made, and are still making, a mis-
take beyond even this. For years many of us
have carelessly taken for granted that these
laws were being carried out in some shape
that removed all just ground of complaint. It
is common to say, " We allow the man of
color to go and come at will, only let him sit
apart in a place marked off for him." But
marked off how ? So as to mark him in-
stantly as a menial. Not by railings and par-
titions merely, which, raised against any
other class in the United States with the same
invidious intent, would be kicked down as
fast as put up, but by giving him besides,
in every instance and without recourse, the
most uncomfortable, uncleanest, and unsafest
place ; and the unsafety, uncleanness, and dis-
comfort of most of these places are a shame
to any community pretending to practice
public justice. If any one can think the
freedman does not feel the indignities thus
heaped upon him, let him take up any paper
printed for colored men's patronage, or ask
any colored man of known courageous utter-
ance. Hear them:
" We ask not Congress, nor the Legislature, nor any
other power, to remedy these evils, but we ask the
people among whom we live. Those who can remedy
them if they will. Those who have a high sense of
honor and a deep moral feeling. Those who have one
vestige of human sympathy left. . . . Those are the
ones we ask to protect us in our weakness and ill-
treatments. ... As soon as the colored man is
treated by the white man as a man, that harmony and
pleasant feeling which should characterize all races
which dwell together, shall be the bond of peace
between them."
Surely their evidence is good enough to
prove their own feelings. We need not lean
upon it here for anything else. I shall not bring
416
THE FREEDMAN'S CASE IN EQUITY.
forward a single statement of fact from them
or any of their white friends who, as teachers
and missionaries, share many of their humilia-
tions, though my desk is covered with them.
But I beg to make the same citation from my
own experience that I made last June in the
far South. It was this : One hot night in Sep-
tember of last year I was traveling by rail in
the State of Alabama. At rather late bed-time
there came aboard the train a young mother
and her little daughter of three or four years.
They were neatly and tastefully dressed in
cool, fresh muslins, and as the train went on
its way they sat together very still and quiet.
At the next station there came aboard a most
melancholy and revolting company. In filthy
rags, with vile odors and the clanking of
shackles and chains, nine penitentiary con-
victs chained to one chain, and ten more
chained to another, dragged laboriously into
the compartment of the car where in one cor-
ner sat this mother and child, and packed it
full, and the train moved on. The keeper of
the convicts told me he should take them in
that car two hundred miles that night. They
were going to the mines. My seat was not
in that car, and I staid in it but a moment.
It stank insufferably. I returned to my own
place in the coach behind, where there was,
and had all the time been, plenty of room.
But the mother and child sat on in silence in
that foul hole, the conductor having distinctly
refused them admission elsewhere because
they were of African blood, and not because
the mother was, but because she was not, en-
gaged at the moment in menial service. Had
the child been white, and the mother not its
natural but its hired guardian, she could have
sat anywhere in the train, and no one would
have ventured to object, even had she been
as black as the mouth of the coal-pit to which
her loathsome fellow-passengers were being
carried in chains.
Such is the incident as I saw it. But the
illustration would be incomplete here were I
not allowed to add the comments I made
upon it when in June last I recounted it, and
to state the two opposite tempers in which
my words were received. I said : " These are
the facts. And yet you know and I know we
belong to communities that, after years of
hoping for, are at last taking comfort in the
assurance of the nation's highest courts that
no law can reach and stop this shameful foul
play until we choose to enact a law to that
end ourselves. And now the east and north
and west of our great and prosperous and
happy country, and the rest of the civilized
world, as far as it knows our case, are stand-
ing and waiting to see what we will write
upon the white page of to-day's and to-mor-
row's history, now that we are simply on our
honor and on the mettle of our far and peculi-
arly famed Southern instinct. How long, then,
shall we stand off from such ringing moral
questions as these on the flimsy plea that they
have a political value, and, scrutinizing the Con-
stitution, keep saying, ' Is it so nominated in the
bond ? I cannot find it ; 'tis not in the bond.' "
With the temper that promptly resented
these words through many newspapers of the
neighboring regions there can be no propri-
ety in wrangling. When regions so estranged
from the world's thought carry their resent-
ment no further than a little harmless invective,
it is but fair to welcome it as a sign of prog-
ress. If communities nearer the great centers
of thought grow impatient with them, how
shall we resent the impatience of these re-
moter ones when their oldest traditions are,
as it seems to them, ruthlessly assailed ? There
is but one right thing to do : it is to pour in
upon them our reiterations of the truth with-
out malice and without stint.
But I have a much better word to say. It
is for those who, not voiced by the newspa-
pers around them, showed, both then and
constantly afterward in public and private
during my two days' subsequent travel and so-
journ in the region, by their cordial, frequent,
specific approval of my words, that a better
intelligence is longing to see the evils of the
old regime supplanted by a wiser and more
humane public sentiment and practice. And
I must repeat my conviction that if the un-
conscious habit of oppression were not already
there, a scheme so gross, irrational, unjust,
and inefficient as our present caste distinctions
could not find place among a people so gen-
erally intelligent and high-minded. I ask at-
tention to their bad influence in a direction
not often noticed.
In studying, about a year ago, the practice
of letting out public convicts to private les-
sees to serve out their sentences under private
management, I found that it does not belong
to all our once slave States nor to all our once
seceded States.* Only it is no longer in prac-
tice outside of them. Under our present con-
dition in the South, it is beyond possibility
that the individual black should behave mis-
chievously without offensively rearousing the
old sentiments of the still dominant white
man. As we have seen, too, the white man
virtually monopolizes the jury-box. Add an-
other fact : the Southern States have entered
upon a new era of material development.
Now, if with these conditions in force the
public mind has been captivated by glow-
ing pictures of the remunerative economy of
See "The Convict Lease System in the Southern States," in The Century for February, 1884. — Ed.
THE FREEDMAN'S CASE IN EQUITY.
4i7
the convict-lease system, and by the seductive
spectacle of mines and railways, turnpikes and
levees, that everybody wants and nobody
wants to pay for, growing apace by convict
labor that seems to cost nothing, we may al-
most assert beforehand that the popular mind
will — not so maliciously as unreflectingly —
yield to the tremendous temptation to hustle
the misbehaving black man into the State
prison under extravagant sentence, and sell
his labor to the highest bidder who will use
him in the construction of public works. For
ignorance of the awful condition of these pen-
itentiaries is extreme and general, and the
hasty, half-conscious assumption naturally is,
that the culprit will survive this term of sen-
tence, and its fierce discipline " teach him to
behave himself."
But we need not argue from cause to effect
only. Nor need I repeat one of the many
painful rumors that poured in upon me the
moment I began to investigate this point.
The official testimony of the prisons them-
selves is before the world to establish the con-
jectures that spring from our reasoning. After
the erroneous takings of the census of 1880
in South Carolina had been corrected, the
population was shown to consist of about
twenty blacks to every thirteen whites. One
would therefore look for a preponderance of
blacks on the prison lists ; and inasmuch as
they are a people only twenty years ago re-
leased from servile captivity, one would not
be surprised to see that preponderance large.
Yet, when the actual numbers confront us, our
speculations are stopped with a rude shock;
for what is to account for the fact that in
1 88 1 there were committed to the State
prison at Columbia, South Carolina, 406
colored persons and but 25 whites? The
proportion of blacks sentenced to the whole
black population was one to every 1488;
that of the whites to the white popula-
tion was but one to every 15,644. In
Georgia the white inhabitants decidedly out-
number the blacks; yet in the State peni-
tentiary, October 20, 1880, there were 115
whites and 107 1 colored; or if we reject the
summary of its tables and refer to the tables
themselves (for the one does not agree with
the other), there were but 102 whites and
1083 colored. Yet of 52 pardons granted in
the two years then closing, 22 were to whites
and only 30 to blacks. If this be a dark rec-
ord, what shall we say of the records of lynch
law ? But for them there is not room here.
A far pleasanter aspect of our subject shows
itself when we turn from courts and prisons
to the school-house. And the explanation is
simple. Were our educational affairs in the
hands of that not high average of the com-
munity commonly seen in jury-boxes, with
their transient sense of accountability and
their crude notions of public interests, there
would most likely be no such pleasant con-
trast. But with us of the South, as elsewhere,
there is a fairly honest effort to keep the pub-
lic-school interests in the hands of the State's
most highly trained intelligence. Hence our
public educational work is a compromise be-
tween the unprogressive prejudices of the
general mass of the whites and the progressive
intelligence of their best minds. Practically,
through the great majority of our higher ed-
ucational officers, we are fairly converted to
the imperative necessity of elevating the col-
ored man intellectually, and are beginning to
see very plainly that the whole community is
sinned against in every act or attitude of op-
pression, however gross or however refined.
Yet one thing must be said. I believe it is
wise that all have agreed not to handicap
education with the race question, but to make
a complete surrender of that issue, and let it
find adjustment elsewhere first and in the
schools last. And yet, in simple truth and
justice and in the kindest spirit, we ought to
file one exception for that inevitable hour
when the whole question must be met. There
can be no more real justice in pursuing the
freedman's children with humiliating arbitrary
distinctions and separations in the school-
houses than in putting them upon him in other
places. If, growing out of their peculiar men-
tal structure, there are good and just reasons
for their isolation, by all means let them be
proved and known ; but it is simply tyran-
nous to assume them without proof. I know
that just here looms up the huge bugbear of
Social Equality. Our eyes are filled with ab-
surd visions of all Shantytown pouring its
hordes of unwashed imps into the company
and companionship of our own sunny-headed
darlings. What utter nonsense ! As if our
public schools had no gauge of cleanliness,
decorum, or moral character ! Social Equal-
ity ? What a godsend it would be if the ad-
vocates of the old Southern regime could
only see that the color line points straight in
the direction of social equality by tending
toward the equalization of all whites on one
side of the line and of all blacks on the other.
We may reach the moon some day, not so-
cial equality ; but the only class that really
effects anything toward it are the makers and
holders of arbitrary and artificial social dis-
tinctions interfering with society's natural
self-distribution. Even the little children
everywhere are taught, and begin to learn
almost with their ABC, that they will find,
and must be guided by, the same variations
of the social scale in the public school as out of
4i8
THE FREEDMAN' S CASE IN EQUITY.
it ; and it is no small mistake to put them or
their parents off their guard by this cheap sep-
aration on the line of color.
But some will say this is not a purely arti-
ficial distinction. We hear much about race
instinct. The most of it, I fear, is pure twad-
dle. It may be there is such a thing. We do
not know. It is not proved. And even if it
were established, it would not necessarily be a
proper moral guide. We subordinate instinct to
society's best interests as apprehended in the
light of reason. If there is such a thing, it
behaves with strange malignity toward the
remnants of African blood in individuals
principally of our own race, and with singular
indulgence to the descendants of — for exam-
ple— Pocahontas. Of mere race feeling we
all know there is no scarcity. Who is stranger
to it ? And as another man's motive of pri-
vate preference no one has a right to forbid
it or require it. But as to its being an instinct,
one thing is plain : if there is such an instinct,
so far from excusing the malignant indignities
practiced in its name, it furnishes their final
condemnation ; for it stands to reason that
just in degree as it is a real thing it will take
care of itself.
It has often been seen to do so, whether
it is real or imaginary. I have seen in New
Orleans a Sunday-school of white children
every Sunday afternoon take possession of its
two rooms immediately upon their being va-
cated by a black school of equal or somewhat
larger numbers. The teachers of the colored
school are both white and black, and among
the white teachers are young ladies and gentle-
men of the highest social standing. The pupils
of the two schools are alike neatly attired,
orderly, and in every respect inoffensive to each
other. I have seen the two races sitting in the
same public high-school and grammar-school
rooms, reciting in the same classes and taking
recess on the same ground at the same time,
without one particle of detriment that any
one ever pretended to discover, although the
fiercest enemies of the system swarmed about
it on every side. And when in the light of
these observations I reflect upon the enor-
mous educational task our Southern States
have before them, the inadequacy of their own
means for performing it, the hoped-for benef-
icence of the general Government, the sparse-
ness with which so much of our Southern
population is distributed over the land, the
thousands of school districts where, conse-
quently, the multiplication of schools must
involve both increase of expense and reduc-
tion of efficiency, I must enter some demur-
rer to the enforcement of the tyrannous
sentiments of the old regime until wise experi-
ments have established better reasons than I
have yet heard given.
What need to say more ? The question is
answered. Is the freedman a free man? No.
We have considered his position in a land
whence nothing can, and no man has a
shadow of right to, drive him, and where he
is multiplying as only oppression can multiply
a people. We have carefully analyzed his rela-
tions to the finer and prouder race, with which
he shares the ownership and citizenship of
a region large enough for ten times the num-
ber of both. Without accepting one word of
his testimony, we have shown that the laws
made for his protection against the habits of
suspicion and oppression in his late master
are being constantly set aside, not for their
defects, but for such merit as they possess.
We have shown that the very natural source
of these oppressions is the surviving senti-
ments of an extinct and now universally exe-
crated institution ; sentiments which no intel-
ligent or moral people should harbor a moment
after the admission that slavery was a moral
mistake. We have shown the outrageousness
of these tyrannies in some of their workings,
and how distinctly they antagonize every
State and national interest involved in the
elevation of the colored race. Is it not well
to have done so ? For, I say again, the
question has reached a moment of special
importance. The South stands on her honor
before the clean equities of the issue. It is no
longer whether constitutional amendments,
but whether the eternal principles of justice,
are violated. And the answer must — it shall —
come from the South. And it shall be practi-
cal. It will not cost much. We have had a
strange experience : the withholding of simple
rights has cost us much blood ; such conces-
sions of them as we have made have never
yet cost a drop. The answer is coming. Is
politics in the way ? Then let it clear the track
or get run over, just as it prefers. But, as I
have said over and over to my brethren
in the South, I take upon me to say again
here, that there is a moral and intellectual
intelligence there which is not going to be
much longer beguiled out of its moral right of
way by questions of political punctilio, but will
seek that plane of universal justice and equity
which it is every people's duty before God to
seek, not along the line of politics, — God for-
bid ! — but across it and across it and across
it as many times as it may lie across the path,
until the whole people of every once slave-
holding State can stand up as one man, say-
ing, " Is the freedman a free man ? " and
the whole world shall answer, " Yes."
George W. Cable.
LONGING.
When I am gone —
Say ! will the glad wind wander, wander on ;
Stooping with tenderest touches, yet
With frolic care beset,
Lifting the long gray rushes, where the Stream
And I so idly dream?
I feel its soft caress ;
The toying of its wild-wood tenderness
On brow and lip and eyes and hair,
As if through love aware
That days must come when no fond wind shall creep
Down where my heart's asleep !
Hast thou a sympathy,
A soul, O wandering Wind, that thou dost sigh ?
Or is't the heart within us still
That aches for good or ill,
And deems that Nature whispers, when alone
Our inner Self makes moan ?
William M. Briggs.
n«5^- <-$>**■
RECOLLECTIONS OF FOOTE AND THE GUN-BOATS.
Soon after the surrender of Fort Sumter,
while in St. Louis I received a letter from
Attorney- General Bates, dated Washington,
April 17th, in which he said: " Be not sur-
prised if you are called here suddenly by
telegram. If called, come instantly. In a
certain contingency it will be necessary to
have the aid of the most thorough knowl-
edge of our Western rivers and the use of
steam on them, and in that event I have ad-
vised that you should be consulted." The
call by telegraph followed close upon the let-
ter. I hurried to Washington, where I was
introduced to the Secretary of the Navy, the
Hon. Gideon Welles, and to the Assistant
Secretary, Captain Fox. In the August follow-
ing I was to construct seven gun-boats, which,
according to contract, were to draw six feet
of water, carry thirteen heavy guns each, be
plated with two-and-a-half-inch iron, and have
a speed of nine miles an hour. The De Kalb
(at first called the St. Louis) was the type of
the other six, named the Carondelet, Cincin-
nati, Louisville, Mound City, Cairo, and Pitts-
burgh. They were 175 feet long, 51^ feet
beam; the flat sides sloped at an angle of
about thirty-five degrees, and the front and
rear casemates corresponded with the sides,
the stern-wheel being entirely covered by the
rear casemate. Each gun-boat was pierced
for three bow guns, eight broadside guns (four
on a side), and two stern guns. Before these
seven gun-boats were completed, I engaged
to convert the snag-boat Benton into an ar-
mored vessel of still larger dimensions. *
After completing the seven and dispatch-
* Of the services of Captain Eads to the Western flotilla, Mr. Boynton says, in the " History of the Navy " : " During the month
of July, 1861, the Quartermaster-General advertised for proposals to construct a number of iron-clad gun-boats for service on the
Mississippi River. The bids were opened on the 5th of August, and Mr. EacWwas found to be the best bidder for the whole
number, both in regard to the time of completion and price On the 7trlBf August, 1861, Mr. Eads signed a contract with
Quartermaster-General Meigs to construct these seven vessels ready for their crews and armaments in sixty-five days. At this early
period the people in the border States, especially in the slave States, had not yet learned to accommodate themselves to a state of
war. The pursuits of peace were interrupted; but the energy and enterprise which were to provide the vast material required for an
energetic prosecution of the war had not then been aroused. None could foresee the result, and a spirit of doubt and distrust per-
vaded financial and commercial circles. It was at this time that the contractor returned to St. Louis with an obligation to perform
what, under ordinary circumstances, would have been deemed by most men an impossibility. Rolling-mills, machine-shops, found-
ries, forges, and saw-mills were all idle. The demands of peace had ceased for months before, and the working-men were enlist-
ing, or seeking in States more quiet their accustomed employment. The engines that were to drive this our first iron-clad fleet were
yet to be built. The timber to form their hulls was uncut in the forests, and the huge rollers and machinery that were to form their
iron armor were not yet constructed. The rapidity with which all these various parts were to be supplied forbade depending alone
on any two or three establishments in the country, no matter how great were their resources. The signatures were scarcely dry on
this important contract before persons in different parts of the country were employed upon the work through telegraphic orders
issued from Washington. Special agents were dispatched in every direction, and saw-mills were simultaneously occupied in cutting
420
RECOLLECTIONS OF FOOTE AND THE GUN-BOATS.
ing them down the Mississippi to Cairo,
I was requested by Admiral Foote (who
then went by the title of " flag-officer," the
title of admiral not being recognized at that
time in our navy), as a special favor to him, to
accompany the Benton, the eighth one of the
fleet, in her passage down to Cairo. It was in
December, and the water was falling rapidly.
The Benton had been converted from the
U. S. snag-boat Benton into the most power-
ful iron-clad of the fleet. She was built
with two hulls about twenty feet apart, very
strongly braced together. She had been
purchased by General Fremont while he was
commandant of the Department of the Mis-
souri, and had been sent to my ship-yard for
alteration into a gun-boat. I had the space
between the two hulls planked, so that a con-
tinuous bottom extended from the outer side
of one hull to the outer side of the other.
The upper side was decked over in the same
manner; and by extending the outer sides of
the two hulls forward until they joined each
other at a new stem, which received them,
the twin boats became one wide, strong, and
substantial hull. The new bottom did not
extend to the stern of the hull, but was
brought up to the deck fifty feet forward of
the stern, so as to leave a space for a central
wheel, with which the boat was to be pro-
pelled. This wheel was turned by the original
engines of the snag-boat, each of the engines
having formerly turned an independent wheel
on the outside of the twin boat. In this
manner the Benton became a war vessel
of about seventy-five feet beam, a greater
breadth, perhaps, than that of any war vessel
then afloat. She was about two hundred feet
long. A slanting casemate, covered with iron
plates, was placed on her sides and across her
bow and stern ; and the wheel was protected
in a similar manner. The casemate on the
sides and bow was covered with iron three
and a half inches thick; the wheel-house
and stern with lighter plates, like the first
seven boats built by me. She carried thirteen
guns, — three in the bow casemate, four on
each side, and two astern.
The wish of Admiral Foote to have me see
this boat safely to Cairo was prompted by his
knowledge that I had had experience in the
management of steam-boats upon the river,
and his fear that she would be detained by
grounding. Ice had just begun to float
in the Mississippi when the Be?itcn put out
from my ship-yard at Carondelet for the
south. Some thirty or forty miles below St.
Louis she grounded. Under the direction of
Captain Winslow, who commanded the ves-
sel, Lieutenant Bishop, executive officer of
the ship, an intelligent and energetic young
man, set the crew at work. An anchor was
put out for the purpose of hauling her off.
My advice was not asked with reference to
this first proceeding, and although I had been
requested by Admiral Foote to accompany
the vessel, he had not instructed the captain,
so far as I knew, to be guided by my advice
in case of difficulty. After they had been
working all night to get the boat afloat, she
was harder on than ever; moreover, the
water had fallen about six inches. I then
volunteered the opinion to Captain Winslow
that if he would run hawsers ashore in a
certain direction, directly opposite to that in
which he had been trying to move the boat,
she could be got off. He replied, very
promptly, " Mr. Eads, if you will undertake
to get her off, I shall be very willing to place
the entire crew under your direction." I at
once accepted the offer; and Lieutenant
Bishop was called up and instructed to obey
my directions. Several very large hawsers
had been put on board of the boat for the
fleet at Cairo. One of the largest was got out
and secured to a large tree on the shore, and
the timber required in the construction of the vessels, in Kentucky, Tennessee, Illinois, Indiana, Ohio, Minnesota, and Missouri;
and railroads, steam-boats, and barges were engaged for its immediate transportation. Nearly all of the largest machine-shops and
foundries in St. Louis, and many small ones, were at once set at work day and night, and the telegraph lines between St. Louis
and Pittsburgh and Cincinnati were occupied frequently for hours in transmitting instructions to similar establishments in those cities
for the construction of the twenty-one steam-engines and the five-and-thirty steam-boilers that were to propel the fleet
Within two weeks not less than four thousand men were engaged in the various details of its construction. Neither the sanctity of
the Sabbath nor the darkness of night was permitted to interrupt it. The workmen on the hulls were promised a handsome bonus
in money for each one who stood steadfastly at the work until it was completed, and many thousands of dollars were thus gratui-
tously paid by Mr. Eads when it was finished. On the 12th of October, 1861, the first United States iron-clad, with her boilers and
engines on board, was launched in Carondelet, Missouri, in forty-five days from the laying of her keel. She was named the St.
Louis, by Rear-Admiral Foote, in honor of the city. When the fleet was transferred from the War Department to the Navy, this
name was changed to Baron de Kalb, there being at that time a vessel commissioned in the navy called the St. Louis. In ten days
after the De Kalb the Carondelet was launched, ami the Cincinnati, Louisville, Mound City, Cairo, and Pittsburgh followed in rapid
succession. An eighth vessel (the Benton), largeffnore powerful, and superior in every respect, was also undertaken before the hulls
of the first seven had fairly assumed shape. . . . Thus just one individual put in construction and pushed to completion within one
hundred days a powerful squadron of eight steamers, aggregating five thousand tons, capable of steaming at nine knots per hour, each
heavily armored, fully equipped, and all ready for their armament of one hundred and seven large guns. The fact that such a work
was done is nobler praise than any that can be bestowed by words. It is to be regretted, however, that the promptness and energy
of the man who thus created an iron-clad navy on the Mississippi were not met on the part of the Government with an equal degree
of faithfulness in performing its part of the contract. On one pretext or another, the stipulated payments for the work were delayed
by the War Department until the default assumed such magnitude that nothing but the assistance rendered by patriotic and con-
fiding friends enabled the contractor, after exhausting his own ample means, to complete the fleet. Besides the honorable reputation
which flows from success in such a work, he has the satisfaction of reflecting that it was with vessels at the time his own property
that the brilliant capture of Fort Henry was accomplished, and the conquest of Donelson and Island Number Ten achieved. The
ever-memorable midnight passage of Island Number Ten by the Pittsburgh and Carondelet, which compelled the surrender of that
powerful stronghold, was performed by vessels furnished four or five months previous by the same contractor, and at the time
unpaid for." — Ed.
RECOLLECTIONS OE EOOTE AND THE GUN-BOATS.
421
as heavy a strain was put upon it as the cable
would be likely to bear. As the water was
still falling, I ordered out a second one, and
a third, and a fourth, until five or six eleven-
inch hawsers were heavily strained in the
effort to drag the broad-bottomed vessel off
the bar. There were three steam capstans on
the bow of the vessel, and these were used in
tightening the strain by luffs upon the hawsers.
One of the hawsers was led through a snatch-
block fastened by a large chain to a ring-bolt
in the side of the vessel. I was on the upper
deck of the vessel near Captain Winslow
when the chain which held this block broke.
It was made of iron one and one-eighth
inches in diameter, and the link separated
into three pieces. The largest, being one-half
of the link, was found on the shore at a dis-
tance of at least five hundred feet. Half of
the remainder struck the iron plating on the
bow of the boat, making an indentation half
the thickness of one's finger in depth. The
third piece struck Captain Winslow on the
fleshy part of the arm, cutting through his coat
and the muscles of his arm. The wound was
a very painful one, but he bore it as might
be expected. The iron had probably cut an
inch and a half into the arm between the shoul-
der and the elbow. In the course of the day
the Benton was floated, and proceeded on
her voyage down the river without further
delay. Captain Winslow soon after departed
for his home on leave of absence. On his
recovery he was placed in command of the
Kearsarge, and to that accident he owed,
perhaps, the fame of being the captor of the
Alabama.
When the Benton arrived at Cairo she was
visited by all the officers of the army and
navy stationed there, and was taken, on that
or the following day, on a trial trip a, few
miles down the river. The Essex, in command
of Captain William Porter, was lying four or
five miles below the mouth of the Ohio on
the Kentucky shore. As the . Bento?i passed
along up, on her return from this little expe-
dition, Captain Porter offered his congratula-
tions to Foote on the apparent excellence
of the boat.
" Yes," replied Foote, " but she is almost
too slow."
" Plenty fast enough to fight with," was
Porter's rejoinder.
Very soon after this (early in the spring of
1862) I was called to Washington, with the
request to prepare plans for still lighter iron-
clad vessels, the draught of those which I
had then completed being only about six feet.
The later plans were for vessels that should
be capable of going up the Tennessee and the
Cumberland. As rapidly as possible I pre-
pared and presented for the inspection of
Secretary Welles and his able assistant, Cap-
tain Fox, plans of vessels drawing five feet.
They were not acceptable to Captain Fox,
who said :
" We want vessels much lighter than that."
" But you want them to carry a certain
thickness of iron ? " I replied.
" Yes, we want them to be proof against
heavy cannon-shot — plated and heavily plated,
but they must be of much lighter draught."
After the interview I returned with the plans
to my hotel, and commenced a revision of
them ; and in the course of a few days I pre-
sented the plans for the Osage and the Neosho.
These vessels, according to my recollection,
were about forty-five feet beam on deck, their
sides slanting outward, and the tops of the
gunwales rising only about six inches above
the surface of the water, so as to leave very
little space to be covered with the plating,
which extended two and a half feet down
under water on these slanting sides. The
deck of the vessel, rising from six inches above
water, curved upward about four feet higher at
center ; and this was covered all over with iron
an inch thick. The plating on the sides was two
and a half inches thick. Each vessel had a ro-
tating turret, carrying two eleven-inch guns,
the turret being either six or eight inches
thick (I forget which), but extending only a
few feet above the deck of the vessel. I was
very anxious to construct these turrets after
a plan which I had devised, quite different
from the Ericsson or Coles systems, and in
which the guns should be operated by steam.
But, within a month after the engagement at
Fort Donelson, the memorable contestbetween
the Merrimac and the Monitor occurred,
whereupon the Navy Department insisted
on Ericsson turrets being placed upon these
two vessels.
At the same time the department was anx-
ious to have four larger vessels for operations
on the lower Mississippi River, which should
have two turrets each, and it consented that I
should place one of my turrets on each of two
of these vessels (the Chickasaw and the Mil-
waukee) at my own risk, to be replaced with
Ericsson's in case of failure. These were the
first turrets in which the guns were manip-
ulated by steam, and they were fired every
forty-five seconds. The Osage and Neosho,
with their armaments, stores, and every-
thing on board, drew only three and a half
feet of water, and steamed about nine
miles an hour. While perfecting those plans,
I prepared the designs for the larger vessels
(the Chickasaw, Milwaukee, Winnebago, and
Kickapoo), and when these were approved
by Captain Fox and the officers of the navy
422
RECOLLECTIONS OF FOOTE AND THE GUN-BOATS.
to whom they were submitted at Washington,
Mr. Welles expressed the wish that I should
confer with Admiral Foote about them before
proceeding to build them, inasmuch as the
experience which he had had at Forts Henry
and Donelson and elsewhere would be of
great value, and might enable him to suggest
improvements in them. I therefore hastened
from Washington to Island Number Ten, a
hundred miles below Cairo, on the Mis-
sissippi River, where Foote's flotilla was then
engaged.
In the railway train a gentleman who sat
in front of me, learning that I had con-
structed Foote's vessels, introduced himself
as Judge Foote, of Cleveland, a brother
of the Admiral. Among other interesting
matters, he related an anecdote of one
of his little daughters who was just learning
to read. After the capture of Fort Henry
the squadron was brought back to Cairo for
repairs, and, on the Sunday following, the
crews, with their gallant flag-officer, attended
one of the churches in Cairo. Admiral Foote
was a thorough Christian gentleman and
excellent impromptu speaker. Upon this
occasion, after the congregation had assem-
bled, some one whispered to him that the
minister was ill and would be unable to offi-
ciate ; whereupon the Admiral went up into
the pulpit himself, and after the usual prayer
and hymn, he selected as the text John xiv.
i, " Let not your heart be troubled: ye be-
lieve in God, believe also in me." Upon
this text he delivered what was declared to
be an excellent sermon, or exhortation, after
which he dismissed the congregation. An
account of the sermon was widely published
in the papers at the time, and came into the
hands of the little niece just referred to.
After she had read it, she exclaimed to her
father :
" Uncle Foote did not say that right."
" Say what right ? " asked the father.
" Wiry, when he preached."
" What did he say ? "
" He said, ' Let not your heart be troubled :
ye believe in God, believe also in me? "
" Well, what should he have said ? " in-
quired the father.
" Why, he ought to have said, ' Let not
your heart be troubled : ye believe in God,
believe also in the gun-ooats.' "
On arriving at Cairo, I found Representative
Elihu B. Washburne, afterward our minister
to France, waiting for an opportunity to visit
the army, then in Missouri, in the neighbor-
hood of Island Number Ten, cooperating
with Admiral Foote in the reduction of that
stronghold. We embarked together on a
small tug-boat, which carried the mail down
to the fleet. We arrived and landed along-
side the flag-ship Benton, and were cordially
greeted by Admiral Foote. I presented a
letter which I had brought from the Secre-
tary of the Navy. We withdrew to his cabin
to consider the plans of the four new gun-
boats. Mr. Washburne was sent to the Mis-
souri shore. After discussing the plans of
the new boats for fifteen or twenty minutes,
we returned to the deck.
At the time we landed, the Benton and the
other boats of the fleet were anchored be-
tween two and three miles above the Con-
federate forts, and were then throwing their
shells into the enemy's works. When we
boarded the Benton Admiral Foote had his
lorgnette in his hand, and through it was
watching the flight of each shell discharged
from the guns of his ship. He resumed this
occupation when we came up on deck, until,
after a shot or two had been fired, one of his
officers approached and handed him a dozen
or more letters which had been brought
down in the mail. While still conversing with
me, his eye glanced over them as he held
them in his hand, and he selected one which
he proceeded to open. Before reading prob-
ably four lines, he turned to me with great
calmness and composure, and said, " Mr. Eads,
I must ask you to excuse me for a few min-
utes while I go down to my cabin. This letter
brings me the news of the death of my son,
about thirteen years old, who I had hoped
would live to be the stay and support of
his mother."
Without further remark, and without giving
the slightest evidence of his feelings to any
one, he left me and went to his cabin. I was,
of course, deeply grieved; and when he re-
turned, after an absence of not more than
fifteen minutes, still perfectly composed, I en-
deavored to divert his mind from his affliction
by referring to the plans and to my interview
with his brother. I told him also the anec-
dote of his little niece which his brother had
related, and this served to clothe his face
with a temporary smile. I then asked him if
he would be kind enough to assign me some
place where I could sleep on the Benton that
night. It was then probably three o'clock in
the day. He replied that I must not stay
on board. I said that I had come down for
that very purpose, since I wanted to see
how the Benton and the other boats worked
under fire. I was not particular where I
slept ; any place would do for me; I did
not want to turn any of the officers out of
their rooms.
With a look of great gravity and decision,
he replied :
" Mr. Eads, I cannot permit you to stay
OPERATIONS OF THE WESTERN FLOTILLA.
423
here a moment after the tug is ready to re-
turn. There is no money in the world which
would justify me in risking my life here ; and
you have no duty here to perform, as I have,
which requires you to risk yours. You must
?wt stay," emphasizing the words very dis-
tinctly ! " You must return, both you and Mr.
Washburne, as soon as the tug is ready to
I felt somewhat disappointed at this, for I
had fully expected to spend a day at least on
board the Benton, and to visit the other ves-
sels of the fleet, with many of the officers of
which I was well acquainted. I did not be-
lieve there was much danger in remaining,
for the shells of the enemy seemed to fall
short; but within fifteen minutes after this,
one of these interesting missiles struck the
water fifty or a hundred feet from the side of
the Benton. This satisfied me that Foote was
right, and I did not insist on staying.
The Admiral was a great sufferer from sick
headache. I remember visiting him in his
room at the Planters' House in St. Louis, a
day or two after the battle of Belmont, when
he was suffering very severely from one of
these attacks, which lasted two days. He was
one of the most fascinating men in company
that I ever have met, being full of anecdote,
and having a graceful, easy flow of language.
He was likewise, ordinarily, one of the most
amiable-looking of men ; but when angered, as
I once saw him, his face impressed me as being
most savage and demoniacal, and I can im-
agine that at the head of a column or in an
attack he would have been invincible. Some
idea of the moral influence that he possessed
over men maybe gained from the fact that, long
before the war, when commanding the United
States fleet of three vessels in Chinese waters,
he converted every officer and man in the fleet
to the principles of temperance, and had every
one of them sign the pledge. I believe that
this was the beginning of the reform move-
ment in the navy which led to the disuse of the
rations of grog which used to be served to the
sailors on shipboard at stated hours every
day.
From my knowledge of Foote, I think that
there is no doubt that if his health had not
given way so early in the war, he would have
gained laurels like those so gallantly won by
Farragut. And, aside from his martial charac-
ter, no officer ever surpassed him in those
evidences of genuine refinement and delicacy
which mark the true gentleman.
James B. Eads.
•+ • *»
OPERATIONS OF THE WESTERN FLOTILLA.
INCLUDING ENGAGEMENTS AT BELMONT, FORT HENRY, FORT DONELSON, ISLAND
NO. IO, FORT PILLOW, AND MEMPHIS.
A T the begin-
FOOTE IN THE WHEEL-HOUSE.
ning of the
War, the afmy
and navy were
mostly employ-
ed in protecting
the loyal peo-
ple who resided
on the borders
of the disaffect-
ed States, and
in reconciling
those whose sympathies were opposed. But
the defeat at Manassas and other reverses
convinced the Government of the serious
character of the contest, and of the necessity
of more vigorous and extensive preparations
for war. .Our navy yards were soon filled with
workmen ; recruiting stations for unemployed
seamen were established, and we soon had
more sailors than were required for the ships
that could be fitted for service. Artillerymen
for the defenses of Washington being scarce,
five hundred of these sailors, with a battalion
of marines (for guard duty), were sent to oc-
cupy the forts on Shuter's Hill, near Alexan-
dria. The Pensacola and the Potomac flotilla
and the seaboard navy yards required nearly
all of the remaining unemployed seamen.
While Foote was improvising a flotilla for the
Western rivers he was making urgent appeals
to the Government for seamen. Finally some
one at the Navy Department thought of the
five hundred tars stranded on Shuter's Hill,
and obtained an order for their transfer to
Cairo, where they were placed on the re-
ceiving ship Maria Denning. There they
met fresh-water sailors from our great lakes,
and steam-boat hands from the Western
rivers. Of the seamen from the East, there
were Maine lumbermen, New Bedford whalers,
New York liners, and Philadelphia sea-law-
yers. The foreigners enlisted were mostly
Irish, with a few English and Scotch, French,
424
OPERATIONS OF THE WESTERN FLOTILLA.
Germans, Swedes, Norwegians, and Danes.
The Northmen, considered the hardiest race
in the world, melted away in the Southern
sun with surprising rapidity.
On the gun-boat Carondelet were more
young men perhaps than on any other vessel
in the fleet. Philadelphians were in the ma-
jority ; Bostonians came next, with a sprink-
ling from other cities, and just enough men-
o'-war's men to leaven the lump with naval
discipline. The Si. Louis had more than its
REGION OF FOOTE S OPERATIONS.
share of men-o'-war's men, Lieutenant-Com-
mander Paulding having had the first choice
of a full crew, and having secured all the frigate
Sabine's reenlisted men who had been sentWest.
During the spring and summer of 1861,
Commanders Rodgers, Stemble, Phelps, and
Mr. James B. Eads had purchased, equipped,
and manned, for immediate service on the Ohio
and Mississippi rivers, three wooden gun-
boats— the Taylor, of six eight-inch shell-
guns and one thirty-two pounder; the Lexing-
ton, of four eight-inch shell-guns and one
thirty-two pounder, and the Conestoga, of three
thirty-two pounder guns. This nucleus of the
Mississippi flotilla (like the fleets of Perry, Mac-
donough, and Chauncey in the war of 181 2)
was completed with great skill and dispatch ;
they soon had full possession of the Western
rivers above Columbus, Kentucky, and ren-
dered more important service than as many
regiments could have done. On October 12,
1 86 1, the first of the seven iron-clad gun-
boats ordered of Mr. Eads by the Govern-
ment was launched at Carondelet, near St.
Louis. She was named the St. Louis by Ad-
miral Foote ; but there being another vessel
of that name in the navy, she was after-
ward called the De Kalb. The other iron-
clads, the Cincinnati, Carondelet, Louisville,
Mound City, Cairo, and Pittsburgh, were
launched soon after the St. Louis, Mr. Eads
having pushed forward the work with most
commendable zeal and energy. Two of these
were built at Mound City, 111. To the fleet
of iron-clads above named were added the
Bento7i (the largest and best vessel of the
Western flotilla), the Essex, and a few smaller
and partly armored gun-boats.
Flag- Officer Foote arrived at St. Louis on
September 6th, and assumed command of the
Western flotilla. He had been my fellow-
midshipman in 1827, on board the United
States ship Natchez, of the West India squad-
ron, and was then a promising young officer.
At Pensacola, in the fall of 1828, the ship
was visited with yellow fever ; and we had to
go ashore and encamp on Santa Rosa Island,
clean out and disinfect the ship, and sail to
New York to escape the pestilence. From
the Natchez Foote was transferred to the
Hornet, of the same squadron, and was ap-
pointed her sailing-master. After he left the
Natchez, we never met again until February,
1 86 1, at the Brooklyn Navy Yard, where he
was the executive officer. Foote, Schenck,
and myself were then the only survivors of
the midshipmen of the Natchez, in her cruise
of 1827, and now I am the only officer left.
During the cruise of 1827, while pacing the
deck at night, on the lonely seas, and talking
with a pious shipmate, Foote became con-
vinced of the truth of the Christian religion,
of which he was an earnest professor to the
last. He rendered important service while in
command of the brig Perry, on the coast . of
Africa, in 1849, in suppressing the slave-
trade, and he greatly distinguished himself
by his skill and gallantry in the attack upon
the Barrier Forts, near Canton (1856), which
he breached and carried by assault, lead-
ing the assailing column in person. Lie was
slow and cautious, in arriving at conclusions,
but firm and tenacious of purpose. He has
been called " the Stonewall Jackson of the
Navy." He often preached to his crew on
Sundays, and was always desirous of doing
good. He was not a man of striking personal
appearance, but there was a sailor-like hearti-
ness and frankness about him that made his
company very desirable.
Flag- Officer Foote arrived at Cairo Sep-
tember 12th, and relieved Commander John
Rodgers of the command of the station. The
first operations of the Western flotilla con-
OPERATIONS OF THE WESTERN FLOTILLA.
425
C^^^S^^f
sisted chiefly of reconnaissances on the Mis-
sissippi, Ohio, Cumberland, and Tennessee
rivers. At this time it was under the control
of the War Department, and acting in coop-
eration with the army under General Grant,
whose headquarters were at Cairo.
THE BATTLE OF BELMONT.
On the evening of the 6th of November,
1 86 1, I received instructions from General
Grant to proceed down the Mississippi with
the wooden gun-boats Taylor and Lexingto?i
on a reconnaissance, and as convoy to some
half-dozen transport steamers; but I did not
know the character of the service expected of
me until I anchored for the night, seven or
eight miles below Cairo. Early the next morn-
ing, while the troops were being landed near
Belmont, Missouri, opposite Columbus, Ken-
tucky, I attacked the Confederate batteries,
at the request of General Grant, as a diver-
sion, which was done with some effect. But
the superiority of the enemy's batteries on the
bluffs at Columbus, both in the number and the
quality of his guns, was so great that it would
have been too hazardous to have remained long
under his fire with such frail vessels as the Tay-
Vol. XXIX.— 42.
lor and Lexington, which were only expected
to protect the land forces in case of a repulse.
Having accomplished the object of the attack,
the gun-boats withdrew, but returned twice
during the day and renewed the contest. Dur-
ing the last of these engagements a cannon-ball
passed obliquely through the side, deck, and
scantling of the Taylor, killing one man and
wounding others. This convinced me of the
necessity of withdrawing my vessels, which
had been moving in a circle to confuse the
enemy's gunners. We fired a few more
broadsides, therefore, and, perceiving that
the firing had ceased at Belmont, an ominous
circumstance, I returned to the landing, to
protect the army and transports. In fact,
the destruction of the gun-boats would have
involved the loss of our army and our
depot at Cairo, the most important one in
the West.
Soon after we returned to the landing-
place our troops began to appear, and the
officers of the gun-boats were warned by Gen-
eral McClernand of the approach of the
enemy. The Confederates came en masse
through a corn-field, and opened with mus-
ketry and light artillery upon the transports,
which were filled or being filled with our re-
treating soldiers. A well-directed fire from the
426
OPERATIONS OF THE WESTERN FLOTILLA.
gun-boats made the enemy fly in the greatest
confusion.*
Admiral Foote was at St. -Louis when the
battle of Belmont was fought, and, it appears,
made no report to the Secretary of the Navy
of the part which the gun-boats took in the
action. Neither did he send my official re-
port to the Navy Department. The officers
of the vessels were highly complimented by
to inform the flag-officer of the General's
intentions, which were kept perfectly secret.
THE BATTLE OF FORT HENRY.
During the winter of 186 1-2 an expedition
was planned by Flag-Officer Foote and Gen-
erals Grant and McClernand against Fort
Henry, situated on the eastern bank of the
GUN-BOATS " TAYLOR" AND " LEXINGTON " ENGAGING THE CONFEDERATE BATTERIES OF COLUMBUS, KY., DURING THE
BATTLE OF BELMONT. (DRAWN BY HARRY FENN, AFTER A CONTEMPORARY SKETCH BY ADMIRAL WALKE.)
General Grant for the important aid they Tennessee River, a short distance south of the
rendered in this battle; and in his second line between Kentucky and Tennessee. In
official report of the action he made refer- January the iron-clads were brought down to
ences to my report. It was impossible for me Cairo, and great efforts were made to prepare
* The Federal forces at Belmont numbered between 3500 and 4000. During the first half of the battle
the Confederate force was probably less. General Polk in his report says that after the Confederate camp had
been captured he sent over from Columbus six regiments under Pillow and Cheatham, which were directly
engaged in recovering the lost ground, and two regiments, which, under his own direction, supported the flank
movement. The loss on each side in killed, wounded, and missing was between 500 and 600. General Grant
directed the movements on the field, and both he and his chief lieutenant, General McClernand, had horses
shot under them. The following is part of a private letter from General Grant to his father, written on the
night of the 8th: " . . . When all ready, we proceeded about one mile toward Belmont, opposite Colum-
bus, when I formed the troops into line, and ordered two companies from each regiment to deploy as skir-
mishers and push on through the woods and discover the position of the enemy. They had gone but a little
way when they were fired upon, and the ball may be said to have fairly opened. The whole command, with
the exception of a small reserve, was then deployed in like manner and ordered forward. The order was
obeyed with great alacrity, the men all showing great courage. . . . From here we fought our way from
tree to tree through the woods to Belmont, about two and a half miles, the enemy contesting every foot of
ground. Here the enemy had strengthened their position by felling the trees for two or three hundred yards,
and sharpening their limbs, making a sort of abatis. Our men charged through, making the victory complete,
giving us possession of their camp and garrison equipage, artillery, and everything else. We got a great
many prisoners. The majority, however, succeeded in getting aboard their steamers and pushing across the
river. We burned everything possible and started back, having accomplished all that we went for and even
more. Belmont is entirely covered by the batteries from Columbus, and is worth nothing as a military posi-
tion— cannot be held without Columbus. The object of the expedition was to prevent the enemy from send-
ing a force into Missouri to cut off troops I had sent there for a special purpose, and to prevent reenforcing
Price. Besides being well fortified at Columbus, their number far exceeded ours, and it would have been
folly to have attacked them. We found the Confederates well armed and brave. On our return, stragglers
that had been left in our rear (now front) fired into us, and more recrossed the river, and gave us battle for a
full mile, and afterward at the boats when we were embarking. There was no hasty retreating or running
away. Taking into account the object of the expedition, the victory was complete." — Ed.
OPERATIONS OF THE WESTERN FLOTILLA.
427
UNITED STATES GUN-BOAT "TAYLOR." (DRAWN BY ADMIRAL WALKE.)
them for immediate service, but only four of the
iron-clads could be made ready as soon as re-
quired. They were the Essex, Captain Wm.
D. Porter, mounting four nine-inch guns ; the
Cincinnati, flag-steamer, Commander Stemble ;
the Carondelet, Commander Walke; and the
St. Louis, Lieutenant-Commander Paulding.
Each of the last three carried four seven-inch
rifled, three eight-inch shell, and six thirty-
two-pound guns.
On the morning of the 2d of February
the flag-officer left Cairo with the four ar-
mored vessels above named, and the wooden
gun-boats Taylor, Lexington, and Conestoga,
and in the evening reached the Tennessee
River. On the 4th the fleet anchored six miles
below Fort Henry. The next day, while
reconnoitering, the Essex received a shot
which passed through the pantry and the
officers' quarters and visited the steerage.
On the 5th the flag-officer inspected the
officers and crew at quarters, addressed them,
and offered a prayer.
Heavy rains had been falling, and the river
had risen rapidly to an unusual height ; the
swift current brought down an immense quan-
tity of heavy drift-wood, lumber, fences, and
large trees, and it required all the steam-power
of the Carondelet, with both anchors down, and
the most strenuous exertions of the officers
and crew, working day and night, to prevent
the boat from being dragged down-stream.
This adversity appeared to dampen the ardor
of our crew, but when the next morning they
saw a large number of white objects, which
through the fog looked like polar bears,
coming down the stream, and ascertained that
they were the enemy's torpedoes forced from
their moorings by the powerful current, they
took heart, regarding the freshet as providential
and as a presage of victory. The overflowing
river, which opposed our progress, swept
away in broad daylight this hidden peril ;
for if the torpedoes had not been disturbed,
or had broken loose at night while we were
shoving the drift-wood from our bows, some
of them would surely have exploded near or
under our vessels.
The 6th dawned mild and cheering, with
a light breeze, sufficient to clear away the smoke.
At 10:20 the flag-officer made the signal to
CROSS-SECTION OF A CONFEDERATE TORPEDO FOUND IN THE
TENNESSEE RIVER.
A, iron rod armed with prong's to fasten upon the bottom of boats going
up-stream and act upon B, a lever connecting with trigger to explode
a cap and ignite the powder. C, canvas bag containing 70 lbs. pow-
der. D, anchors to hold torpedo in place.
This torpedo consisted of a stout sheet-iron cylinder, pointed at both
ends, about 5% feet long and 1 foot in diameter. The iron lever was 3%
feet long, and armed with prongs to catch in the bottom of a boat. This
lever was constructed to move the iron rod on inside of cylinder, thus acting
upon the trigger of the lock to explode the cap and fire the powder. The
machine was anchored, presenting the prongs in such a way that boats
going- down-stream should slide over them, but those coming up should
catch.
428
OPERATIONS OF THE WESTERN FLOTILLA.
M MAGAZINE
Q. QUARTERS
SAND-BAGS
D.B. DRAW-BRIDGE
GUNS
32. P°P BARBETTE
42 >•
24- RIFLE
10 in COLUMBIAD
/2&24PR* S/EGE .
FORT HENRY.
prepare for battle, and at 10:50 came the order
to get under way and steam up to Panther
Island, about two miles below Fort Henry.
At 1 1:35, having passed the foot of the island,
we formed in line and approached the fort
four abreast, — the Essex on the right, then
the Cincinnati, Carondelet, and St. Louis. The
last two, for want of room, were inter-
locked, and remained in that position during
the fight.
As we slowly passed up this narrow stream,
not a sound could be heard or a moving ob-
ject seen in the dense woods which overhung
the dark swollen river. The gun- crews of the
Carondelet stood silent at their posts, im-
pressed with the serious and important char-
acter of the service before them. About noon
the fort and the Confederate flag came sud-
denly into view, the barracks, the new earth-
works, and the great guns well manned. The
captains of our guns were men-of-war's men,
good shots, and had their men well drilled.
The flag-steamer, the Cincinnati, fired the
first shot as the signal for the others to begin.
At once the fort responded from her eleven
heavy guns, and was ablaze with the flame
of cannon. The wild whistle of their rifle-
shells was heard on every side of us. On the
Carondelet not a word was spoken more than
at ordinary drill, except when Matthew Arthur,
captain of the starboard bow-gun, asked per-
mission to fire at one or two of
the enemy's retreating vessels,
as he could not at that time
bring his gun to bear on the
fort. He fired one shot, which
passed through the upper cabin
of a hospital-boat, whose flag
was not seen, but injured no
one. The Carondelet was struck
in about thirty places by the
enemy's heavy shot and shell.
Eight struck within two feet of
the bow-ports, leading to the
boilers, around which barricades
had been built — a precaution
which I always took before
going into action, and which
on several occasions prevented
an explosion. The Carondelet
fired one hundred and seven
shell and solid shot; none of
her officers or crew was killed
or wounded.
The firing from the armored
vessels was rapid and well sus-
tained from the beginning of
the attack, and seemingly accu-
rate, as we could occasionally
==ifl see the earth thrown in great
heaps over the enemy's guns.
Nor was the fire of the Confederates to be de-
spised ; their heavy shot broke and scattered
our iron-plating as if it had been putty, and
often passed completely through the case-
mates. But our old men-of-war's men, captains
of the guns, proud to show their worth in bat-
tle, infused life and courage into their young
comrades. And when these experienced gun-
ners saw a shot coming toward a port, they
had the coolness and discretion to order their
men to bow down, to save their heads.
After nearly an hour's hard fighting, the
captain of the Essex, going below, addressed
the officers and crew, complimented the first
division for their splendid execution, and
asked them if they did not want to rest and
give three cheers, which were given with a
will. But the feelings of joy and the bright
anticipations of victory on board the Essex
were suddenly changed by a terrible calamity,
which I cannot better describe than by quot-
ing from a letter to me from James Laning,
second master of the Essex. He says :
"A shot from the enemy pierced the casemate just
above the port-hole on the port side, then through the
middle boiler, killing in its flight Acting Master's Mate
S. B. Brittan, Jr., and opening a chasm for the escape
of the scalding steam and water. The scene which
followed was almost indescribable. The writer, who
had gone aft in obedience to orders only a few mo-
ments before (and was thus providentially saved), was
met by Fourth Master Walker, followed by a crowd
OPERATIONS OF THE WESTERN FLOTILLA.
429
of men rushing aft. Walker called to me to go back;
that a shot from the enemy had carried away the
steam-pipe. I at once ran to the stern of the vessel,
and looking out of the stern-port, saw a number of
our brave fellows struggling in the water. The steam
and hot water in the forward gun-deck had driven all
who were able to get out of the ports overboard, ex-
cept a few who were fortunate enough to cling to the
casemate outside. When the explosion took place
Captain Porter was standing directly in front of the
boilers, with his aide, Mr. Brittan, at his side. He at
seaman named James Coffey, who was shot-man to
the No. 2 gun, was on his knees, in the act of taking
a shell from the box to be passed to the loader. The
escaping steam and hot water had struck him square
in the face, and he met death in that position. When
I told Captain Porter that we were victorious, he im-
mediately rallied, and, raising himself on his elbow,
called for three cheers, and gave two himself, falling
exhausted on the mattress in his effort to give the
third. A seaman named Jasper P. Breas, who was
badly scalded, sprang to his feet, exclaiming: Sur-
UNITED STATES GUN-BOAT " ST. LOUIS." (FROM A PHOTOGRAPH.)
once rushed for the port-hole on the starboard side,
and threw himself out, expecting to go into the river.
A seaman, John Walker, seeing his danger, caught
him around the waist, and supporting him with one
hand, clung to the vessel with the other, until, with
the assistance of another seaman, who came to the
rescue, they succeeded in getting the captain upon a
narrow guard or projection, which ran around the
vessel, and thus enabled him to make his way outside
to the after-port, where I met him. Upon speaking
to him, he told me he was badly hurt, and that I must
hunt for Mr. Riley, the First Master, and if he was
disabled I must take command of the vessel, and man
the battery again. Mr. Riley was unharmed, and al-
ready in the discharge of his duties as Captain Porter's
successor. In a very few minutes after the explosion
our gallant ship (which, in the language of Flag-
Officer Foote, had fought most effectually through two-
thirds of the engagement) was drifting slowly away
from the scene of action; her commander badly
wounded, a number of her officers and crew dead at
their post, while many others were writhing in their
last agony. As soon as the scalding steam would ad-
mit, the forward gun -deck was explored. The pilots,
who were both in the pilot-house, were scalded to
death. Marshall Ford, who was steering when the
explosion took place, was found at his post at the
wheel, standing erect, his left hand holding the spoke
and his right hand grasping the signal-bell rope. A
rendered ! I must see that with my own eyes before I
die.' Before any one could interfere, he clambered
up two short flights of stairs to the spar-deck. He
shouted ' Glory to God ! ' and sank exhausted on the
deck. Poor Jasper died that night."
The Essex before the accident had fired
seventy shots from her two nine-inch guns. A
powder boy, Job Phillips, fourteen years of
age, coolly marked down upon the casemate
every shot his gun had fired, and his account
was confirmed by the gunner in the maga-
zine. Her loss in killed, wounded, and missing
was thirty-two.
The St. Louis was struck seven times. She
fired one hundred and seven shots during
the action. No one on board the vessel was
killed or wounded.
Flag-Officer Foote during the action was
in the pilot-house of the Cincimiati, which re-
ceived thirty-two shots. Her chimneys, after-
cabin, and boats were completely riddled.
Two of her guns were disabled. The only
fatal shot she received passed through the
43°
OPERATIONS OF THE WESTERN FLOTILLA.
larboard front, killing one man and wound-
ing several others. I happened to be looking
at the flag-steamer when one of the enemy's
heavy shot struck her. It had the effect, ap-
parently, of a thunder-bolt, ripping her side-
timbers and scattering the splinters over the
vessel. She did not slacken her speed, but
moved on as though nothing unexpected had
happened.
From the number of times the gun-boats
were struck, it would appear that the Con-
federate artillery practice, at first, at least,
was as good, if not better, than ours. This,
however, was what might have been ex-
pected, as the Confederate gunners had the
advantage of practicing on the ranges the
gun-boats would probably occupy as they
approached the fort. The officers of the gun-
boats, on the contrary, with guns of different
caliber and unknown range, and without
practice, could not point their guns with as
much accuracy. To counterbalance this ad-
vantage of the enemy, the gun-boats were
much better protected by their casemates for
distant firing than the fort by its fresh earth-
works. The Confederate soldiers fought as
valiantly and as skillfully as the Union sailors.
Only after a most determined resistance, and
after all his heavy guns had been silenced,
did General Tilghman lower his flag. The
Confederate loss, as reported, was six killed
and nine or ten wounded. The prisoners, in-
cluding the general and his staff, numbered
about eighty, the remainder of the garrison,
about 3100 men, having escaped to Fort
Donelson.
Our gun-boats continued to approach the
fort until General Tilghman, with two or
three of his staff, came off in a small boat to
the Cincinnati and surrendered the fort to
Flag-Officer Foote, who sent for me, intro-
duced me to General Tilghman, and gave
me orders to take command of the fort and
hold it until the arrival of General Grant.
General Tilghman was a soldierly-looking
man, a little above medium height, with
piercing black eyes and a resolute, intelli-
gent expression of countenance. He was
dignified and courteous, and won the respect
and sympathy of all who became acquainted
with him. In his official report of the battle
he said that his officers and men fought with
the greatest bravery until 1:50 p. m., when
seven of his eleven guns were disabled ; and,
finding it impossible to defend the fort, and
wishing to spare the lives of his gallant men,
after consultation with his officers he surren-
dered the fort.
It was reported at the time that, in sur-
rendering to Flag-Officer Foote, the Confed-
erate general said, " I am glad to surrender
to so gallant an officer," and that Foote re-
plied, " You do perfectly right, sir, in surren-
dering, but you should have blown my boat
out of the water before I would have surren-
dered to you." I was with Foote soon after
the surrender, and I cannot believe that such
a reply was made by him. He was too much
of a gentleman to say anything calculated to
wound the feelings of an officer who had de-
fended his post with signal courage and fidelity,
and whose spirits were clouded by the adverse
fortunes of war.
When I took possession of the fort the
BATTLE OF FORT HENRY. GUN-BOATS " ST. LOUIS," " CARONDELET," "ESSEX," AND "CINCINNATI."
(DRAWN BY ADMIRAL WALKE.)
OPERATIONS OF THE WESTERN FLOTILLA.
43 *
Confederate surgeon was
laboring with his coat off
to relieve and save the
wounded ; and although
the officers and crews of
the gun-boats gave three
hearty cheers when the
Confederate flag was hauled
down, the first inside view
of the fort sufficed to sup-
press every feeling of exul-
tation and to excite our
deepest pity. On every side
the blood of the dead and
wounded was intermingled
with the earth and their
implements of war. Their
largest gun, a 128-pound-
er, was dismounted and
filled with earth by the
bursting of one of our shells
near its muzzle; the carriage
of another was broken to
pieces, and two dead men
lay near it, almost covered
with heaps of earth ; a rifled
gun had burst, throwing its
mangled gunners into the
water. But few of the gar-
rison escaped unhurt.
General Grant, with his
staff, rode into the fort
about three o'clock on the
same day, and relieved me
of the command. The gen-
eral an,d staff then accom-
panied me on board the
Caroiidelet (anchored near
the fort), where he compli-
mented the officers of the flotilla in the
highest terms for the gallant manner in
which they had captured Fort Henry, tie
had expected his troops to take part in
a land attack, but the heavy rains had
made the direct roads to the fort almost im-
passable.
The wooden gun-boats Conestoga, Com-
mander S. L. Phelps, Taylor, Lieutenant-
Commander William Gwin, and Lexington,
Lieutenant J. W. Shirk, engaged the enemy
GENERAL LLOYD TILGHMAN, CONFEDERATE COMMANDER AT FORT HENRY. (FROM
PHOTOGRAPH.)
destruction of the bridge of the Memphis and
Bowling Green Railroad.
THE GUN-BOATS AT FORT DONELSON.
On returning from my expedition up the
Tennessee River, General Grant requested
me to hasten to Fort Donelson with the
Carondelet, Taylor, and Lexington, and an-
nounce my arrival by firing signal guns. The
object of this movement was to take posses-
sion of the river as soon as possible, and to
at long range in the rear of the iron-clads. engage the enemy's attention by making for-
After the battle they pursued the enemy's midable demonstrations before the fort, and
transports up the river, and the Conestoga prevent it from being reenforced. On Febru-
captured the steamer Eastport. The news of ary 10th the Carondelet alone (towed by the
the capture of Fort Henry was received with transport Alps) proceeded up the Cumber-
great rejoicing all over the North. land River, and on the 12th arrived a few
On the 7th I received onboard the Caron- miles below the fort.
delet Colonels Webster, Rawlins, and Mc- Fort Donelson occupied one of the best de-
Pherson, with a company of troops, and under fensive positions on the river. It was built on
instructions from General Grant proceeded a bold bluff about one hundred and twenty feet
up the Tennessee River, and completed the in height, on the west side of the river, where it
432
OPERATIONS OF THE WESTERN FLOTILLA.
makes a slight bend to the eastward. It had
three batteries, mounting in all sixteen guns ;
the lower battery, about twenty feet above the
water, had eight 3 2 -pounders, and one 128-
pounder; the second, about fifty feet above
the water, was of about equal strength;
the third, on the summit, had three or four
heavy field-guns, or siege-guns, as they ap-
peared to us from a distance.
When the Carondelet, her tow being cast
off, came in sight of the fort and proceeded
about three miles and anchored. But the
sound of her guns aroused our soldiers on the
southern side of the fort into action ; one re-
port says that when they heard the guns of the
avai it courier of the fleet, they gave cheer upon
cheer, and rather than permit the sailors to get
ahead of them again, they engaged in skir-
mishes with the enemy, and began the terrible
battle of the three days following.* On the Ca-
ro?idelet we were isolated and beset with dan-
gers from the enemy's lurking sharp-shooters.
BETWEEN DECKS — SERVING THE GUNS. (DRAWN BY ALLEN C. REDWOOD, AFTER A CONTEMPORARY
SKETCH BY ADMIRAL WALKE.)
up to within long range of the batteries, not
a living creature could be seen. The hills and
woods on the west side of the river hid part
of the enemy's formidable defenses, which
were lightly covered with snow ; but the black
rows of heavy guns, pointing down on us, re-
minded me of the dismal-looking sepulchers
cut in the rocky cliffs near Jerusalem, but
far more repulsive. At 12:50 p. m., to un-
mask the silent enemy, and to announce
my arrival to General Grant, I ordered the
bow-guns to be fired at the fort. Only one
shell fell short. There was no response except
the echo from the hills. The fort appeared to
have been evacuated. After firing ten shells
into it the Carondelet dropped down the river
* For a description of the capture of Fort Donelson
General Lew Wallace in The Century for December,
On the 13th a dispatch was received from
General Grant, informing me that he had ar-
rived the day before, and had succeeded in
getting his army in position, almost entirely
investing the enemy's works. " Most of our
batteries," he said, " are established, and the
remainder soon will be. If you will advance
with your gun-boat at ten o'clock in the morn-
ing, we will be ready to take advantage of any
diversion in our favor."
I immediately complied with these in-
structions, and at 9:05, with the Carondelet
alone and under cover of a heavily wooded
point, fired one hundred and thirty-nine sev-
enty-pound and sixty-four- pound shells at the
fort. We received in return the fire of all the
by the army under General Grant, see the paper by
1884.
OPERATIONS OF THE WESTERN FLOTILLA.
433
THE GUN-BOATS AT FORT DONELSON. — THE LAND ATTACK
DISTANCE. (DRAWN BY HARRY FENN, AFTER A CON
TEMPORARY SKETCH BY ADMIRAL WALKE.)
enemy's guns that could be brought to bear
on the Caroudelet, which sustained but little
damage, except from two shots. One, a
128-pound solid, at 11:30 struck the cor-
ner of our port broadside casemate, passed
through it, and in its progress toward the
center of our boilers glanced over the tem-
porary barricade in front of the boilers. It
then passed over the steam-drum, struck the
beams of the upper deck, carried away the
railing around the engine-room and burst the
steam-heater, and, glancing back into the en-
gine-room, " seemed to bound after the men,"
as one of the engineers said, " like a ^wild
beast pursuing its prey." I have preserved
this ball as a souvenir of the fight at Fort
Donelson. When it burst through the side
of the Carondelet, it knocked down and
wounded a dozen men, seven of them se-
verely. An immense quantity of splinters was
blown through the vessel. Some of them, as
fine as needles, shot through the clothes of
the men like arrows. Several of the wounded
were so much excited by the suddenness of
the event and the sufferings of their comrades
that they were not aware that they them-
selves had been struck until they felt the
blood running into their shoes. Upon receiv-
ing this shot we ceased firing for a while.
After dinner we sent the wounded on board
the Alps, repaired damages, and, not expect-
ing any assistance, at 12:15 we resumed, in
accordance with General Grant's request, and
bombarded the fort until dusk, when nearly
Vol. XXIX. — 43.
all our ten-inch and fifteen-inch shells were
expended. The firing from the shore hav-
ing ceased, we retired. We could not ascer-
tain the amount of damage inflicted on the
fort, but were told by its officers, and by cor-
respondents who visited it after the capture,
that we disabled three guns and killed an
engineer. The whole number of the killed
and wounded could not be ascertained. The
commander of the Confederate batteries ac-
knowledged that the casualties were greater
and the damage to the guns more serious on
the day of the Carondelef s attack than on the
following day, when the whole fleet was en-
gaged. The practice of the gunners of the
Carondelet, being much more deliberate on
the first day of the battle (owing to ample
time and a partly sheltered position), must
have been far superior to the practice of the
gunners of the fleet on the second day, under
the excitement and hurry of an attack at close
quarters, with the enemy's heavy shot con-
stantly striking and crashing through the sides
of their vessels.
At 11:30 on the night of the 13th Flag-
Officer Foote arrived below Fort Donelson
with the iron-clads St. Louis, Louisville, and
Pittsburgh, and the wooden gun-boats Taylor
and Conestoga. On the 14th all the hard
materials in the vessels, such as chains, lum-
ANDREW HULL FOOTE, REAR-ADMIRAL U. S. N. (DIED JUNE 26, 1 863.)
(FROM A PHOTOGRAPH BY E. AND H. T. ANTHONY.)
OPERATIONS OF THE WESTERN FLOTILLA.
435
and bags of coal, were laid on the
upper decks to protect them from the plung-
ing shots of the enemy. At 3 o'clock in the
afternoon our fleet advanced to attack the
fort, the Louisville being on the west side of
the river, the St. Louis (flag-steamer) next,
then the Pittsburgh and Carondelet on the east
side of the river. The wooden gun-boats were
about a thousand yards in the rear. When
we started in line abreast, at a moderate
•speed, the Louisville and Pittsburgh, not keep-
ing up to their positions, were hailed from the
flag-steamer to " steam up." At 3:30, when
about a mile and a half from the fort, two
shots were fired at us, both falling short.
When within a mile of the fort the St. Louis
opened fire, and the other iron-clads followed,
slowly and deliberately at first, but more
rapidly as the fleet advanced. The flag-
officer hailed the Carondelet, and ordered
us not to fire so fast. Some of our shells
went over the fort, and almost into our camp
beyond. As we drew nearer, the enemy's
fire greatly increased in force and effect.
But, the officers and crew of the Carondelet
having recently been long under fire, and
having become practiced in fighting, her
gunners were as cool and composed as old
veterans. We heard the deafening crack of
the bursting shells, the crash of the solid
shot, and the whizzing of fragments of shell
and wood as they sped through the vessel.
Soon a 128-pounder struck our anchor,
smashed it into flying bolts, and bounded over
the vessel, taking away a part of our smoke-
stack ; then another cut away the iron boat-
davits as if they were pipe-stems, whereupon
the boat dropped into the water. Another
ripped up the iron plating and glanced over;
another went through the plating and lodged
in the heavy casemate ; another struck- the
pilot-house, knocked the plating to pieces,
and sent fragments of iron and splinters into
the pilots, one of whom fell mortally wounded,
and was taken below ; another shot took away
the remaining boat-davits and the boat with
them ; and still they came, harder and faster,
taking flag-staffs and smoke-stacks, and tear-
ing off the side armor as lightning tears the
bark from a tree. Our men fought desper-
ately, but, under the excitement of the occa-
sion, loaded too hastily, and the port rifled
gun exploded. One of the crew, in his ac-
count of the explosion soon after it occurred,
said : " I was serving the gun with shell.
When it exploded it knocked us all down,
killing none, but wounding over a dozen men,
and spreading dismay and confusion among us.
For about two minutes I was stunned, and at
least five minutes elapsed before I could tell
what was the matter. When I found out that
I was more scared than hurt, although suf-
fering from the gunpowder which I had in-
haled, I looked forward and saw our gun
lying on the deck, split in three pieces. Then
the cry ran through the boat that we were
on fire, and my duty as pump-man called
me to the pumps. While I was there, two
shots entered our bow-ports and killed
four men and wounded several others. They
were borne past me, three with their heads
off. The sight almost sickened me, and I
turned my head away. Our master's mate
came soon after and ordered us to our quar-
ters at the gun. I told him the gun had
burst, and that we had caught fire on the
upper deck from the enemy's shell. He then
said : * Never mind the fire ; go to your
quarters.' Then I took a station at the star-
board tackle of another rifled bow-gun and
remained there until the close of the fight."
The carpenter and his men extinguished the
flames.
When within four hundred yards of the
fort, and while the Confederates were running
from their lower battery, our pilot-house was
struck again and another pilot wounded, our
wheel was broken, and shells from the rear
boats were bursting over us. All four of our
boats were shot away and dragging in the
water. On looking out to bring our broad-
side guns to bear, we saw that the other
gun-boats were rapidly falling back out of
line. The Pittsburgh in her haste to turn
struck the stern of the Carondelet, and
broke our starboard rudder, so that we were
obliged to go ahead to clear the Pittsburgh
and the point of rocks below. The pilot of
the St. Louis was killed and the pilot of the
Louisville was wounded. Both vessels had
their wheel-ropes shot away, and the men
were prevented from steering the Louisville
with the tiller-ropes at the stern by the shells
from the rear boats bursting over them. The
St. Louis and Louisville, becoming unmanage-
able, were compelled to drop out of battle,
and the Pittsburgh followed ; all had suffered
severely from the enemy's fire. Flag- Officer
Foote was wounded while standing by the
pilot of the St. Louis when he was killed. We
were then about 350 yards from the fort.
There was no alternative for the Carondelet
in that narrow stream but to keep her head
to the enemy and fire into the fort with her
two bow-guns, to prevent it, if possible, from
returning her fire effectively. The enemy saw
that she was in a manner left to his mercy,
and concentrated the fire of all his batteries
upon her. In return, the Carondelefs guns
were well served to the last shot. Our new
acting gunner, John Hall, was just the man for
the occasion. He came forward, offered his
OPERATIONS OF THE WESTERN FLOTILLA.
437
services, and with my sanction took charge of
the starboard-bow rifled gun. He instructed
the men to obey his warnings and follow his
motions, and he told them that when he saw
a shot coming he would call out "Down" and
stoop behind the breech of the gun as he did
so; at the same instant the men were to
stand away from the bow-ports. Nearly
every shot from the fort struck the bows of
the Carondelet. Most of them were fired on
the ricochet level, and could be plainly seen
skipping on the water before they struck.
The enemy's object was to sink the gun-boat
by striking her just below the water-line. They
soon succeeded in planting two thirty-two-
pound shots in her bow, between wind and
water, which made her leak badly, but her com-
partments kept her from sinking until we could
plug up the shot-holes. Three shots struck the
starboard casemating; four struck the port
casemating forward of the rifle-gun ; one
struck on the starboard side, between the
water-line and plank-sheer, cutting through
the planking ; six shots struck the pilot-house,
shattering one section into pieces and cutting
through the iron casing. The smoke-stacks
were riddled.
Our gunners kept up a constant firing
while we were falling back ; and the warning
words, " iook out ! " " Down ! " were often
heard, and heeded by nearly all the gun-crews.
On one occasion, while the men were at the
muzzle of the middle bow- gun, loading it,
the warning came just in time for them to
jump inside as a thirty-two-pounder struck
the lower sill, and glancing up struck the up-
per sill, then, falling on the inner edge of the
lower sill, bounded on deck and spun around
like a top, but hurt no one. It was very evi-
dent that if the men who were loading had
not obeyed the order to drop, several of them
would have been killed. So I repeated the
instructions and warned the men at the guns
and the crew generally to bow or stand off
from the ports when a shot was seen coming.
But some of the young men, from a spirit of
bravado or from a belief in the doctrine of
fatalism, disregarded the instructions, saying
it was useless to attempt to dodge a cannon-
ball, and they would trust to luck. The warn-
ing words, " Look out ! " " Down ! " were again
soon heard ; down went the gunner and his
men, as the whizzing shot glanced on the
gun, taking off the gunner's cap and the heads
of two of the young men who trusted to luck,
and in defiance of the order were standing
up or passing behind him. This shot killed
another man also, who was at the last gun of
the starboard side, and disabled the gun. It
came in with a hissing sound; three sharp
spats and a heavy bang told the sad fate of
three brave comrades. Before the decks were
well sanded, there was so much blood on them
that our men could not work the guns with-
out slipping.
We kept firing at the enemy so long as he
was within range, to prevent him, if possible,
from seeing us through the smoke. The Caron-
delet was the first in and the last out of the
fight at Fort Donelson,andwas more damaged
than any of the other gun-boats, as the boat-
carpenters who repaired them subsequently
informed me. She was much longer under
fire than any other vessel of the flotilla ; and,
according to the report of the Secretary of the
Navy, her loss in killed and wounded was
twice as great as that of all the other gun-
boats together. She fired more shot and shell
into Fort Donelson than any other gun-boat,
and was struck fifty-four times. These par-
ticulars are given because a disposition was
shown by correspondents and naval historians
to ignore the services of the Carondelet on
this and other occasions.
In the action of the 14th all of the armored
vessels were fought with the greatest energy,
skill, and courage, until disabled by the ene-
my's heavy shot. In his official report of the
battle the flag-officer said: " The officers
and men in this hotly contested but unequal
fight behaved with the greatest gallantry and
determination." The casualties on board the
boats were ten killed and forty-four wounded.
Although the gun-boats were repulsed in
this action, the demoralizing effect of their can-
nonade, and of the heavy and well-sustained
fire of the Carondelet on the day before, must
have been very great, and contributed in no
small degree to the successful operations of
the army under General Grant on the follow-
ing day.
After the battle I called upon the flag-
officer, and found him suffering from his
wounds. He asked me if I could have run
past the fort, something I should not have
ventured upon without permission.
The 15th was employed in the burial of our
slain comrades. I read the Episcopal service
on board the Carondelet, under our flag at half-
mast ; and the sailors bore their late compan-
ions to a lonely field within the shadows of the
hills. When they were about to lower the first
coffin, a Roman Catholic priest appeared, and
his services being accepted, he read the pray-
ers for the dead, and in the course of his
remarks said : " Although the deceased did
not die like Christians, they died like heroes,
in defense of their country and flag." As the
last service was ended, the sound of the battle
being waged by General Grant, like the rum-
bling of distant thunder, was the only requiem
for our departed shipmates.
438
OPERATIONS OF THE WESTERN FLOTILLA.
On Sunday, the 16th, at dawn, Fort Donel- On the morning of the 23d the flag-officer
son surrendered and the gun-boats steamed up made a reconnaissance to Columbus, Ken-
to Dover. After religious services, the Caronde- tucky, with four gun-boats and two mortar-
let proceeded to Cairo, and arrived there on boats, accompanied by the wooden gun-boat
the morning of the 17th, in such a dense fog Conestoga, convoying five transports. The
that she passed below the town unnoticed, and fortifications looked more formidable than
had great difficulty in finding the landing, ever. The enemy fired two guns, and sent up
There had been a report that the enemy was a transport with the pretext, it was said, of
coming from Columbus to attack Cairo during effecting an exchange of prisoners. But at
the absence of its defenders; and while the that time, as we learned afterward from a
Carondelet was cautiously feeling her way back credible source, the evacuation of the fort
and blowing her whistle, some people imag- (which General Grant's successes at Forts
ined she was a Confederate gun
boat about to land, and made
hasty preparations to leave
the place. Our announce- ^1
ment of the victory at
Fort Donelson changed
their dejection into joy
and exultation. On the
Henry and Donelson had made
necessary) was going on, and
the last raft and barge loads
of all the movable muni-
tions of war were de-
scending the river,
following morning
an order congratulat-
ing the officers and men
of the Carondelet was re-
ceived from Flag-Officer
Foote.
A few days later the Carondelet
was taken up on the ways at Cairo
for repairs ; and a crowd of carpenters worked
on her night and day. After the repairs were
completed, she was ordered to make the ex-
periment of backing up stream, which proved
a laughable failure. She would sheer from
one side of the river to the other, and with
two anchors astern she could not be held
steady enough to fight her bow-guns down
stream. She dragged both anchors alter-
nately, until they came together, and the ex-
periment failed completely.
MORTAR-BOATS AT ISLAND NUMBER TEN.
which, with a large quantity previously taken
away, could and would have been captured
by our fleet if we had received this informa-
tion in time. On the 4th of March another
reconnaissance in force was made with all the
gun-boats and eight mortar-boats, and the
fortress had still a formidable, life-like ap-
pearance, caused by Quaker guns, however,
as it had been evacuated two days before.*
On the 5th of March, while we were de-
scending the Mississippi in a dense fog, the
* An incident illustrative of the character of Foote occurred on that day at Columbus on the deck of the
flag-steamer, after a consultation which he held with his commanding officers. As well as I can remember,
Foote said : " Gentlemen, I expect you to support me, as Aaron and Hur stayed the hands of Moses until
the victory was won over Amalek." Turning to me with a look of inquiry, for confirmation, as it were, of
the correctness of his scriptural reference, I, concurring, said that, according to my recollection, Aaron and
another friend did hold up the hands of Moses during some great battle until the going down of the sun,
and until the victory was won. (Exodus xvii. n, 12, 13.) — H. W.
OPERATIONS OF THE WESTERN FLOTILLA.
439
flag-steamer leading, the Confederate gun-
boat Grampus, or Dare-devil Jack, the sauci-
est little vessel on the river, suddenly appeared
across our track and "close aboard." She
stopped her engines and struck her colors,
and we all thought she was ours at last.
But when the captain of the Grampus saw
how slowly we moved, and as no gun was
fired to bring him to, he started off with
astonishing speed and was out of danger
before the flag-steamer could fire a gun. She
ran before us yawing and flirting about, and
blowing her alarm- whistle so as to announce
our approach to the enemy who had now
retired to Island Number Ten, a strong posi-
tion sixty miles below Columbus (and of the
latitude of Forts Henry and Donelson), where
General Beauregard, who was now in general
command of our opponents, had determined
to contest the possession of the river.
EXPLOITS AT ISLAND NUMBER TEN.
On March 15th the flotilla and trans-
ports continued on their way to Island Num-
ber Ten, arriving in its vicinity about nine in
the morning. The strong and muddy current
of the river had overflowed its banks and
carried away every movable thing. Houses,
trees, fences, and wrecks of all kinds were
being swept rapidly down-stream. The twists
and turns of the river near Island Number
Ten are certainly remarkable. Within a radius
of eight miles from the island it crosses the
boundary line of Kentucky and Tennessee
three times, running on almost every point of
the compass. We were greatly surprised when
we arrived above Island Number Ten and
saw on the bluffs a chain of forts extending
for four miles along the crescent-formed shore,
with the white tents of the enemy in the rear.
And there lay the island in the lower corner of
the crescent, with the side fronting the Mis-
souri shore lined with heavy ordnance, so
trained that with the artillery on the opposite
shore almost every point on the river be-
tween the island and the Missouri bank could
be reached at once by all the enemy's bat-
teries.
On the 17 th an attack was made on the
upper battery by all the iron-clads and mortar-
boats. The Benton (flag-steamer), lashed be-
tween the Cincinnati and St. Louis, was on
the east side of the river; the Mound City,
Carondelet, and Pittsburgh were on the west
side ; the last, however, changed her position
to the east side of the river before the firing
began. We opened fire on the upper fort at
1:20, and by order of the flag-officer fired
one gun a minute. The enemy replied
GENERAL W. W. MACKALL, CONFEDERATE COMMANDER AT
ISLAND NUMBER TEN. (FROM A PHOTOGRAPH BY G. W. DAVIS.)
promptly, and some of his shot struck the
Benton, but, owing to the distance from which
they were fired, did but little damage. We
silenced all the guns in the upper fort except
one. During the action one of the rifled guns
of the St. Louis exploded, killing and wound-
ing several of the gunners ; another proof of
the truth of the saying that the guns furnished
the Western flotilla were less destructive to
the enemy than to ourselves.
From March 17th to April 4th but little
progress was made in the reduction of the
Confederate works — the gun-boats firing a few
shot now and then at long range, but doing
little damage. The mortar-boats, however,
were daily throwing thirteen-inch bombs, and
so effectively at times that the Confederates
were driven from their batteries and com-
pelled to seek refuge in caves and other
places of safety. But it was very evident that
the great object of the expedition — the re-
duction of the works and the capture of the
Confederate forces — could not be effected
by the gun-boats alone, owing to their mode
of structure and to the disadvantage under
which they were fought in the strong and
rapid current of the Mississippi. This was
the opinion not only of naval officers, but also
of General Pope and other army officers.
On the 23d of March the monotony of the
44°
OPERATIONS OF THE WESTERN FLOTILLA.
long and tedious investment was unfortunately
varied in a very singular manner. The Caron-
delet being moored nearest the enemy's upper
fort, under several large cottonwood trees,
in order to protect the mortar-boats, sud-
denly, and without warning, two of the larg-
est of the trees fell across her deck, mortally
wounding one of the crew and severely
wounding another, and doing great damage
to the vessel. This was twelve days before I
ran the gauntlet at Island Number Ten with
the Carondelet.
To understand fully the importance of that
adventure, some explanation of the military
situation at and below Island Number Ten
seems necessary. After the evacuation of New
Madrid, which General Pope had forced by
blockading the river twelve miles below, at
Point Pleasant, the Confederate forces occupied
their fortified positions on Island Number Ten
and the eastern shore of the Mississippi, where
they were cut off by impassable swamps on
the land side. They were in a cul-de-sac, and
the only way open for them to obtain sup-
plies or to effect a retreat was by the river
south of Island Number Ten. General Pope,
with an army of twenty thousand men, was
NITED STATES GUN-BOAT " CARONDELET " RUNNING THE
CONFEDERATE BATTERIES AT ISLAND NUMBER TEN.
(DRAWN BY HARRY FENN, AFTER A CONTEM-
PORARY SKETCH BY ADMIRAL WALKE.)
on the western side of the river below the
island. Perceiving the defect in the enemy's
position, he proceeded with great prompt-
ness and ability to take advantage of it. It was
his intention to cross the river and attack the
enemy from below, but he could not do this
without the aid of a gun-boat to silence the
enemy's batteries opposite Point Pleasant and
protect his army in crossing. He wrote repeat-
edly to Flag-Officer Foote, urging him to send
down a gun-boat past the enemy's batteries on
Island Number Ten, and in one of his letters
expressed the belief that aboat could pass down
at night under cover of the darkness. But
the flag-officer invariably declined, saying in
one of his letters to General Pope that the
attempt " would result in the sacrifice of the
boat, her officers and men, which sacrifice
I would not be justified in making."
During this correspondence the bombard-
ment still went on, but was attended with
such poor results that it became a subject
of ridicule among the officers of Pope's
army, one of whom (Colonel Gilmore, of
Chillicothe, Ohio) is reported to have said
that often when they met, and inquiry was
made respecting the operations of the flotilla,
the answer would generally be : " Oh ! it is still
bombarding the State of Tennessee at long
range." And a Confederate officer said that
no casualties resulted and no damage was
OPERATIONS OF THE WESTERN FLOTILLA.
441
MAP OF MILITARY AND NAVAL OPERATIONS ABOUT ISLAND NO. TEN. (BASED ON THE TWO MAPS BY CAPTAIN A. B. GRAY,
C. S. A., MADE IN MARCH, 1862, AND ON OFFICIAL REPORTS.)
sustained at Island Number Ten from the fire
of the gun-boats.
On March 20th Flag-Officer Foote con-
sulted his commanding officers, through Com-
mander Stemble, as to the practicability of
taking a gun-boat past the enemy's forts to
New Madrid, and all except myself were
opposed to the enterprise, believing with
Foote that the attempt to pass the bat-
teries would result in the almost certain
destruction of the boat. I did not think so,
but believed with General Pope that, under
the cover of darkness and other favorable cir-
cumstances, a gun-boat might be run past the
enemy's batteries, formidable as they were
with nearly fifty guns. And although fully
aware of the hazardous nature of the enter-
prise, I knew that the aid of a gun-boat
was absolutely necessary to enable General
Pope to succeed in his operations against
the enemy, and thought the importance
of this success justified the risk of running
the gauntlet of the batteries on Island Num-
ber Ten and the adjacent shores. The
army officers were becoming impatient, and it
was well known that the Confederates had a
number of small gun-boats below, and were
engaged in building several large and power-
ful vessels, of which the renowned Arkansas
was one. And there was good reason to ap-
prehend that these gun-boats would ascend
the river and pass or silence Pope's batteries,
and relieve the Confederate forces on Island
Number Ten and the eastern shore of the
Mississippi. That Pope and Foote appre-
hended this, appears clearly from the corre-
spondence between them. *
The flag-officer now called a formal coun-
cil of war of all his commanding officers.
It was held on board the flag-steamer, on
the 28th or 29th of March, and all except
myself concurred in the opinion formerly ex-
pressed that the attempt to pass the batteries
was too hazardous and ought not to be made.
When I was asked to give my views, I favored
the undertaking, and advised compliance
with the requests of General Pope. When
asked if I was willing to make the attempt
* An interesting and important enterprise in this campaign was the construction under great difficulties of
a canal, twelve miles in length, from the Mississippi to New Madrid, as shown in the map. The progress of
General Pope's campaign having been retarded by the want of vessels to take the army over the river, it was
decided to make a water-way across country, whereby the transports might elude the Confederate batteries.
The execution of the work was superintended by Colonel J. W. Bissell, of the U. S. Engineers. — Ed.
Vol. XXIX.— 44.
44~>
OPERATIONS OF THE WESTERN FLOTILLA.
with the Carondelet, I replied in the affirmative.
Foote accepted my advice, and expressed him-
self as greatly relieved from a heavy respon-
sibility, as he had determined to send none
but volunteers on an expedition he regarded
as perilous and of very doubtful success.
Having received written orders from the
flag-officer, under date of March 30th, I at
once began to prepare the Carondelet for the
ordeal. All the loose material at hand was
collected, and on the 4th of April the decks
were covered with it, to protect them against
plunging shot. Hawsers and chain cables were
placed around the pilot-house and other vul-
nerable parts of the vessel, and every precau-
tion was adopted to prevent disaster. A coal-
barge laden with hay and coal was lashed to
the part of the port side on which there was
no iron plating, to protect the magazine. And
it was truly said that the old Carondelet at
that time resembled a farmer's wagon pre-
pared for market. The engineers led the
escape-steam, through the pipes aft, into the
wheel-house, to avoid the puffing sound it
made when blown through the smoke-stacks.
All the necessary preparations having been
made, I informed the flag-officer of my inten-
tion to run the gauntlet that night, and re-
ceived his approval. Colonel Buford, who com-
manded the land forces temporarily with the
flotilla, assisted me in preparing for the trip, and
on the night of the 4th brought on board Cap-
tain Hollenstein, of the Forty-second Illinois,
and twenty-three sharp-shooters of his com-
mand, who volunteered their services, which
were gratefully accepted. Colonel Buford re-
mained on board until the last moment to en-
courage us. I informed the officers and crew
of the character of the undertaking, and all ex-
pressed a readiness to make the venture. In
order to resist boarding parties in case we
should be disabled, the sailors were well armed,
and pistols, cutlasses, muskets, boarding-pikes,
and hand-grenades were within reach. Hose
was attached to the boilers for throwing
scalding water over any who might attempt
to board. If it should be found impossible
to save the vessel, it was designed to sink
rather than burn her, as the loss of life would
probably be greater in the latter case by the ex-
plosion of her magazine. During the afternoon
there was promise of a clear, moonlight night,
and it was determined to wait until the moon
was down, and then to make the attempt,
whatever the chances. Having gone so far,
we could not abandon the project without a
bad effect on the men, equal almost to failure.
At ten o'clock the moon had gone down,
and the sky, the earth, and the river were
alike hidden in the black shadow of a
thunder-storm, which had now spread itself
over all the heavens. As the time seemed
favorable, I ordered the first master to cast
off. Dark clouds now rose rapidly over us,
and enveloped us in almost total darkness,
except when the sky was lighted up by the
welcome flashes of vivid lightning, to show us
the perilous way we were to take. Now and
then the dim outline of the landscape could
be seen, and the forest bending under the
roaring storm that came rushing up the river.
With our bow pointing to the island, we
passed the lowest point of land without being
observed, it appears, by the enemy. All speed
was given to the vessel to drive her through the
tempest. The flashes of lightning continued
with frightful brilliancy, and " almost every
second," wrote a correspondent, " every brace,
post, and outline could be seen with startling
distinctness, enshrouded by a bluish white
glare of light, and then her form for the next
minute would become merged in the intense
darkness." When opposite Battery No. 2, on
the mainland,* the smoke-stacks blazed up,
but the fire was soon subdued. It was caused
by the soot becoming dry, as the escape-steam,
which usually kept the stacks wet, had been
sent into the wheel-house, as already men-
tioned, to prevent noise. With such vivid light-
ning as prevailed during the whole passage,
there was no prospect of escaping the vigi-
lance of the enemy, but there was good reason
to hope that he would be unable to point his
guns accurately. Again the smoke-stacks took
fire, and were soon put out; and then the
roar of the enemy's guns began, and from Bat-
teries Nos. 2, 3, and 4 came almost incessantly
the sharp crack and screaming sound of their
rifle-shells, which seemed to unite with the
electric batteries of the clouds to annihilate us.
While nearing the island or some shoal
point, during a few minutes of total dark-
ness, we were startled by the loud, sharp order,
" Hard a-port! " from our brave and skillful
pilot, First Master Hoel. We almost grazed
the island, and it appears were not observed
through the storm until we were close in,
and the enemy, having no time to point his
guns, fired at random. In fact, we ran so near
that the enemy did not, probably could not,
* During the dark and stormy night of April 1st Colonel George W. Roberts, of the 42d Illinois Regi-
ment, executed a brilliant exploit. Forty picked men, in five barges, with muffled oars, left for Battery No. I
(two miles above Island Number Ten). They proceeded in silence, and were unobserved until within a few
rods of the fort, when a vivid flash of lightning discovered them to the sentries. They fired, but our men
did not reply, and in an instant they were climbing up the slippery bank, and in three minutes more the
six guns were spiked, Colonel Roberts himself spiking a huge eighty-pound pivot-gun. Some of these guns
had been previously dismounted by our fleet, and were now rendered doubly useless. — H. W.
OPERATIONS OF THE WESTERN FLOTILLA.
443
depress his guns sufficiently. While close
under the lee of the island and during a lull
in the storm and in the firing, one of our pilots
heard a Confederate officer shout, " Elevate
your guns ! " " Yes, confound you," said the
pilot, in a much lower key, " elevate." It is
probable that the muzzles of those guns had
been depressed to keep the rain out of them,
and the officers, not expecting another night
attack in suGh a storm, and arriving late,
ordered the guns elevated just in time to save
us from the direct fire of the enemy's heaviest
fort; and this, no doubt, was the cause of our
remarkable escape. Nearly all the enemy's
shot went over us.
Having passed the principal batteries, we
were greatly relieved from suspense, patiently
endured, however, by the officers and crew.
But there was another formidable obstacle in
the way — a floating battery, which was the
great " war elephant " of the Confederates,
built to blockade the Mississippi permanently.
As we passed her she fired six or eight shots
at us, but without effect. One ball struck the
coal-barge and one was found in a bale of hay ;
we found also one or two musket-bullets. We
arrived at New Madrid about midnight with
no one hurt, and were most joyfully received
by our army. At the suggestion of Paymaster
Nixon, all hands " spliced the main brace."
On Sunday, the 6th, after prayers and
thanksgiving, the Carondelet, with General
Granger, Colonel Smith of the Forty-third
Ohio, and Captain Marshall, of General Pope's
staff on board, made a reconnaissance twenty
miles down the Mississippi, nearly to Tipton-
ville, the enemy's forts firing on her all the
way down. We returned their fire, and drop-
ped a few shells into their camps beyond.
On the way back, we captured and spiked the
guns of a battery of one thirty-two-pounder
and one twenty-four-pounder, in about twenty-
five minutes, opposite Point Pleasant. Before
we landed to spike the guns, a tall Confederate
soldier, with cool and deliberate courage,
posted himself behind a large cottonwood-
tree, and repeatedly fired upon us, until our
Illinois sharp-shooters got to work on him from
behind the hammock nettings. He had two
rifles, which he soon dropped, fleeing into the
woods with his head down. We were glad
he escaped, and were disposed to give him
three cheers for his gallantry. The next day
he was captured and brought into camp at
Tiptonville, with the tip of his nose shot off.
He said it was " diamond cut diamond " be-
tween the Illinois men and himself, but that
they were sharper shooters than he expected
to meet with on a gun-boat. After the cap-
ture of this battery, the enemy prepared to
evacuate his positions on Island Number Ten
and the adjacent shores, and thus, as one of
the historians of the civil war says, the Caron-
delet struck the blow that secured the victory
at Island Number Ten.
Returning to New Madrid, we were in-
structed by General Pope to attack the
enemy's batteries of six sixty-four- pounders
which protected his rear; and besides, an-
other gun-boat was expected. The Pitts-
burgh (Lieutenant- Commander Thompson)
ran the gauntlet without injury, during a
thunder-storm, at two in the morning of
April 7th, and arrived at five o'clock; but
she was not ready for service, and the Caron-
delet attacked the principal batteries at
Watson's Landing alone and had nearly
silenced them when the Pittsburgh came up
astern and fired nearly over the Carondelef s
upper deck, after she and the Confederates
had ceased firing. I reported to General Pope
that we had cleared the opposite shores of
the enemy, and were ready to cover the
crossing of the river and the landing of the
army. Seeing themselves cut off, the garrison
at Island Number Ten surrendered to Foote.
The other Confederates retreating before
Pope's advance, were overtaken and captured
at four o'clock on the morning of the 8th ; and
about the same time, the cavalry under Col-
onel W. L. Elliott took possession of the en-
emy's deserted works on the Tennessee shore.
The result of General Pope's operations in
connection with the services of the Carondelet
below Island Number Ten was the capture
of three generals (including General W. W.
Mackall who, ten days before the surrender,
had succeeded General John P. McCown in
the immediate command at Madrid Bend),
over five thousand men, twenty pieces of heavy
artillery, seven thousand stand of arms, and
a large quantity of ammunition and provis-
ions, without the loss of a man on our side.
On the 12th the Benton (flag-steamer),
with the Cincinnati, Mound City, Cairo, and
St. Louis, passed Tiptonville and signaled
the Carondelet and Pittsburgh to follow. Five
Confederate gun-boats came up the next day
and offered battle ; but after the exchange of
a few shots at long range they retired down
the river. We followed them all the way to
Craighead Point, where they were under
cover of their fortifications at Fort Pillow. I
was not aware at the time that we were chas-
ing the squadron of my esteemed shipmate of
the U. S. Frigates Cumberland 'and Merrimack,
Colonel John W. Dunnington, who afterward
fought so bravely at Arkansas Post.
On the 14th General Pope's army landed
about six miles above Craighead Point, near
Osceola, under the protection of the gun-
444
OPERATIONS OF THE WESTERN FLOTILLA.
boats. While he was preparing to attack
Fort Pillow, Foote sent his executive officer
twice to me on the Carondelet to inquire
whether I would undertake, with my ves-
sel and two or three other gun-boats, to
pass below the fort to cooperate with
General Pope, to which inquiries I replied
that I was ready at any time to make the
attempt. But Pope and his army (with the
exception of fifteen hundred men) were or-
dered away, and the expedition against
Fort Pillow was abandoned. Between the
14th of April and the 10th of May two or
three of the mortar-boats were towed down
the river and moored near Craighead Point,
with a gun-boat to protect them. They were
employed in throwing thirteen-inch bombs
across the point into Fort Pillow, two miles
distant. The enemy returned our bombard-
ment with vigor, but not with much accuracy
or effect. Several of their bombs fell close
alongside the Carondelet and other gun-boats,
when we were three miles from the fort.
The Confederate fleet called the " River
Defense " having been reenforced, they de-
termined upon capturing the mortar-boats or
giving us battle. On the 8th three of their ves-
sels came to the point from which the mor-
tar-boats had thrown their bombs, but, finding
none, returned. Foote had given special
orders to keep up steam and be ready for
battle any moment, day or night. There
was so much illness at that time in the flo-
tilla that about a third of the officers and
men were under medical treatment, and a
great many were unfit for duty. On the
9th of May, at his own request, our distin-
guished commander-in-chief, Foote, was re-
lieved from his arduous duties. He had be-
come very much enfeebled from the wounds
received at Fort Donelson and from illness.
He carried with him the heart-felt sympathy
and regrets of all his command. He was suc-
ceeded by Flag-Officer Davis, a most excel-
lent officer.
FIGHTING THE CONFEDERATE FLEET.
This paper would not be complete without
some account of the naval battles fought by
the flotilla immediately after the retirement
of Flag-Officer Foote, under whose supervis-
ion and amid the greatest embarrassments it
had been built, organized, and equipped. On
the morning of the 10th of May a mortar-boat
was towed down the river, as usual, at 5 a. m.,
to bombard Fort Pillow. The Cincinnati soon
followed to protect her. At 6:35 eight Con-
federate " rams " came up the river at full
speed. The Carondelet at once prepared for
action, and slipped her hawser to the "bare
end," ready for orders to " go ahead." No
officer was on the deck of the Benton (flag-
steamer) except the pilot, Mr. Birch, who
informed the flag-officer of the situation, and
passed the order to the Carondelet and Pitts-
burgh to proceed without waiting for the flag-
steamer. General signal was also made to
the fleet to get under way, but it was not
visible on account of the light fog.
The Cai-ondelet started immediately after
the first verbal order; the others, for want of
steam or some other cause, were not ready,
except the Mound City, which put off soon
after we were fairly on our way to the rescue
of the Cincinnati. We had proceeded about
a mile before our other gun-boats left their
moorings. The rams were advancing rapidly,
and we steered for the leading vessel, Gen-
eral Bragg, a brig-rigged, side-wheeled steam
ram, far in advance of the others, and appar-
ently intent on striking the Cincinnati. When
about three-quarters of a mile from the Gen-
eral Bragg, the Carondelet and Mound City
fired on her with their bow-guns, until she
struck the Cincinnati on the starboard quar-
ter, making a great hole in the shell-room,
through which the water poured with resistless
force. The Cincinnati then retreated up the
river and the General Bragg drifted down,
evidently disabled. The General Price, follow-
ing the example of her consort, also rammed
the Cincinnati. We fired our bow-guns into
the General Price, and she backed off, dis-
abled also. The Cincinnati was again struck
by one of the enemy's rams, the General
Sumter. Having pushed on with all speed to
the rescue of the Cincinnati, the Carondelet
passed her in a sinking condition, and,
rounding lo, we fired our bow and starboard
broadside guns into the retreating General
Bragg and the advancing rams, General leff
Thompson, General Beauregard, and Love 11.
Heading up-stream, close to a shoal, the
Carondelet brought her port broadside guns to
bear on the Sumter and Price, which were
dropping down-stream. At this crisis the
Van Dorn and little Rebel had run above
the Carondelet; the General Bragg, Jeff
Thompso7i, Beauregard, and Lovell were be-
low her. The last three, coming up, fired into
the Ca?'ondelet ; she returned their fire with
her stern-guns ; and, while in this position, I
ordered the port rifled fifty-pound Dahlgren
gun to be leveled and fired at the center of the
Sumter. The shot struck the vessel just for-
ward of her wheel-house, and the steam in-
stantly poured out from her ports and all
parts of her casemates, and we saw her men
running out of them and falling or lying down
on her deck. None of our gun-boats had
yet come to the assistance of the Carondelet.
OPERATIONS OF THE WESTERN FLOTILLA.
445
The Benton and Pittsburgh had probably gone
to aid the Cincinnati, and the St. Louis to re-
lieve the Mound City, which had been badly
rammed by the Van Dorn. The smoke at
this time was so dense that we could hardly
distinguish the gun-boats above us. The up-
per deck of the Carondelet was swept with
grape-shot and fragments of broken shell ;
some of the latter were picked up by one of
the sharp-shooters, who told me they were
obliged to lie down under shelter to save
themselves from the grape and other shot of
the Pittsburgh above us, and from the shot and
broken shell of the enemy below us. Why
some of our gun-boats did not fire into
the Van Dorn and Little Rebel while they
were above the Carondelet, and prevent their
escape, if possible, I never could make out.
As the smoke rose we saw that the enemy
was retreating rapidly and in great confusion.
The Carondelet dropped down to within half
a mile above Craighead Point, and kept up
a continual fire upon their vessels, which were
very much huddled together. When they were
nearly, if not quite, beyond gunshot, the Ben-
ton, having raised sufficient steam, came down
and passed the Carondelet ; but the Confeder-
ates were under the protection of Fort Pillow
before the Benton could reach them. Our fleet
returned to Plum Point, except the Carondelet,
which dropped her anchor on the battle-field,
| two miles or more below the point, and remain-
ed there two days on voluntary guard duty.
This engagement was sharp, but not deci-
sive. From the first to the last shot fired by the
Carondelet, one hour and ten minutes elapsed.
After the battle, long-range firing was kept
up until the evacuation of Fort Pillow.
On the 25th Colonel Ellet's seven rams
arrived, — a useful acquisition to our fleet.
During the afternoon of June 4th heavy
clouds of smoke were observed rising from
Fort Pillow, followed by explosions, which
continued through the night ; the last of
which, much greater than the others, lit up
the heavens and the Chickasaw bluffs with a
brilliant light, and convinced us that this was
the parting salute of the Confederates before
leaving for the lower Mississippi. At dawn
next morning the fleet was all astir to take
possession of Fort Pillow, the flag-steamer
leading. We found the casemates, magazines,
and breastworks blown to atoms.
On our way to Memphis the enemy's
steamer Sovereign was intercepted by one of
our tugs. She was run ashore by her crew,
who attempted to blow her up, but were foiled
in their purpose by a boy of sixteen whom
the enemy had pressed into service, who, af-
ter the abandonment of the vessel, took the
extra weights from the safety-valves, opened
the fire-doors and flue-caps, and put water on
the fires; and having procured a sheet, he
signaled the tug, which came up and took pos-
session. It may be proper to say that on our
way down the river we respected private
property, and did not assail or molest any
except those who were in arms against us.
The morning of the 6th of June we fought
the battle of Memphis, which lasted one hour
and ten minutes. It was begun by the enemy
(whose vessels were in double line of battle
opposite the city) firing upon our fleet, then
at a distance of a mile and a half or two miles
above the city. Their fire continued for a
quarter of an hour, when the attack was
promptly met by two of our ram squadron,
the Queen of the West (Colonel Charles Ellet)
leading, and the Monarch (Lieutenant-Col-
onel Ellet, younger brother of the leader).
These vessels fearlessly dashed ahead of our
gun-boats, ran for the enemy's fleet, and at the
first plunge succeeded in sinking one and dis-
abling another. The astonished Confederates
received them gallantly and effectively. The
Queen of the West and Monarch were followed
in line of battle by the gun-boats, under the
lead of Flag-Officer Davis, and all of them
opened fire, which was continued from the
time we got within good range until the end
of the battle — two or three tugs keeping all
the while a safe distance astern. The Queen
of the West was a quarter of a mile in advance
of the Mo7iarch, and after having rammed one
of the enemy's fleet, she was badly rammed
by the Beauregard, which then, in company
with the General Price, made a dash at the
Monarch as she approached them. The Beau-
regard, however, missed the Monarch and
struck the General Price instead in her port side,
cutting her down to the water-line, tearing off
her wheel instantly, and placing her hots de
combat. The Monarch then rammed the Beau-
regard, which had been several times raked
fore and aft by the shot and shell of our iron-
clads, and she quickly sank in the river oppo-
site Memphis. The General Lovell, after hav-
ing been badly rammed by the Queen of the
West (or the Monarch, as it is claimed), was
struck by our shot and shell, and, at about the
same time and place as the Beauregard, sank
to the bottom so suddenly as to take a con-
siderable number of her officers and crew down
with her, the remainder being saved by small
boats and our tugs. The General Price, Little
Rebel (with a shot-hole through her steam-
chest), and our Queeti of the West, all disabled,
were run on the Arkansas shore opposite
Memphis; and the Monarch afterward ran
into the Little Rebel just as our fleet were
passing her in pursuit of the remainder of the
enemy's fleet, then retreating rapidly down the
446
OPERATIONS OF THE WESTERN FLOTILLA.
river. The Jeff Thompson, below the point and
opposite President's Island, was the next boat
disabled by our shot. She was run ashore,
burned, and blown up. The Confederate
ram Sumter was also disabled by our shell
and captured. The Bragg soon after shared
the same fate, and was run ashore, where her
officers abandoned her, and disappeared in the
forests of Arkansas. All the Confederate rams
which had been run on the Arkansas shore
were captured. The Van Dom, having a start,
alone escaped down the river. The Mo?iarch
and Switzerland were dispatched in pursuit
of her and a few transports, but returned with-
out overtaking them, although they captured
another steamer.
The scene at this battle was rendered most
sublime by the desperate nature of the en-
gagement and the momentous consequences
that followed very speedily after the first at-
tack. Thousands of people crowded the high
bluffs overlooking the river. The roar of the
cannon and shell shook the houses on shore
on either side for many miles. First wild
yells, shrieks, and clamors, then loud, de-
spairing murmurs, filled the affrighted city.
The screaming, plunging shell crashed into
the boats, blowing some of them and their
crews into fragments, and the rams rushed
upon each other like wild beasts in deadly
conflict. Blinding smoke hovered about the
scene of all this confusion and horror; and,
as the battle progressed and the Confederate
fleet was destroyed, all the cheering voices on
shore were silenced. With each disaster a sym-
pathizing wail went up from the multitude.
When the last hope of the Confederates gave
way, the lamentations which went up from
the spectators were like cries of anguish.
Boats were put off from our vessels to save
as many lives as possible. No serious injury
was received by any one on board the United
States fleet. Colonel Ellet received a pistol-
shot in the leg; a shot struck the Carondelet
in the bow, broke up her anchor and anchor-
stock, and fragments were scattered over her
deck among her officers and crew, wounding
slightly Acting-Master Gibson and two or
three others who were standing at the time on
the forward deck with me. The heavy timber
which was suspended on the sides of our gun-
boats, at the water-line, to protect them from
being sunk by the Confederate rams, greatly
impeded our progress in battle, and it was
therefore cut adrift from the Carondelet when
that vessel was in chase of the Bragg and
Sumter. The latter had just landed a number
of her officers and crew, some of whom were
emerging from the bushes along the bank of
the river, unaware of the Carondelefs proxim-
ity, when I hailed them through a trumpet, and
ordered them to stop or be shot. They obeyed
immediately, and by my orders were taken
on board a tug and delivered on the Benton.
General Jeff Thompson, notable in partisan
or border warfare, having signally failed with
those rams at Fort Pillow, now resigned them
to their fate. It was said that he stood by
his horse watching the effect of this desper-
ate struggle, and seeing at last his rams all
gone, captured, sunk, or burned, he exclaimed,
philosophically, " They are gone, and I am
going," mounted his horse, and disappeared.
An enormous amount of property was
captured by our squadron; and in addition
to the Confederate fleet, we captured at
Memphis six large Mississippi steamers, each
marked " C. S. A." We also seized a large
quantity of cotton in steamers and on shore,
and the property at the Confederate navy-
yard, and caused the destruction of a large
steam ram on the stocks, which was to have
been a sister ship to the renowned Arkansas.
About one hundred Confederates were killed
and wounded and one hundred and fifty cap-
tured. Chief of all results of the work of the
flotilla was the opening of the Mississippi
River once for all from Cairo to Memphis.*
Henry Walke.
* The opening of the lower part of the Mississippi by the fleet under Admiral Farragut will be described
in an early number of The Century, by Admiral Porter. — Ed.
PRACTICING ON A RIVER PICKET.
THE KALISPEL COUNTRY.
In the summer of 1882, and again in the
summer of 1883, 1 passed the gateway of the
Eitter-Root Valley, and, climbing over the
Coriacan defile into the valley of the Jocko,
traversed the Flathead Reservation. Each
time I made to myself the promise that at
some future day I would return and learn
more of the Kalispel country than could be
gathered in a hurried passage across it on the
way to the distant goal of Puget Sound. In
the summer of 1884 came the wished-for op-
portunity. I left the new railroad at Missoula,
and first traveled southward on a good wagon-
; road up the Bitter- Root. The huge snow-
flecked dome of Lolo Peak seemed to guard
the entrance to the valley. Although it was
late in June, the air was as crisp as that of a
New England October morning. It was too
late to find the exquisite camellia-like flower
of the bitter-root, which in May stars the
ground, but upon the swelling green slopes
of the nearer mountains were bands and
splashes of vivid pink, formed by dense growths
of the clarkia, the peculiar, ragged little flower
named for Captain Clark, the explorer. A
single stalk of this plant shows but a few
fragile pink, phlox-like flowers, whose petals
look as if torn in shreds ; but when growing in
masses it makes wonderfully brilliant color
effects, painting whole acres of hill-side and
meadow. For a distance of five miles across
the valley I could see stripes and patches of
it lying like gay scarfs upon the grass. Wild
roses grew in thickets along the margin of
the cool, swift stream ; bluebells, geraniums,
and many varieties of golden compositae
abounded ; and there were multitudes of
strange, nameless flowers peculiar to Mon-
tana. The notes of the robin and the meadow-
lark filled the air with familiar melody; but
with the magpie, with his long tail, his black
and white coat, and his impudent chatter, I
could claim acquaintance only through former
journeys in this region.
The Bitter- Root Valley is about ninety
miles long, and its greatest width is perhaps
seven miles. The Bitter- Root chain of moun-
tains bounds it on the west ; on the east it is
walled in by a nameless ridge; its southern
limit is marked by a cross-range of snowy
peaks; while on the north it debouches through
a narrow pass into the valley of the Mis-
soula. It has the reputation of being the best
agricultural valley of Montana, its compara-
tively low altitude (four thousand feet) favor-
ing the raising of fruit and Indian corn, as
well as of wheat, oats, and barley. The valley
is tolerably well settled for a new country,
having about three thousand white inhabitants
besides the three hundred stubborn, home-
loving Indians who remain with their chief,
Charlo. The Indian lands are scattered
through the valley among the farms of the
whites, and their owners occupy log-cabins in
winter, but prefer the canvas-covered tepee for
their summer dwellings. As a rule, the houses
of the white settlers are of hewn logs— a mate-
rial preferred to sawn lumber because it makes
thick walls that are warm in winter and cool in
summer. If well built, there is no better dwell-
ing for a mountain country than a log-house,
and a little trouble will deck its walls with vines
and make it as pretty as it is substantial. Ir-
rigation is the rule on all the cultivated lands,
save those lying low by the river-side; and
abundant water is supplied by the streams
which leap out of the mountain gorges, full-
fed by springs and melting snows. It is not
an expensive process to conduct the water
over the gentle slopes of the fields. Twice or
three times in the course of the summer the
land is flooded by systematically damming
the little ditches that run across it. For this
labor the farmer is rewarded by the certain
and large yield of his crop. His wheat will
average thirty bushels to the acre, and will
often produce forty or fifty bushels.
As an illustration of what degree of pros-
perity and comfort is attainable by industry
and thrift in this remote nook among the Rocky
Mountains, the home of the two brothers
who were our hosts the night our traveling
party of three spent in the valley will serve.
They live near the foot of St. Mary's Peak,
the loftiest of the Bitter-Root chain. When
they settled there, they were two hundred
and forty miles from a post-office, and sixteen
hundred miles from a railroad. Now they
have a square mile of land in grain and mead-
ow, a fine orchard of apple, plum, and cherry
trees, a dairy through which flows a brook
as cold as the snow-bank that is its source,
herds of fat cattle, numerous barns and other
farm buildings, a pretty white house shaded
by cottonwoods and pines, and a flower gar-
den where, under the care of the two sisters
who are the mistresses of the domain, grow
all the dear old blossoms of our childhood —
pinks and peonies, larkspur and columbine,
pansies and petunias, roses, sweet-williams,
448
THE KALISPEL COUNTRY.
and Canterbury bells. In the parlor there are
a piano and a case of books, and the dining-
room opens into a hot-house, where all the
winter flourish geraniums, fuchsias, and be-
gonias in a tropical wilderness of bloom. All
these tokens of success and good taste in
rural life are the results of fifteen years' effort
by two young men who went from northern
New York to Montana with no other capital
than their stout arms and strong wills.
Why the Indians whose homes are on the
upper waters of one of the two great branches
of the Columbia River should be called Flat-
heads is a question to which I have found no
satisfactory answer, either from themselves
or the Jesuit fathers who are their teachers,
or from their neighbors, the white settlers. In
their own language their name is Kalispel.
"And what does Kalispel mean?" I asked
of an intelligent Indian who could speak
English remarkably well. He thought it was
an abbreviation of Kalispelum, and that
Spelum meant a prairie, and Kalis was a cor-
ruption of camas, the name of the root which
all the tribes west of the Rocky Mountains
prepare by drying for an article of food.
There are many camas prairies in Montana
and Idaho, but the largest is in the Flathead
nation. The tradition of the tribe, according
to my informant, is that they came from a
land far to the north, and wandered south-
/.wells n.y. ^^m^-m^t f Wvr
MAP OF NORTH-WESTERN MONTANA.
ward in search of a good country until they
found this prairie, which pleased them so well
that there, and on the shores of the great lake
near by, and of the river which drains it, they
made their homes. If we accept this inter-
pretation of their name, they are the people
of the Camas Prairie. They indignantly deny
that they or their ancestors ever flattened the
heads of their babies, as some of the de-
graded fish-eating tribes of the Pacific coast,
of whom they have heard. Yet Flatheads
they are called, and have been called, ever
since Lewis and Clark visited their country.
Flathead is the name of the lake in the north-
ern part of their possessions, and it is the
Flathead River which feeds the lake. The
map-makers used to call all the northern
THE KALISPEL COUNTRY.
449
branch of the Columbia Clark's Fork or Flat-
head River, giving to the southern branch the
double name of Lewis Fork or Snake River ;
but in later times there has been a separation
of names on the northern branch. In the
newer geographies the name Columbia is given
to the stream that rises far north in the British
territory, and receives the Clark's Fork before
crossing the American line. On some maps
the outlet as well as the inlet of Flathead Lake
is called Flathead River, but the people of the
region all call the outlet the Pend d' Oreille.
The Kalispel country of to-day is a wedge-
shaped area in north-western Montana,
bounded on the east by the main divide of
the Rocky Mountains, traversed by the
Mission Mountains, one of the loftiest and
most rugged spurs of the Rockies, and drained
by the Flathead and Pend d'Oreille rivers
and their tributaries. It is not quite as large
as the State of Connecticut, and its Indian
occupants number about 1700. The Flat-
heads proper, or Selish Indians, as they call
themselves, are a branch of the Kalispel fam-
ily, and are not as numerous as their cousins,
the Pend d'Oreilles, who share with them
and with a third tribe, the Kootenais, with
mountain walls and its blue river running
through thickets of roses. The Government
has given to each family title to one hundred
and sixty acres of good land, but most of them
are continually on the verge of starvation,
for the game is gone and they will not work.
A few till the soil, keep herds of cattle and
horses, and are prosperous when their sub-
stance is not devoured by their lazy relatives ;
but by far the greater number roam about the
mountains for roots and berries, and the
chance of finding a deer or a big-horn, enjoy-
ing a picnic all summer and begging food
from the white settlers in winter.
A chief object of my visit to the valley was
to see the venerable Jesuit missionary, Father
Ravalli, who has labored among the Flat-
heads for forty years as priest and physician,
and who is beloved throughout western Mon-
tana. A narrative of his life would be a his-
tory of the civilization of the Kalispel tribes ;
for not only have the Jesuit fathers Christian-
ized the Indians, but they have taught them
agriculture and the rearing of stock. The re-
ligious part of their work was much less diffi-
cult than the practical part of teaching habits
of industry. In the latter they have as yet
whom neither acknowledges relationship, the been only partly successful, as is shown by the
Flathead Reservation. The language of the number of Flatheads one meets roaming about
Selish differs from that of the Pend d'Oreilles the valley in savage toggery, with their dogs,
no more than does the German of Bavaria ponies, and lodge-poles, and by the two
from the German of Hanover ; but the Koote- tepees pitched almost under the eaves of the
nai is a tongue by itself, and those who speak mission church of St. Mary's, which has been
it are looked upon by their neighbors of the the center of Father Ravalli's labors. The
other two tribes as an inferior sort of people, dramatic and pictorial worship of the Catholic
The original home of the Selish Indians was Church appeals at once to the imagination of
the beautiful valley of the Bitter-Root, which the Indian, and the helpful, kindly ways of its
begins at Missoula, about twenty miles south priests win their confidence ; but to tame the
of the reservation ; and there some three hun- ancient savagery in their blood is a much
dred of them remain, in spite of the efforts of slower matter. Civilization cannot be put on
the Government to persuade them to remove, like a suit of clothes. We are all in too much
Under the advice of the hereditary chief "of of a hurry about making a white man out of
the tribe, Charlo, they have persistently re- the Indian, forgetting that it took centuries
fused for fourteen years to join their kindred
on the reservation. Offers of lands and money,
of cattle and wagons and farm implements,
have no effect on Charlo. He says he will
live and die in the home of his fathers. He
for our own ancestors to outgrow the wild
life of woods and caves, and settle down to
tillage and the care of herds and flocks.
The little mission church of St. Mary's,
with its attached group of log buildings, stands
went to Washington last winter with the agent close by the village of Stevensville, and is
for the Flatheads, Major Ronan, to talk the
matter over, but returned as stubborn as ever
in his determination to remain in his native
valley. The Indians who stay with Charlo on
the Bitter-Root lose all the advantages of
the agency system — the care of the sick and
destitute, the education of the children, the
distribution of wagons and implements, and
the free use of saw and grist mills ; but they
overshadowed by the lofty peaks of the Bitter-
Root range. At the door of Father Ravalli's
house I found a melancholy Indian sitting
patiently on the threshold. He pulled his
scarlet blanket apart, and pointing to his bare,
bronzed breast, said, " Sick." Perhapshe hoped
for some healing influence to come from the
presence of the good priest within, and so
lingered at the door. The priest himself
preserve their freedom, and their eyes behold needed help more than the Indian, and was,
their lovely green valley with its gigantic alas, beyond the reach of all human skill.*
* Father Ravalli died a few weeks after Mr. Smalley's visit, which was in August last. — Ed.
Vol. XXIX.— 45.
45°
THE KALISPEL COUNTRY.
For four years he had been confined to his
bed by paralysis of the lower limbs. It was a
quaint and impressive figure that greeted me
from a narrow couch in the little room into
which an Italian lay brother ushered me.
Father Ravalli has a face of great power and
individuality. His benignant blue eyes and
broad, reflective brow seemed to contradict
the expression of the long, sharp, aggressive
nose. The upper part of his face bespoke the
philosopher, poet, and good physician ; the
lower seemed to belong to a military com-
mander. A book-case on the wall within reach
from the bed held works of devotion mingled
with cyclopedias, and a table close at hand was
covered with phials. Larger book-cases in the
room contained several hundreds of volumes
of works on religion, agriculture, and medicine
in Italian, English, and French. These cases
alternated along the walls with shelves filled
with jars and bottles ; the bed-chamber of the
sick priest being both library and dispensary.
Father Ravalli told very simply and briefly
the story of the establishment of missions in
the Kalispel country. Some Catholic Iroquois
gave the Flatheads a knowledge of Christian-
ity and induced them to send to the Bishop
of St. Louis for missionaries. Father de Smet
first came among them, and established in
1 84 1 the Mission of St. Mary's. He returned
to St. Louis, leaving Father Mengarini be-
hind, and his report to Rome led the Society
of Jesus to send out a party of priests to re-
main in the country. Ravalli was the chief
of this party, and with him came Father Vera
Cruz, a Belgian, and Fathers Acolti and
Nobili, Italians, and several lay brethren of
the order. Mengarini, who is living in San
Francisco, and Ravalli are the only survivors
of these two first bands of missionaries. The
Indians, Father Ravalli says, were well dis-
posed from the first ; and in a few years all
the tribes of the Kalispel family, as well as the
Kootenais and Nez Perces, were converted.
Other missions were established, and the work
of the Jesuits was extended northward into
the British possessions, and westward to the
Columbia River. They brought with them the
plow as well as the cross, and taught their
converts to sow and reap, to build log-houses,
to fence fields, and to care for cattle. In 1846
two small mill-stones were transported on
horses from Fort Benton, below the falls of the
Missouri, to the Bitter-Root Valley, and the
first mill in what is now Montana was erected.
These stones are still preserved at the St.
Mary's Mission, and are shown to visitors
with some pride by the lay brother who
attends Father Ravalli. A well-stocked apoth-
ecary shop is one of the adjuncts of the mis-
sion, and the good father is a skillful physician.
He said that the Indians in the Bitter-Root
Valley are often in a starving condition, and
that their blood has become so impoverished
by lack of nourishing food that scrofula is
almost universal among them. Still they re-
fuse to go to the reservation, where they could
get plenty of food. Their liberty and their
old home in the valley are so dear to them
that they will not leave. They have good
lands, and might make themselves comfort-
able ; but the trouble is, as the Father ex-
pressed it in a single sentence in his quaint
language, "They not like to work." They
want to have all the privileges of both white
men and Indians — to hold lands, but to do
no work and pay no taxes.
In the fall of 1883 the Indians of the valley
were visited by Senator Vest, of Missouri, and
Delegate Maginnis, of Montana, who came
as commissioners on behalf of the Govern-
ment to persuade them to go to the reser-
vation. A long conference was held, but
Charlo, the chief, was immovable. " We do
not wish to leave these lands," he said. "You
place your foot upon our necks and press our
faces into the dust. But I will never go to
the reservation. I will go to the plains."
" Joseph, the Nez Perce chief, attempted
to go to the plains," replied Senator Vest.
" Look where he is now ! There are no more
plains. The white men are thick as leaves
from ocean to ocean. Either get a patent to
your lands here, or go upon the reservation,
where you can raise plenty to eat."
Charlo took off his hat and threw it upon
the floor, and, gazing steadily at the Senator,
shouted :
" You may take Charlo to the reservation,
but there will be no breath in his nostrils. Charlo
will be dead ! He will never go there alive ! "
It was these Indians of the Bitter-Root that
General Garfield visited in 1872. He made a
treaty with them for their removal to the res-
ervation on the Jocko. Charlo says he did
not sign it, and that somebody signed his
mark for him. He refused to be bound by it,
and less than a third of the tribe migrated
under its provisions. The others have been
treated very considerately by the Govern-
ment. A patent for one hundred and sixty
acres of land has been made out for each
family. They occupy the land, but refuse to
take the patents in order to avoid paying
taxes. An effort is now being made to induce
them to sell these lands and use the money
to open new farms on the reservation, and to
build houses and buy stock and implements.
In talking with Father Ravalli about his
life and work among the Flatheads, something
was said about a resemblance between the
wooded foot-hills east of the valley and the
THE KALISPEL COUNTRY.
45i
Apennines. A look of homesickness came into
his eyes as he exclaimed, "Ah! bella Italia!''''
It was easy to see that his heart had been in
Italy all the forty years of his life in the wil-
derness. His thoughts went back to Ferrara,
where he was born, and he quoted with much
feeling a stanza from the poet Monti :
"Bella Italia, amate sponde,
Pur ritorno a rivider.
Trema in petto, e si confonde
L'alma oppressa dal piacer."
To a suggestion at leave-taking that he
should be carried down the valley to Missoula
to see the new railroad, Father Ravalli said :
1 1 care little for earthly things now \ soon I
shall travel among the stars ! "
In the Bitter-Root Valley one is on historic
ground. It was traversed by the expedition
of Lewis and Clark, who entered it from the
south over the divide from the stream they
named Wisdom River, but which is now called
the Big Hole. The Burnt Fork near St.
Mary's Mission they called Scattering Creek,
and the Lolo Fork is their Traveler's Rest
Creek. At the head of this latter stream, after
beating in vain for many days against the
enormous wall of the Bitter-Root Mountains,
they succeeded in finding a passage across to
the waters flowing to the Pacific. Their great-
est hardships were experienced in getting
through the Bitter- Root chain. Through the
Lolo Pass came Chief Joseph in 1876, with
his Nez Perces, at the outset of his heroic
and skillful retreat. He did not molest the
settlers in the valley. The friendly Flatheads
met the Nez Perces when they came down
the Lolo, and told them that if the whites
were harmed they would take up arms in their
behalf. Chief Joseph replied that he had no
quarrel with the settlers in the Bitter- Root
country, and did not propose to do them any
injury. His people harmed no one and com-
mitted no depredations during his flight
through the valley. When news came of the
approach of the hostile band, the settlers hast-
ily fled with their families to a stockade in
Stevensville, leaving their homes and stock un-
protected; but nothing was molested. They
were blamed afterward for not attempting to bar
the passage of the valley,- but they acted wisely
in consulting the safety of their families and their
property, and leaving the task of capturing
Joseph and his little army to the regular troops.
The Bitter- Root Valley probably affords
a better field for agricultural settlement than
any other portion of Montana. Most of the land
near the river, which can easily be irrigated
from the small tributary streams, is occupied;
but there is plenty of good level land un-
taken upon which water can be brought at
small expense. The climate resembles that
of Vermont, but with less snow and more
frequent thaws in winter and with cooler
nights in summer. The scenery can be com-
pared to nothing in our Eastern States; the
grandeur of the mountains, with their crags
and domes of rock and snow, being indescrib-
able in words that will convey a correct im-
pression to readers who have seen only the
low, wooded summits of the Alleghanies and
the Adirondacks. One would have to seek a
just standard for comparison in the high Alps.
Only the Lolo Peak and St. Mary's Peak, of
the many magnificent summits in the Bitter-
Root chain, have names. The others await a
christening at the hands of the tourists who
will in a few years penetrate to these fresh
fields of travel. One of the highest mountains,
having a crest singularly broken, might well
be named Mount Garfield, in memory of the
visit of General Garfield to the valley. Its sum-
mit seems fitly to typify the rude and cruel
shattering of his life when it had reached the
highest pinnacle of success and fame.
The Flathead Reservation was established,
by a treaty made with the Indians by Gov-
ernor Isaac I. Stevens, of Washington Terri-
tory, in 1853, for the home of the Flatheads,
Pend d'Oreilles, and Kootenais. Most of its
surface is covered by lofty and rugged moun-
tain ranges, but it contains a number of beau-
tiful valleys which make admirable stock-
ranges, and afford considerable agricultural
land skirting the streams. The Northern
Pacific Railroad runs through the western
part of the reservation, down the valleys of
the Jocko and Pend d'Oreille rivers ; but the
tourist sees little of Indian life from the win-
dows of the cars, save a few log-houses, in-
habited for the most part by half-breeds. The
agency is in the Jocko Valley, and so is the
home of the Flathead chief, Arlee, appointed
by General Garfield to take the place of the
intractable Charlo; but the life of the reserva-
tion centers at the Jesuit mission, in Mission
Valley. Here are the schools for boys and girls,
carried on by the zealous fathers and by the Sis-
ters of Charity, and here is the mission church
with its sweet bells waking the echoes in the
gloomy mountain gorges, and calling the blank-
eted savages from huts and wigwams to witness
the impressive ceremonies of the Catholic faith.
In all my experience of Rocky Mountain
travel I can recall no more pleasing scene
than the view of the Mission Valley which
suddenly bursts upon the sight as one ap-
proaches the mission from the Jocko. In
front tower the crags and precipices of a
mountain range of exceptional height and
grandeur. The black band around the base
of this range is formed by forests of gigantic
452 THE KALISPEL COUNTRY.
pines. The ruddy cliffs at their summits are fashion, the owner of more horses and cattle
enormous perpendicular walls of rock. The than he cares to count, and the father of a
white flecks on the steep declivities below are race of stalwart sons. This sturdy, intelligent
great snow-fields, and the shining silver Scotchman is an interesting relic of a type
threads are cascades that leap down from that is fast passing away in the North-west,
dizzy heights a sheer thousand feet into The Jesuit fathers at the mission enter-
dark canons. At the feet of these glorious tained my companion and myself with a
mountains stretches out for forty miles a val- hospitality that displayed the politeness of
ley of about seven miles in width, of a brill- European society as well as the heartiness of
iant green color, flecked with pink patches the West. They anticipated every wish, and
of the clarkia flower, and dotted with numer- were always doing some little act. of per-
ous little ponds. The streams that flow from sonal kindness that was unexpected. Two
the melting snows in the mountain gorges of them are Italians, Fathers Palladini (the
make bands of dark green with their wooded superior) andBandini; one is a Belgian, Father
banks as they cross the valley on their way Van Gorp ; and one a Frenchman of noble
to the Pend d'Oreille River. Numerous herds family, Father de Rouge. Two have grown
of cattle and horses can be seen. Right in old in missionary work among the Indians;
the foreground of the picture is the group of the others are young men newly led to the
buildings which form the mission, looking not wilderness by religious zeal. The interesting
unlike a Swiss village. thing about their work to one not of their
This Mission of St. Ignatius was established faith is, not their success in bringing whole
in 1853. Its home authority is in Turin, Italy ; tribes to accept baptism and the sacrament,
that is to say, it is a branch of the missionary for that sort of success has been achieved
work carried on by the Jesuit Order in the from time to time for two centuries among
province of Turin. For thirty years the good the Indians of Canada and the North-west,
fathers have labored in this valley. They but rather the practical results they can
found the Indians entirely wild, not even un- show in the way of making their wards self-
derstanding the first rudiments of agriculture, sustaining farmers and herdsmen. They hold
In the course of a generation they have civ- very moderate views on the subject of edu-
ilized them so far as to induce them to live in eating and civilizing the Indian, not imagin-
log-houses a part of the year, to raise wheat, ing that he can be turned into a white man
oats, and potatoes in little well-fenced fields, in all save his skin by a few years of effort,
and to keep cattle and horses. A few wear They know how strong is the savagery in
civilized dress, but most of the men stick to his nature, and are well content if they can
leggins and blankets. The women wear cal- get him to work enough to provide food for
ico gowns, because they are the cheapest his family, and can persuade him to be toler-
garb to be had. All profess the Catholic ably decent and honest. They show him how
faith, and attend mass when not out hunting to build a log-house and fence a field, but
or roaming over the country ; and they are do not ask him to give up his tepee or to
sure to rally in force at the mission on St. cease entirely from roaming over the coun-
Ignatius's day, Christmas, and other holidays, try. After the crops are put in the ground
Of the Flatheads there are only 125 on the in the spring, most of the houses are de-
reservation according to the last report, but serted for several weeks. The people go on
of the Pend d'Oreilles there are 965, and of long excursions among the mountains or to
the Kootenais 600, so that the entire pop- the lake, to dig camas, fish, run horses, and
ulation amounts to nearly 1700 souls, includ- in general have a jolly good time in their
ing the half-breeds, who count as Indians in own wild fashion. The women go along, and
a legal sense. Besides the agency people and the children too, of whom there are many,
those attached to the mission, there are no and the dogs, which are still more numerous,
whites residing on the reservation save one After the crop is gathered there is another
man — old Angus McDonald, a veteran of time of roaming, and in winter still a third,
the Hudson's Bay Company's service, who when the game is hunted. The fathers en-
came to the valley in 1839, and established courage this Ishmaelitish life, having found by
a fort in 1847 where his house now stands, experience that the Indians take to gambling
He was afterward intrusted widi the busi- and drunkenness if confined to their little
ness of closing up all the affairs of the Com- farms. Their wild nature must have vent in
pany in the territory of the United States, adventure and movement, or they grow sickly
and having married a Nez Perce woman, he as well as fall into vicious habits. In travel- j
remained in the valley. The Indians recog- ing about the reservation I constantly met j
nized his rights as older than their own, and parties migrating to the river-side, or the lake, j
so he still lives among them in a primitive or the big camas prairie, as bent on enjoyment |
THE KALISPEL COUNTRY.
453
in their own way as are civilized people who
make summer visits to watering-place resorts.
The drollest thing is to see one of these
pleasure parties traveling in a wagon. The
incongruity of a sober farm- wagon, made in
Jackson, Michigan, drawn by a pair of Cay-
use ponies and filled with a motley company
of barbarians, the men in red or green blank-
ets, and with feathers stuck in their long
hair, and the women in a medley of savage
and civilized attire, with babies tied on their
backs, is irresistibly funny. The grave and
stolid decorum of the Indians' faces rather
adds to the effect. For the " hest-kowkow,"
or good-day in Kalispe], with which you salute
these excursionists, you get at the most a grave
nod and a repetition of the same phrase. Only
the young fellows who tear along on horse-
back show the least approach to good humor.
The opinion of the missionaries is against
attempting too much in the way of educating
the Indians. They would have them learn to
read and write a little, but this they do not
hold to be as important as a little knowledge
of arithmetic, to enable them to avoid being
cheated in their buying and selling. Most of
all, they seek to teach them that it is honora-
ble and profitable for them to work and be
independent. In the girls' school, where there
are sixty pupils, sewing, mending, cooking,
and washing are taught, as well as ordinary
elementary school studies. The pupils also
tend a garden, mend shoes, milk the cows,
and have painted the inside of their new
building. They learn to write neatly, being
apt at imitating from copy-books, are skillful
in making garments, and furnish from among
their number the choir for the church. Both
girls and boys are very tractable. Father
Bandini, fresh from Italy, and pining for
music, has organized a band of boys which is
beginning to be proficient in easy airs. To
see these little fellows blowing brass instru-
ments, and keeping time with their mocca-
sined feet, is a curious spectacle. The children,
as a rule, are not strong, and many die young
of quick consumption. They inherit feeble
constitutions from parents who are themselves
healthy and long-lived, a result, no doubt, of
change from savage to semi-civilized modes
of life, or, if one wishes to find another rea-
son, of the process by which a useless race
fades away under the influence of some natu-
ral law or providential purpose when brought
in contact with a higher type of humanity.
There is a mistaken notion among philan-
thropic people in the East that the Indian is
a much abused person, who is entitled to the
lively sympathy of mankind. Unquestionably
there have been plenty of instances of broken
treaties and individual and tribal wrongs; but,
looking at the matter, not from the historical
but from the actual point of view, it must be
admitted that the aborigine on a reservation
has more rights and privileges than a white
man enjoys. " If I could have the privileges
on this reservation which the Indian has,"
said Major Ronan, the Indian agent, as we
were driving through the lovely Mission Val-
ley, " I would resign my office at once, settle
down on one of these streams, build a house,
fence in all the land I wanted, and get me a
big herd of cattle." The Indian or the half-
breed, explained the agent, can inclose as
much land as he pleases, and use as much
more as he wants for a stock-range. He pays
no taxes, and rides free on the railroad. If
his tools get out of repair, or his horses need
shoeing, the Government employs a black-
smith to work for him. He takes his wheat
to the agency flour-mill, where it is ground
by the Government, and his logs to the
agency saw-mill, to be made into lumber of
the dimensions he wishes. If he is sick, the
Government supplies him with medicines and
a doctor. The missionaries educate his chil-
dren in a boarding-school, and furnish him
with the comforts of religion without charge.
If too idle to work, he knows that the Gov-
ernment will in no event let him starve. If
he tries, he can become a rich man by the
mere increase of his cattle and horses. Now,
how does it stand with the white citizen ?
Instead of thousands of acres, he can get from
the Government only one hundred and sixty,
and on them he must pay taxes and " rustle
for a living," as the Western phrase goes.
The Indian is our American aristocrat. He
owns the whole landscape ; he toils not, save
in a fitful way as it suits his pleasure, and he
spends his time in hunting, fishing, horse-rac-
ing, gambling, and loafing. It will be argued,
I know, that the Indians once owned the
whole country, and that their reservations
and the privileges they have upon them are
after all but a small compensation for what
they have lost. This, again, is a mistake. No
people own a country because they roam over it
before others come to share its occupancy. If
a few hundred white men should chance to be
the first inhabitants of a territory large enough
for a great State, who would say that they owned
all the land by reason of that circumstance ?
We set out one day in June to climb
McDonald's Peak, one of the most conspicu-
ous of the jagged summits of the Mission
chain. Professor Raphael Pumpelly made
the ascent last year with a party of explorers
belonging to the Northern Transcontinental
Survey; and on his report of the wonderful
views of water-falls, lakes, and snow-fields to
be seen, Henry Villard, then President of the
454
THE KALISPEL COUNTRY.
Northern Pacific Railroad Company, had a
trail made up to a sharp ridge just at the foot
of the pyramidal apex of the peak. Up this
trail Mr. Villard escorted in September of
last year such of his foreign guests as were
adventurous enough to undertake the ascent.
No one had since been over the trail until
my party traversed it. There is no trouble
about getting up to the ridge or comb on a
stout horse, the time required from the foot
of the mountain being about two hours ; but
to scramble up the precipitous peak, which
rises about two thousand feet above the tim-
ber-line, is a feat which might appall even
skillful Alpine climbers. Professor Pumpelly
and his half-breed guide, Duncan McDonald,
certainly deserve credit for their achievement;
and as the peak already bears the name of
Duncan's father, it would be only fair to give
that of the professor to the tremendous canon
that lies at its base and the beautiful water-
falls which leap into the gorge. The canon
and falls, and two round dark-blue lakes lying
one about a hundred feet above the other,
burst into view as we came out of the forest
upon a shelf of rock about two-thirds of the
way up the trail. It would be hard to find
either in the Alps, or the Sierras, or the Rockies,
a more striking scene. Seven gigantic bare
peaks hem in the canon and hold in their
embrace the snow-field which feeds the stream
that comes rushing down to divide just above
a precipice a thousand feet high, and form a
double, V-shaped fall, which leaps* into the
upper lake. Another fall connects the upper
with the lower lake. Its height is the same
as that of the loftiest pines that stand around
the rocky rim of the second lake, the tops of
the trees just reaching the level of the upper
basin. Below the lakes is a dismal gorge,
precipitous but heavily timbered, which is
said to be a favorite resort for grizzly bears.
From the summit of the trail we looked down
into another deep canon filled with a snow-
field that from its position, its steep descent,
and the masses of ice visible on its surface,
has the appearance of being a true glacier.
Looking down this canon, the eye ranges
over the green valley, sweeps along at least
a hundred miles of the Bitter- Root chain, in-
cluding the distant peaks of Lolo and St.
Mary's, and looking northward takes in the
blue waters of Flathead Lake and their moun-
tain-rimmed shores. A marvelous prospect
indeed ! Some day, when these remote regions
shall be better known, processions of tourists
will, no doubt, go up Mr. Villard's trail with
alpenstocks and lunch -baskets. At present the
bears are the only travelers upon it.
When we had gotten down to the foot of
the mountain, the horses, which had appeared
to be thoroughly exhausted, pricked up their
ears and gave us a wild five-mile gallop across
the great natural flower-garden of the valley,
where golden, blue, white, and purple blossoms
almost concealed the grass. So we came rush-
ing up to the mission in gallant style at sun-
set, to be met with welcoming exclamations
from the black-gowned fathers, and to find a
substantial supper smoking on the table of
the refectory.
Next day a journey to Flathead Lake,
thirty-five miles distant, was undertaken, the
road leading through the valley all the way.
About once in three miles the log-house and
field of an Indian farmer are seen. All the
rest of the fertile valley is untenanted save by
a few herds of cattle and horses. At the foot
of the lake a white family have a store, and an
old Iroquois Indian named Baptiste Ignace,
who drifted up into these northern regions
from St. Louis when a boy, keeps a ferry and
charges two dollars for putting a team and
wagon across. The old fellow is making a
fortune since settlers began to go into the
country at the head of the lake, which is out-
side the reservation, and is only accessible
by the way of Baptiste's flat-boat ferry. Al-
ready there are about sixty families in the
valley above the lake. A little schooner car-
ries supplies up to them, and before this arti-
cle is in print a steam-launch will be running
on the lake. Two townships in this Ultima
Thule of Montana settlement have been sur-
veyed, and there is good country enough for
four or five more. If any reader wants to
migrate to a remote region where he will be
separated from the rest of mankind by a hun-
dred miles' stretch of Indian reservation, I
would commend to him the Flathead Lake
country. The lake is some thirty miles long by
ten wide. Its waters are dotted with islands
and its shore -lines broken by bold promon-
tories. High mountains hem it in on the east
and west ; on the southern side stretches out
the Mission Valley; and on the north the
narrower valley of the Flathead River is
bounded somewhere near the British line by
a cross-range of still higher peaks that carry
snow all summer. The scenery of the lake is
more beautiful than that of Lake George, and
less beautiful than that of Lake Lucerne.
The Kalispel language is the classical
tongue of the Indians of the reservation. The
Pend d'Oreilles and Flatheads speak it, and
the Kootenais make shift to understand it a
little. It has been reduced to printed forms
by the Jesuit fathers. A dictionary of Kalis-
pel-English and English- Kalispel has been
printed at the mission, and is a remarkable
monument of patient labor. Father Menga-
rini began it and Father Giorda completed
RETROSPECT.
455
it. It is related of Father Giorda that he
was one day listening to a group of Indian
boys amusing themselves with an echo in the
mountains. One of the boys made an excla-
mation, whereupon the priest ran joyfully
back to the mission, crying : " This is one
of the happiest days of my life. _ For eleven
years I have vainly sought the right word in
Kalispel for echo, and now I have it ! " The
language looks uncouth on the printed page,
because of the multitude of consonants in
proportion to the vowels. Such words are
common as Iplpgomin (a nail), /sususfen (a cup),
and chslziltgn. Half-distinct vowel sounds
like a short u are put in between the conso-
nants. There is no r, b, d, m, f, or v in the
language. When spoken it is rather sonorous ;
at least it seemed so from the lips of Father
Van Gorp, whom I heard preach in the mis-
sion church to a picturesque congregation of
Indians. To him I am indebted for this ver-
sion of the Lord's Prayer in Kalispel :
Kae-leeu, !u 1-schichemaskat u ku-elzii, a-skuest
ku-ksgamen die] tern, ku-kl-cheltich's t'esia spuus;
a-szntels ks-kolili ie '1-stoligu, ezageil lu '1-s'chiche-
maskat. Kae-guizelilt ietelgoa lu kaes-iapezinem ;
kael-kolgoellilt lu Jtae-guilguilt, ezageil lu tkaempile
kaes-kolgoelltem lu epl guilguilt Tkaempile ; kaes-
olkshililt ta kakaeskuestem lu teie, kael-guilguillilt lu
tel teie. Komi ezageil.
Our Father, who in Heaven who dwellest, thy
name be it loved to thee; be thou the Lord of all
hearts; thy will let it be done here upon the earth,
the same as in Heaven. To us give to-day what we
need ; forgive us our debts, in the same way as we
forgive those who have debts with us ; help us not
to take (to be guilty of) sin, cause us to be freed from
sin. May it be thus.
On the whole, the Kalispel tribes afford as
good an example of progress toward civiliza-
tion as can be found in the far West among
Indians recently brought in contact with the
whites. They are lazy and dirty as a rule,
and much given to gambling and to drinking
whisky smuggled in by the half-breeds, but
they are getting on. Some already possess
considerable property in the form of cattle
and horses. Many others are industrious, but
their accumulations are devoured by their
poor relations, who bring their lodges, fam-
ilies, and dogs, and camp about the house of
a prosperous kinsman until his supplies are
gone or he violates the rules of hospitality by
driving them away. Theft is rare, monogamy
is universal, and crimes against the person
seldom occur except as the result of too
much drink. Murder is not punished by
death. The murderer compromises with the
relatives of his victim by a blood-atonement
in the form of a present of horses, and is al-
lowed to take himself off to some other tribe.
The pure-blooded Indians give less trouble
than the half-breeds, who are accused of
having the vices of both races and the virtues
of neither. This is an unjust generalization,
however, for there are numbers of sober, hon-
est people of mixed blood in the Kalispel
country. Probably it is not the amalgama-
tion of races that produces a bad result so
much as the vicious tendencies and purposes
which often lead to these unions. From the
number of light-colored faces and heads of
brown hair one sees among both adults and
children, the admixture of white blood seems
surprisingly large in view of the remoteness
of these tribes from civilized communities ;
but it must be borne in mind that Hudson's
Bay traders and French Canadian voyageurs
have intermarried with the North-western In-
dians for nearly a century.
Eugene V. Smalley.
RETROSPECT.
A dusky lichen, clinging to the knees
Of a great mountain, dark with ragged fern,
The school-house hides, and thither from the leas
And country by-ways, many foot-paths turn.
No busy town, like a gigantic bee,
Fretted the rural silence, green and warm;
From the low door the droning school could see
Their certain heritage of wood and farm.
One simple church spire cheered with acted prayer
Its small brown helper on the neighboring hill ;
And, crouched beneath it, lay the grave-yard, where
The slim brook wandered to the murmuring mill.
456 JIM'S INVESTMENTS, AND KING SOIIERMUN.
Just down the slope a slender aspen stood,
And, in its leafy hammocks, noon by noon,
We watched the clover crimson to the wood,
And sweet glade-roses blush to welcome June.
Beside the door-stone, in those days of old,
Great mountain lilies grew, and I have read
Upon their scrolls of onyx, sprayed with gold,
The records of the words our Saviour said.
We were God's small interpreters ; we knew
What the tall corn leaves talked of in their sleep;
We caught the secrets of the rain and dew,
And love them now for what we know they keep.
Ah, well ! I sought the school-house yesterday,
And found amid the ferny wilderness,
A pile of fallen timbers, warped and gray,
A heap of chimney bricks in mossy dress.
We children have grown old ; we hear the rush
Of a new generation close behind,
Yon clustering yew-trees hide the sunset's flush;
Our locks are toying with the evening wind.
Within my soul, where, many years, have met
Pride and self-love, to-day this past of mine —
A tearful Mary — brings a sweet regret
Folded in perfume to the Saviour's shrine.
Mary A. leonard.
^ . » — —
Copyright, 1884, by Samuel L. Clemens. All rights reserved.
JIM'S INVESTMENTS, AND KING SOLLERMUN.*
BY MARK TWAIN.
Jim knowed all kinds of signs. He said he " What kind of stock ? "
knowed 'most everything. I said it looked to " Why, live stock. Cattle, you know. I put
me like all the signs was about bad luck, and ten dollars in a cow. But I ain' gwyne to
so I asked him if there warn't any good-luck resk no mo' money in stock. De cow up 'n
signs. He says : died on my han's."
" Mighty few — an' dey ain' no use to a " So you lost the ten dollars."
body. What you want to know when good " No ; I didn' lose it all. I on'y los' 'bout
luck's a-comin' for? wrant to keep it off?" nine of it. I sole de hide en taller for a dol-
And he said : " Ef you's got hairy arms en a lar en ten cents."
hairy breas', it's a sign dat you's agwyne to " You had five dollars and ten cents left,
be rich. Well, dey's some use in a sign like Did you speculate any more ? "
dat, 'kase it's so fur ahead. You see, may be " Yes. You know dat one-laigged nigger
you's got to be po' a long time fust, en so you dat b'longs to ole Misto Bradish? Well, he
might git discourage' en kill yo'sef 'f you didn' sot up a bank, en say anybody dat put in a
know by de sign dat you gwyne to be rich dollar would git fo' dollars mo' at de en' er de
bymeby." year. Well, all de niggers went in, but dey
" Have you got hairy arms and a hairy didn' have much. I wuz de on'y one dat had
breast, Jim ? " much. So I stuck out for mo' dan fo' dollars,
" What's de use to ax dat question ? don' en I said 'f I didn' git it I'd start a bank my-
you see I has ? " sef. Well, o' course dat nigger want' to keep
" Well, are you rich ? " me out er de business, bekase he say dey
" No ; but I ben rich wunst, and gwyne to warn't business 'nough for two banks, so he
be rich agin. Wunst I had fo'teen dollars, but say I could put in my five dollars en he pay
I tuck to speculat'n', en got busted out." me thirty-five at de en' er de year.
" What did you speculate in, Jim ? " " So I done it. Den I reck'n'd I'd inves'
" Well, fust I tackled stock." de thirty-five dollars right off en keep things
* See "An Adventure of Huckleberry Finn : with an Account of the Famous Grangerford-Shepherdson
Feud," by Mark Twain, in The Century for December.
JIM'S INVESTMENTS, AND KING SOIIERMUN.
457
THE PRESIDENT OF THE BANK.
a-movin'. Dey wuz a nigger name' Bob, dat
had ketched a wood-flat, en his marster didn'
know it; en I bought it off' n him, en told him
to take de thirty-five dollars when de en' er
de year come ; but somebody stole de wood-
flat dat night, en nex' day de one-laigged nig-
ger say de bank's busted. So dey didn' none
uv us git no money."
" What did you do with the ten cents,
Jim ? "
u Well, I 'uz gwyne
to spen' it, but I had
a dream, en de dream
tole me to give it to a
nigger name' Balum —
Balum's Ass dey call
him, for short ; he's one
er dem chuckle-heads,
you know. But he's
lucky, dey say, en I see
I warn't lucky. De
dream say let Balum
inves' de ten cents en
he'd make a raise for
me. Well, Balum he
tuckde money, en when
he wuz in church he
hear de preacher say
dat whoever give to de
po' len' to de Lord,
en boun' to git his
money back a hund'd
times. So Balum he
tuck en give de ten cents to the po', en laid
low to see what wuz gwyne to come of it."
" Well, what did come of it, Jim ? "
" Nuffn' never come of it. I couldn' man-
age to k'leck dat money no way ; en Balum
he couldn'. I ain' gwyne to len' no mo'
money 'dout I see de security. Boun' to git
yo' money back a hund'd times, de preacher
says ! Ef I could git de ten cents back, I'd
call it squah, en be glad er de chanst."
" Well, it's all right, anyway, Jim, long as
you're going to be rich again some time or
other."
"Yes — en I's rich now, come to look at
it. I owns myse'f, en I's wuth eight hund'd
dollars. But live stock's too resky, Huck ; —
I wisht I had de eight hund'd dollars en
somebody else had de nigger."
I read considerable to Jim about kings,
and dukes, and earls, and such, and how
gaudy they dressed, and how much style they
put on, and called each other your majesty,
and your grace, and your lordship, and so
on, 'stead of mister ; and Jim's eyes bugged
out, and he was interested. He says :
" I didn't know dey was so many un um.
I haint hearn 'bout none un um, skasely, but
ole King Sollermun, onless you counts dem
kings dat's in a pack er k'yards. How much
do a king git ? "
" Get ? " I says ; " why, they get a thousand
dollars a month, if they want it; they can
have just as much as they want ; everything
belongs to them."
" Airi1 dat gay ? En what dey got to do,
Huck ? "
SOLLERMUN AND HIS WIVES.
fcft#
t<rr 11/ ,
THE STORY OF SOLLERMUN.
JIM'S INVESTMENTS, AND KING SOLLERMUN.
warn't no wise man,
nuther. He had some er
de dad-fetchedes' ways
I ever see. Does you
know 'bout dat chile dat
he 'uz gwine to chop in
two ? "
" Yes, the widow told
me all about it."
" Well, den ! Warn'
dat de beatenes' notion
in de worl' ? You jes'
take en look at it a min-
ute. Dah's de stump,
dah — dat's one er de
women; heah's you —
dat's de yuther one; I's
Sollermun ; en dish-yer
dollar bill's de chile.
Bofe un you claims it.
What does I do ? Does
I shin aroun' 'mongs' de
neighbors en fine out which un you de bill do
b'long to, en han' it over to de right one, all
safe en soun', de way dat anybody dat had
any gumption would ? No — I take en whack
de bill in two, en give haf un it to you, en de
yuther half to de yuther woman. Dat's de
way Sollermun was gwine to do wid de chile.
Now, I want to ast you : what's de use er dat
half a bill ? — can't buy nuth'n wid it. En
what use is a half a chile ? I wouldn't give a
dern for a million un um."
" But hang it, Jim, you've clean missed the
point — blame it, you've missed it a thousand
mile."
" Who ? Me ? Go 'long. Doan' talk to me
'bout yo' pints. I reck'n I knows sense when
I sees it; en dey ain' no sense in sich doin's
as dat. De 'spute warn't 'bout half a chile ;
de 'spute was 'bout a whole chile ;, en de man
dat think he kin settle a 'spute 'bout a whole
chile wid a half a chile, doan' know enough
to come in out'n de rain. Doan' talk to me
'bout Sollermun, Huck, I knows him by de
back."
" But I tell you, you don't get the point."
" Blame de pint ! I reck'n I knows what I
knows. En mine you, de real pint is down
furder — it's down deeper. It lays in de way
Sollermun was raised. You take a man dat's
got on'y one er two chillen; is dat man gwyne
to be waseful o' chillen ? No, he aint ; he
can't 'ford it. He knows how to value 'em.
But you take a man dat's got 'bout five mill-
ion chillen runnin' roun' de house, en it's
diffunt. He as soon chop a chile in two as a
cat. Dey's plenty mo'. A chile er two, mo'
er less, warn't no consekens to Sollermun,
dad fetch him ! "
"They don't do nothing! Why, how you
talk ! They just set around."
"No — is dat so ?"
" Of course it is. They just set around, ex-
cept maybe when there's a war; then they go
to the war. But other times they just lazy
around; or go hawking — just hawking and
sp — Sh ! — d' you hear a noise ? "
We skipped out and looked ; but it warn't
nothing but the flutter of a steam-boat's wheel,
away down coming around the point; so we
come back.
" Yes," says I, " and other times, when
things is dull, they fuss with the parlyment ;
and if everybody don't go just so, he whacks
their heads off. But mostly they hang round
the harem."
" Roun' de which ? "
" Harem."
" What's de harem ? "
" The place where he keep his wives. Don't
you know about the harem ? Solomon had
one; he had about a million wives."
"Why, yes, dat's so; I — I'd done forgot
it. A harem's a bo'd'n-house, I reck'n. Mos'
likely dey has rackety times in de nussery. En
I reck'n de wives quarrels considable ; en dat
'crease de racket. Yit dey say Sollermun de
wises' man dat ever live'. I doan' take no
stock in dat. Becase why ? Would a wise
man want to live in de mids' er such a
blimblammin' all de time ? No — 'deed he
wouldn't. A wise man 'ud take en bun" a
biler-factry ; en den he could shet down de
biler-factry when he want to res'."
" Well, but he was the wisest man, any-
way ; because the widow she told me so, her
own self."
" I doan k'yer what de widder say, he
AN AUTUMN MEDITATION.
As the long day of cloud, and storm, and sun
Declines into the dark and silent night,
So passed the old man's life from human gaze;
But not till sunset, full of lovely light
And color, that the day might not reveal,
Bathed in soft gloom the landscape. Thus, kind Heaven !
Let me, too, die when Autumn holds the year, —
Serene, with tender hues and bracing airs, —
And near me those I love ; with no black thoughts
Nor dread of what may come. Yea, when I die,
Let me not miss from nature the cool rush
Of northern winds ; let Autumn sunset skies
Be golden ; let the cold, clear blue of night
Whiten with stars as now. Then shall I fade
From life to life; pass, on the year's full tide,
Into the swell and vast of life's great sea
Beyond this narrow world. For Autumn days
To me not melancholy are, but full
Of joy, and hope mysterious and high,
And with strange promise rife. Thus, it meseems,
Not failing is the year, but gathering fire,
Even as the cold increases.
Grows a weed
More richly here beside our mellow seas
That is the autumn's harbinger and pride.
When fades the cardinal-flower, whose heart-red bloom
Glows like a living coal upon the green
Of the midsummer meadows, — then how bright,
How deepening bright, like mounting flame, doth burn
The golden-rod upon a thousand hills !
This is the Autumn's flower, and to my soul
A token fresh of beauty and of life
And life's supreme delight.
When I am gone
Something of me I would might subtly pass
Into these flowers twain of all the year :
So might my spirit send a sudden stir
Into the hearts of those who love these hills,
These woods, these waves, and meadows by the sea.
£. W. Gilder.
TOPICS OF THE TIME.
The Degradation of Politics.
The campaign which has recently closed has been
exceptional in many ways — chiefly because of the
damage which it has wrought upon public morals.
The nation cannot for so many months resolve itself
into a continental school for scandal without suffering
untold injuries, and generations will pass before the
harvests will all be gathered from the seeds of cor-
ruption sown in this campaign.
Not only have innocent minds been polluted by the
vile stories kept in circulation, and honest consciences
perverted by the specious reasonings about the laws
of honor and honesty, the amount of trickery and false-
hood employed in the conduct of this canvass by news-
papers and public speakers seems to us altogether un-
precedented. The memory that recalls with vividness
nine or ten presidential elections will not report any
such wide-spread deceit and duplicity as that which has
overspread the nation during the last few months.
Truth is not, indeed, the main quest of the average
political campaigner. To him politics is war, and vic-
tory is the chief end. He will tell any truth that will
injure his antagonists or favor his own cause; he will
conceal any truth that helps his foes or hurts his allies.
But this species of political warfare has this year been
worse than usual.
The campaign has been notable not only for its
perversion of the truth, but for its comparative disuse
of sober and earnest discussion. The chief dependence
has not been upon argument, but upon parades and
what are called "demonstrations." It is true that
processions and spectacular devices have long been,
resorted to in this country ; in the great cam-
paigns of 1840 and 1844 they were employed to a con-
siderable extent, but they were not the main reliance.
The parade took place in the early part of the day,
and in the afternoon and evening the multitudes gath-
ered to listen to great speeches, to hear careful and
masterly discussions of the leading questions of state.
There was misrepresentation and abuse then — no
lack of it; but there was, at any rate, an apparent
recognition of the fact that the voters were intelligent
beings, and an evident assumption that it was more
important to convince their minds than to stun their
ears or dazzle their eyes. So it was in war time, and
in the days just before the war : the appeal to the
intelligence of voters was far more emphatic than it is
to-day.
The great political meetings this year have been
mainly matters of torches and bands and banners,
and red light and Roman candles ; the discussion has
been pushed off toward the midnight hours, when ev-
erybody was tired out, and nearly everybody had gone
to bed; and the daily papers, faithfully reporting the
monster assemblages, have given us three columns de-
scribing the sights that were to be seen, when they
have given us one column telling us of the things that
were said. It is to this that campaigning in these lat-
ter days has degenerated, and the sign is not good.
Such a method is essentially boyish, if not barbaric.
It expresses an estimate of the popular intelligence
which is not, let us hope, a just estimate. The forces on
which the parties seem chiefly to depend are physical
forces ; noise, parade, spectacles, " demonstrations,"
strike the physical senses, and do not appeal to the
reason. Doubtless there are reasoning beings in these
caparisoned companies ; but one would say before-
hand that the man who consents to bedeck himself
with tinsel and trumpery, and goes marching night
after night to show his cheap regalia, is not likely to
be a very profound student of political questions.
If the time which has been spent during the last three
months in devising gaudy uniforms, and beating
drums, and carrying kerosene torches, had been partly
devoted to some serious inquiry into the questions at
issue between the two parties, — or perhaps to the pre-
liminary inquiry whether there are any questions at
issue between the two parties, — the country would
have been in far better condition to-day.
To know that elections are carried chiefly by such
methods is humiliating to every man who takes the
trouble to think about the welfare of the Republic.
It is a sign of that "era of small parties " of which
Tocqueville so wisely speaks, when the greater issues
of wise and righteous administration are lost sight of
in the scramble for place and power. The govern-
ment of this country is a great trust ; it can be admin-
istered only by serious and intelligent men — by men
who have had a different kind of training from that
which is gained in firing sky-rockets and leading torch-
light processions.
We do not wish to be understood as condemning
all parades alike. There were genuine and, we believe,
sincere and useful " demonstrations " of this kind
during the past campaign ; but these were not the
processions gotten up by the ordinary political man-
agers, but the spontaneous expression of deep and
strong conviction by business men and other citizens
who rarely take part in such affairs, and who did not
think it necessary to deck themselves for the occa-
sion in unusual and ridiculous attire.
Evidences are not wanting of a revolt in the minds
of the sober people against the mendacity and the
buffoonery of current politics. Many are saying that
it is time to put aside the arts of the assassin and the
pettifogger and the mountebank, and to make appeal
to the intelligence and judgment of the people. The
presidential campaign, as at present organized and
conducted, inflicts upon the material interests of the
nation no small damage, and upon its morals an in-
jury from which it does not recover in four years. It
is an urgent question whether it is possible to res-
cue our presidential politics from brutal and sensa-
tional practices, and make the quadrennial contest —
if it must come so often — an occasion of thorough
and earnest discussion of political principles ; a time
when the whole people shall receive, in candid and
TOPICS OF THE TIME.
461
fair debate, some sound political education ; a specta-
cle in which the reason and conscience of the people
shall be as evidently exalted and honored as they now
are thrust down and contemned. It is gratifying to
note that a reaction has taken place, even among po-
litical managers, against the spectacular character of the
late canvass, and that they are beginning to appreci-
ate the value of solid argument and sensible discussion.
The Newspaper and the Organ.
The recent quadrennial political upheaval must have
suggested to many close observers that, in the near
future, the newspaper, which has grown to be a daily
necessity to half the American people, must be di-
vorced from the low work of partisan politics. The
confusion of the duties of the partisan organ with those
of the newspaper is a survival, not of the fittest, but
of the least fit. An organ cannot consistently with its
duties as an organ be at the same time a reliable news-
paper, such as men want who wish to keep abreast of
the times and informed on current events. There are
extremely few prominent newspapers in this country
which, during the recent campaign, published the
political news fairly. In nearly every newspaper office
— whether orders to that effect were given or the mat-
ter rested upon a mere tacit understanding does not
matter — news unfavorable to the candidate espoused
by the paper was either delayed, or suppressed alto-
gether when it could safely be done, or " doctored "
when its suppression was deemed inexpedient. This
is not mere idle assertion. It is a fact to which any
honest newspaper worker must reluctantly bear wit-
ness, and of which the observation of any intelligent
and unbiased man, though unfamiliar with journal-
istic usages and traditions, must satisfy him. Skillful
correspondents were sent out by the " great dailies " to
write up the preliminary struggles in " the October
States," and to " ascertain the drift of public senti-
ment" in certain localities. The mission, as a rule,
was a farce. The men were not sent to represent
facts as they found them, but to select, if not to man-
ufacture, facts ; in other words, to conceal and deceive
" for the good of the cause. " And while, with the inno-
cent, the efforts of one set of falsifiers counterbal-
anced those of the other set, with wise men very little
effect was produced either way.
The task of supporting a party right or wrong,
blind to its mistakes, lenient to its faults, oblivious of
its abuse of power, or its dishonest and disingenuous
efforts to obtain power, is the congenial work of the or-
gan ; but it is beneath the dignity of the newspaper.
It is the office of the newspaper primarily to collect
and publish the news, including, of course, political
news, with reasonable accuracy and perfect fairness.
To this may be added the editorial, critical, and
literary contributions which form such valuable and
interesting features of the best modern newspapers.
But the value of a journal built upon this model
is almost entirely destroyed when, in addition to
its legitimate work, it undertakes that of the organ.
The more of an organ it becomes, — the more com-
plete the satisfaction it gives to the politicians who rely
upon it for support, — the more unstable, unreliable,
and distasteful does it become to fair-minded and dis-
criminating readers. As matters go, the best a man
desirous of reasonably accurate information on polit-
ical matters can do is to select two newspapers of
opposite political predilections and about an equal
degree of subserviency to partisan exigencies, read
both, and judge for himself. This course is nec-
essary not only in matters of opinion, but in matters
of fact, where there should be no room for misrepre-
sentation. The method is a clumsy one, and requires
more time than the average citizen cares to devote to
political reading.
If, besides the newspapers, there must be partisan
organs, these ought to be distinct and separate in
their field of operations — as distinct as the newspaper
and the monthly magazine now are. Absolute inde-
pendence of partisan trammels in its news pages,
whatever may be the bias of its editorial columns,
should be the rule of every newspaper worthy of the
name. The organ need not be more untruthful than the
partisan newspapers are now. It is to be hoped that it
would not. But at least the onerous task of lying,
misrepresenting and traducing characters and motives
could be put upon the politicians who manage the
other departments of political work not dissimilar to
this. The frequent appearance during heated contests
of ephemeral campaign dailies, run directly by the
campaign committees, shows that the politicians will
be ready to take up this work as soon as the news-
papers will be ready to lay it down. The division of
labor here pleaded for would render it no longer nec-
essary for great journals, when the quadrennial mad-
ness is upon them, to publish barefaced falsehoods in
their news pages, and to permit a distinct lowering
of the tone of their editorial views for partisan ends.
There is much in the history and present attitude of
both of the leading political parties which honest ad-
herents cannot justify, and they will not always submit
to seeing newspapers, so called, complacently praising
good and bad alike.
The work of the organs and the newspapers thus
separated, the former would naturally be published at
Washington, Albany, Harrisburg, Ti-enton, and other
centers of political interest, while the newspapers
would remain in New York, Boston, Philadelphia,
and the other great centers of population. The intel-
ligent reader and voter might like both an organ and
a newspaper to consult, just as he might at table like
both soup and fish ; but as he does not want his soup
and fish in the same dish, he will prefer his organ and
his newspaper to be entirely distinct and different en-
terprises. Each is well enough in its way, but their
ways are not the same, and cannot be made so.
There is another view of the subject leading to the
same conclusion. A newspaper which pretends to be
a true newspaper is morally bound to give the news ;
and failing to give the news, by the withholding or the
falsification of known facts, it is in the position of a
grocer who puts sand in his sugar and thereby cheats
and injures his customers. There is no reason why
all newspapers should not do as did one, at least,
which happened to come under our observation during
the last campaign. Its editorial comments were vig-
orous and decided. There was no doubt among its
readers as to the position of its editors on every subject
under discussion. But the news columns, so far as we
could tell, omitted no current information whatever —
no matter what effect the publication of the news
462
OPEN LETTERS.
might be supposed to have one way or the other. The
meetings of each and every party and political group
were reported, apparently, with equal fullness and
fairness. We do not mean to say that this newspaper
was conducted on the ideal plan, or that it was the only
one that tried to act fairly by its readers during the
campaign ; but its conduct suggests what might be
done in this direction, and what we believe will one
day be done by every " daily " which calls itself a
newspaper and not a mere organ.
A Grave Responsibility.
Multitudes of good men deplore the result of
the recent general election, but those who approve
take somewhat the same view of the situation as
was here expressed, in January, 1883, with regard
to the State elections of the previous autumn. (l That
the great political reaction of 1882 had no mere
partisan significance," we then said, "no one has
been more quick to see than the gentleman who
has been elected to the Governorship of New York
by a vote unprecedented, we believe, in American
politics. On the very night of the election, Mr. Cleve-
land is reported to have said that the revolution meant
not so much the turning of public sentiment to the
Democratic party as it did dissatisfaction with the Re-
publican party, ' The change,' he added, ' means re-
form and good government.' "
We went on to say that " if Mr. Cleveland and his
party throughout the country live up to this pro-
gramme of ' reform and good government,' they will
have a long hold of power ; for the revolution just ac-
complished . . . had this programme for its main
object. . . . The people demand ' reform and good
government,' and if they cannot get these from one
side, they will get them from another ; and if they
cannot get tJiem from either of the two great parties
which now divide the suffrages of the nation, they will
dismiss them both without remorse, as in past epochs, and
will create another party to do the work. But whether
or no we have a new party, now is the time for new
men. Power will not be willingly left in the hands of
thrifty renegades to the cause of ' reform and good
government.' In other words, the acceptable leaders
of the next ten years will not be men whose conver-
sion to ' civil-service reform ' has been by earth-
quake."
The fact that the " Democratic victory " of 1884 was
not merely a Democratic victory is too well understood
to require discussion here. What happened in the
election was exactly what politicians should have
known was likely to happen, and what many outside
of politics believed would happen. This belief was
here definitely expressed as follows in March, 1884,
long before either party had nominated a candidate :
" We venture, thus early, two predictions : one is, that
the independent voter will be found on the side of the
candidate whose past life gives the best guarantee that
he is in sympathy with the convictions and aims of
the independent voter ; and the other is, that the candi-
date supported by the independent voter will be the
next President of the United States."
Now the " independent voter," in supporting, whether
wisely or unwisely, the candidate of his choice, has
contributed to the placing of the executive power in
the hands of a party which has hitherto been regarded
by Republicans as unlikely to do its duty by the negro.
If the responsibility of the " independent voter " is
great, how much greater that of the party which di-
rectly assumes the reins of government ! Will or will
not the better and safer counsels of that party prevail
in matters of finance, and in all those questions of re-
form on which good citizens of every political com-
plexion are heartily united ? Above all, what will be
the attitude of the Democrats of the South with re-
gard to the political rights of the freedmen ? But
responsibility means also opportunity, and every well-
wisher of his country will sincerely hope that not only
the new Administration, but its allies of the South, will
realize the greatness of the opportunity now offered to
them. There are, indeed, many indications that this op-
portunity will not be neglected, and that the old lines
of color, and of geography also, are soon (though none
too soon) to fade from sight in American politics.
The paper by Mr. Cable in the present number of
The Century comes with peculiar timeliness at this
moment ; and Mr. Cable has an especial right to be
heard by Southern men in regard to the freedmen, for
he is not only a Southerner by birth, but one who
took part against the North in the great conflict of arms.
OPEN LETTERS.
The Trouble with the Stage.
Critics have been bewailing the degradation of the
stage for many a long year, and have exhibited great
ingenuity in attempting to find a satisfactory explana-
tion of it. Most of them, however, have contrived to
overlook the prime source of the evils of which they
complain, probably because they have generally dealt
with the question as if some complicated social prob-
lem were involved, instead of applying to it the prin-
ciples of common sense and the lessons taught by
every-day experience. Theatrical art, like every other
art, business, or profession, is exposed, of course, to
many diverse influences, and has its periods of im-
provement and deterioration, which are not often
difficult of explanation, and have been discussed from
time immemorial with great frequency, some erudition,
and much superfluous rhetoric. All these varying and
temporary conditions are entirely outside the modest
limits of the present article, which only proposes to
deal with the present in a strictly practical way, by
pointing out the legitimate deduction from certain no-
torious facts.
This deduction is simply that the chief cause of the
miserable humiliation of the contemporaneous stage
must be sought in the ridiculous incompetency of the
OPEN LETTERS.
463
vast majority of the men who control the theaters —
the managerial autocrats who select plays and com-
panies, and whose wills are omnipotent to decide the
casting of a tragedy or the pay of a scrub- woman. In
every other walk of life — in theory at least — men can-
not dodge their own responsibilities. Is the merchant
who cheats his patrons absolved because there are
fools enough to make swindling profitable? Do the
critics spare the dauber because his smudges find
purchasers ? Is the author who prostitutes his art to
vile and vulgar uses for the sake of gain admitted to
the temple of Fame on the score of his pecuniary suc-
cess ? What is the general estimate of the bellowing
pulpit charlatan who trades on public ignorance to
win notoriety and a fat purse ; of legislators who
abuse their powers ; of editors who betray their
trusts? Is there any art, profession, or business in
which public credulity, ignorance, or folly is accepted
as a valid excuse for non-performance of duty ? Why,
then, in the name of ordinary intelligence, should
an exception be made in favor of the men whose
opportunities for good or evil are so vast, whose
legal restrictions are so few, and whose prizes are
so rich ?
Let a man of inquiring mind broach this topic in a
conclave of managers, and he will be stunned as by a
chorus of parrots. We responsible ! We accountable
for the depravity of public taste ! Angels and minis-
ters of grace, defend us ! What new and monstrous
form of imbecility is this ? Do you not know that we
must conduct our theaters, as a tradesman conducts
his shop, on plain business principles ; that we must
furnish the wares which people will pay for or go into
bankruptcy ? Has it not been proved over and over
again that Shakspere spells ruin, and that all legitimate
drama, whether tragedy or comedy, empties theaters
and treasuries more surely than the plague? What
power have we to compel the populace to forswear
theatrical sack and sugar, and seek more wholesome
diet ? If they demand blood and thunder, we get out
our red paint and sheet-iron, and hire a chemist to
furnish us with real lightning; if melodrama is the
favorite dissipation, we give them all the horrors, me-
chanical and moral, which can be compressed into five
acts ; and if comedy is the rage, we can do no Jess
than furnish it, even if we have to reenforce our " art-
ists " with dogs and babies.
On this subject the dullest man of a dull class will
wax eloquent, urging the old and stupid plea with so
candid an air that it is impossible to doubt his absolute
belief in it. And yet no more false or vicious theory
was ever advanced. As a matter of fact, the public,
primarily, is as little able to prescribe the policy of
the stage as it is to ordain what medicines it shall
swallow, what customs it will adopt, or what bonnets
it will wear. In none of these cases does it exercise
forethought or authority. Undoubtedly it has the
capacity of choice between the different articles sub-
mitted to its consideration, but the quality of the arti-
cles themselves depends upon the fertility of the orig-
inal inventors. The angler who is most cunning in
his selection of flies catches the most fish — that is all.
This is an axiom which will scarcely be disputed, and
to it may be added another, that, as a general rule,
persons who have money to spend will go where they
can get the best bargains.
Although amid the vast amount of theatrical pro-
duction during the last decade the mass of rubbish
and corruption is overwhelmingly in excess of the
material to which any kind of literary or dramatic
value can be ascribed, there exists sufficient ground
for the assertion that a good play well acted is certain
of liberal support. If space permitted, it would be easy
enough to specify a dozen plays by way of example ;
but it is needless to make a catalogue, as the rarity
of even tolerable plays keeps their memory green in
the minds of all true lovers of the theater. The term
"good plays " is not intended to be unreasonably ex-
clusive, but is meant to include all pieces which have
a valid excuse for their presentation, such as honesty
of purpose, the illustration of some particular phase
of social life, artistic construction, analysis of character,
or originality of invention, to say nothing of the loftier
literary or dramatic qualities which can be exacted
only from genius itself, the rarest of human gifts. The
classification, unfortunately, may be made broad and
liberal without incurring any danger of bewilderment
on account of the multitude of precious works to be
enumerated. For the present argument the financial
success of half a dozen meritorious theatrical repre-
sentations is all that is necessary, and the most con-
firmed pessimist will admit readily that this condition
has been fulfilled. The objection that good plays have
failed occasionally, or even frequently, is nothing to
the point unless it can be shown that they were prop-
erly performed. The vile treatment of the noblest
masterpieces by the modern manager is too notorious
to be worthy of an instant's discussion. Ah, ha!
cries the manager, with fine scorn, how about the
success of the pieces which you, in your infinite wis-
dom, call " rubbish and corruption " ? Why does
your innocent public, which has no vote in the board
of theatrical trustees, and is obliged to be content with
what the arbiters of theatrical fashion prescribe for it
— why does it turn its back on intelligent effort, and
make my fortune and the speculator's when I treat it
to babies and dogs ? Do I supply better actors for my
puppy drama than I do for my tragedy ? Do I expend
more money for scenery or show better taste in it ?
Are the supernumeraries more intelligent ? Is the
language more decent ? Is the moral more valuable,
or is there any moral or lesson or information in it
whatever ?
No. A thousand times no. But herein lies the
whole gist of the matter. The puppy-dog drama is
cheap and mean and ignorant. The whole scope of it
lies well within the limits of the ordinary managerial
and histrionic understanding. It calls for no artistic
quality of the higher sort. The qualifications for it are
a little personal eccentricity, a certain degree of me-
chanical proficiency, a good deal of bustle, a large
share of impudence, and a strong spice of vulgarity.
These characteristics are as common as dirt, and the
possessors of them are as plentiful as sand upon the
sea-shore. Thus it comes to pass that worthless plays
— the word must be employed for lack of another —
are given more satisfactorily than plays which demand
a higher form of executive ability, and the public gives
them the preference because it would rather laugh un-
restrainedly at natural idiocy than undergo the bore-
dom of a dull travesty of serious emotions. In other
words, when it goes to see what is commonly called
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a farcical comedy, it has a definite idea of the nature
of the entertainment to be provided. If it cannot laugh
with the players, it can at least laugh at them, and
laughter, on any provocation, is preferable to the tor-
ture of seeing a score of incapables struggling with a
task immeasurably beyond their reach.
It would be the height of unreason to expect man-
agers to implant new tastes and instincts in mankind,
but they can assuredly modify, foster, or improve
those which already exist, and are under a moral ob-
ligation to labor to this end. If they deny their power
or responsibility in this direction, they necessarily
abandon the solitary plea which distinguishes them
from a circus man or an alderman. If the stage is in-
capable of exercising any salutary influence as an edu-
cator ; if it cannot contribute to the cultivation of the
literary sense, or the admiration of what is noble or
pure ; if it cannot quicken imagination, give fire to
ambition, or heighten appreciation of what is beautiful
in form or color ; if it has no historical, moral, or in-
tellectual value, let it be thrust ignominiously out of
all companionship with the arts, and branded as a
worthless and pernicious impostor. But the evil lies not
in the institution, but in the men who degrade it. The
true sphere of the stage is indicated by the genius of the
men who have written for it and about it, of the men
who have acted upon it, and the men who have patron-
ized it. Its capacity for good is undeveloped, because the
men who control it, and most of the players who live by
it, are equally unable to comprehend or supply the re-
quirements demanded by the art which they profess. In
literature, sculpture, painting, the pulpit, or the law,
special training, special qualifications, are thought to
be necessary to success. How is it with the ordinary
manager or actor of the present day ? Let us think for
a moment what the equipment of a good actor, that is
to say, a man fit for a responsible position in a good
stock company, ought to be. To play in comedy, he
ought to know how to comport himself like a member
of civilized society ; his enunciation and pronunciation
of his mother tongue ought to be refined and correct ;
he ought to know how to walk, how to bow, how to
enter a room and leave it, how to be polite without
servility or affectation, how to convey an impression
of ease without swagger or self-assertion. These
things are elemental, the very A B C of the society
primer, and yet how few of our young "comedians,"
as they are called, evince the slightest acquaintance
with them. How many of them are able to stand
even the simple test of a dress-coat ? When a severer
draft is made upon their accomplishments, when, for
instance, they are asked to utter a word or two of
French or any other foreign language, or to mention
some name famous in ancient or mediaeval history,
the result demonstrates only too plainly the narrow
limits of their learning. What chance is there for an
art whose illustration is intrusted to dolts such as
these ?
Or, suppose that our actor has to bear his part in a
tragedy. Is it hypercritical to wish that he should
have some slight acquaintance with the laws of meter
and rhythm in the delivery of blank verse, or exhibit
occasionally some perception of the significance of
gesture ? Would it not be well if the impersonators
of noble Greeks and Romans knew something about
the garb and manners of those ancient races ; if they
could, for instance, avoid the embarrassment entailed
by a search for the trousers pockets which do not exist,
and many other similar blunders arising from total
and helpless ignorance ? But, says the reader, these
are the baldest and stalest platitudes ! Possibly they
are. But whose fault is that ? The facts are notori-
ous and cannot be ignored. Exaggeration in dealing
with this subject is almost impossible. The actors of
to-day, as a class, are ridiculously unfit for the posi-
tions which they occupy. A lawyer who knows noth-
ing of law, an artist whose mind is a blank with regard
to color or perspective, a clergyman who has *read no
theology, or a compositor who has never handled type,
is an inconceivable anomaly ; and yet actors, who in
their ideal perfection are required to portray the man-
ners, emotions, and physical and mental peculiarities
of men and women of all climes and customs and
ages, are, for the most part, persons without any special
natural qualification for their calling, without learning,
without studiousness, and without taste.
There are, of course, honorable exceptions, or the
stage, as a regular institution, would have vanished
long ago. There are men and women who dignify the
profession by their scholarly acquirements and spot-
less personal character. Some of the older players —
not always those whose names are printed in the larg-
est letters — are profoundly versed not only in theat-
rical knowledge, but in literature and art generally.
There are younger actors, too, of natural ability and
refinement, who have adopted the stage, not because
it offers the possibility of a livelihood to drones and
profligates to whom all other kinds of employment are
refused, but for the sake of the art itself, and with
the honorable determination to win fame by patient
and persevering merit. These are the men who will
in the future labor for the regeneration of the stage,
and who now prevent it from sinking into a deeper
slough of degradation and disrepute ; but they are as
yet an insignificant minority. If any one wishes to
convince himself of the intellectual rank of the bulk
of the body of actors, — ninety per cent., — let him visit
the places where they congregate, listen to their con-
versation, and observe their manners, and he will no
longer wonder why dramatic art languishes. In a
company constructed of material such as this, a man
endowed with the ordinary amount of culture and in-
telligence which would enable him to occupy a re-
spectable position in one of the learned professions —
and not much is wanted for that — shines with aston-
ishing brilliancy in contrast with the surrounding dull-
ness. So soon as he meets with a character which
happens to agree with his own personal peculiarities,
and which he can therefore play satisfactorily without
acting at all, his goal is attained. From that moment
he becomes a star of greater or less magnitude, and,
having surrounded himself with actors of incredible
badness as an effective background for his own two-
penny talent, he thenceforward revolves around a
fixed orbit, year after year, endlessly repeating the
one wretched performance, changing the name now
and then to beguile the innocent. Even with stars
of the first class the case is not much different. Some
of them, indeed, present masterpieces — but in what
a fashion ! It is customary to compare these luminaries
of the stage to whales among minnows. Sharks would
be a more striking and apter simile. Their voracity is
OPEN LETTERS.
465
one of the greatest barriers to the progress of the stage.
They loudly lament the decay of the legitimate drama,
the while they are doing their best to burke it. They
demand for their services sums so exorbitant that the
manager can only make a profit by reducing all other
expenses almost to the point of zero. He has no money
for competent actors, or decent scenery, or anything
else. The star has taken it all to console himself for
the depravity of the public taste which rejects a mon-
ologue when it wants a play. Other stars, whose love
for art is more practical, provide themselves with a
competent company and adequate scenery, rightly ar-
guing that, even if their immediate profits are smaller,
their repute with the public will stand higher and
their fame be more lasting. Diamonds, be they ever
so bright, are never dimmed by proper setting.
The ills wrought by the star and combination system
are too evident to need discussion or enumeration.
The responsibility for them rests mainly upon the man-
agers, who, with their wonted obtuseness and lack of
sagacity, have combined almost unanimously to support
a policy which will surely work their own discomfiture.
They have sown the wind, and some of them are begin-
ning to feel the approach of the whirlwind already.
Without their cooperation, the star system, which
threatens to abolish the manager altogether, could
never have been organized, for the wandering stars
would not have had any theaters to play in. It is
perhaps not too much to say that the managers are
practically responsible for the existence of the stars
themselves, for nothing but incapable management
could enable a few men of third- or fourth-rate capac-
ity to swell and fatten at the expense of the rest of the
profession. Of all the men and women whose names
head the list of traveling theatrical organizations to-
day, there are not twelve, perhaps not more than six,
whose ability is in the slightest degree remarkable,
or whose removal would be of any consequence. Why
does the public support them ? Because it can get
nothing better, and must have relaxation. How did
incompetent actors advance to the dignities and profits
of stardom ? Through mean, ignorant, and spiritless
management, which permitted the rank and file of the
profession to sink to its present debased level.
There have been great managers in the past — Charles
Kean, Macready, Phelps, and many others less famil-
iar ; and there are some able managers in this country,
but only two or three of them are in actual service.
Most of them have been forced into retirement by the
folly of their associates, or have quietly stepped aside,
content to wait for the time when the present rotten
system will collapse and legitimate methods come
again into vogue. It will not be long before some of the
hot-headed youngsters who are now rushing to the
front find the end of their tether. They are no more
entitled to the name of manager than the men whom
they manoeuvre to that of actor. What would any one
imagine to be the necessary attributes of the ideal
manager ? He ought certainly to be a man of brains
and good taste ; he ought to know something of the
history of the stage from its inception ; he ought to be
well read in dramatic literature, ancient and modern ;
he ought, at least, to know where to look for author-
ities on questions of architecture, decoration, or cos-
tume ; his literary sense ought to be cultivated suffi-
ciently to enable him to discern the true quality of
Vol. XXIX.— 46.
the dialogue in plays submitted to him ; while his
judgment ought to be almost infallible in distinguish-
ing between what is actually dramatic and what is
only imitation. He ought to be, moreover, a man of
good address, with a character strong enough to insure
him the respect of his company and subordinates, and
with sufficient executive ability to keep the general
direction of everything in his own hands without as-
suming the overwhelming burden of minor detail.
How many of our present theatrical managers fulfill all
or any of these conditions ? How many of them would
be welcome in a drawing-room ? How many of them
can boast of any cultivation in any direction whatever ?
It would be easy enough to specify managers whose
names are synonyms for brutal ignorance, coarseness,,
and immorality, but nothing is to be gained by it, as
the names are well known, especially to "the profession
which they adorn." As for the men who make dates
and lay out routes, contracting to deliver a certain
company at a particular spot on a certain day which
is decided months beforehand, they are not managers
at all, but parasites, of whom, perhaps, we may some
day be joyfully ridden. They contribute, as parasites
always do, to the general decay of the object preyed
upon, but are altogether too insignificant for present
consideration. Some of them venture to hire com-
panies of their own now and then, in which case they
become speculators — a name which in itself suggests
a theatrical pest. The really capable managers can be
counted on the fingers, and, being in so small a mi-
nority, have no power to effect reformation ; and so
the theater and all its interests are temporarily at the
mercy of men perfectly incapable of any real sym-
pathy with it.
It seems, then, clear enough that the only way to
reform the stage is to reform the managers, and the
only question is how to do it. There are indications
that the solution of the problem has already been be-
gun. The appearance of Mr. Irving in this country
is likely to prove of incalculable benefit. He has ex-
ploded for all time the nonsensical notion that the
public cannot appreciate the best work. His com-
pany, for all-round excellence and versatility, is prob-
ably the best ever seen here, and its existence dem-
onstrates beyond cavil the possibility of keeping a
good company together and making money at the
same time. What Mr. Irving has done, American
managers can do — not the pert and empty agents of
to-day, of course, but their successors. And, what is
more, the public, having learned what good acting
and good management are, will be content with noth-
ing less, and will soon be taking the question of stage
reform into its own hands. To meet the higher stand-
ard of taste established by Mr. Irving and man-
agers of his stamp, it will be necessary to form
stock companies as of old, and many of the stars of
to-day will return to their proper places. As soon as
good stock companies are established at the princi-
pal theaters, the occupation of the wandering star is
gone. He will make much less money, doubtless, but
he will be paid quite as much as he deserves ; and
men of far greater capacity, but less favored by for-
tune hitherto, will be paid according to their deserts.
As for the good plays which are in so much request.,
they will make their appearance when there is a de-
mand for them. The only thing to do with a good
466
OPEN LETTERS.
play nowadays is to lock it up. The impending ref-
ormation will not be wrought in a day, nor a year,
but there is no lack of signs of a coming change for
the better. The managers who read them aright will
reap great advantage ; the managers who neglect them
will admit, when the day of grace is past, that pub-
lic taste can be improved a great deal more quickly
than they believed to be possible.
J. Kanken Totvse.
Natural Gas Wells.
Natural gas wells have been common in the oil
country for years. Their use and value have not been
understood by the public until within a short time
past. The people are now surprised to learn what a
valuable fuel they have so long neglected, and with
that reckless energy characteristic of the country are
sinking wells in every direction. The district of nat-
ural gas covers a much greater area than that of oil. In
general, it may be said to include a section of country
extending from western New York, through Pennsyl-
vania into West Virginia and Ohio and lying nearly
parallel to the Alleghany mountains. The width of
this section varies considerably. The boundary lines
are very irregular, and are being rapidly extended
by the finding of new wells. While the outlines inclose
a large territory, gas is found in only a small portion
of it, and then in spots and narrow belts or lines.
When a company concludes to drill for gas, the first
and most important thing is locating the well. As
was the case with oil, there are a number of theories
concerning the formation of natural gas, and the de-
posit of the sand-rock in which it is obtained. In this
the " practical man," having more faith in luck than
science, does not agree with the geologist. The only
satisfactory explanation of the formation of the gas is
that it is produced by the decomposition of vegetable
matter deposited in the carboniferous age. Geologists
say the gas district seems to be a vast caldron filled
with deeply buried carbonaceous matter, subjected to
great heat, and therefore constantly generating gas,
which has been condensing for ages in the strata where
it is found. They believe the strata to be general forma-
tions in this section, and doubt whether a well was
ever put down without finding some gas, or at least
where it might not have been found had the well been
drilled to a proper depth. The experience of the
"practical man" strengthens his belief in the belt
theory. The degree of uncertainty accompanying its
development has a strong fascination to his venture-
some spirit ; and the term " gas line " has now all the
attractions of the " oil belt " of former days.
The general course of the oil districts is north-east,
on what is known as the forty-fifth degree line. Profit-
ing by this knowledge, the gas prospector ran lines
from old " wild-cat " wells, where gas had been found,
out of the oil country, and discovered that they marked
the same general direction.
In locating a well, a survey is usually made, and
the well is placed as near to the line as possible. Two
such lines nearly parallel, running from Washington
county, Pa., through the city of Pittsburgh, up the
Alleghany valley, on either side as far as Kittanning,
and on to the upper oil regions, are tolerably well
defined. At several points a number of good wells are
found upon them, and a larger number of dry holes
upon either side and between them. The drill has
demonstrated the fact that the oil- and gas-bearing
rock is deposited at intervals only, even on well-de-
fined belts. The same is true of these lines, as good
wells and dry holes are found upon them within a
short distance of each other. So that locating a gas
well is still very much a matter of chance.
The process and tools used in drilling for gas are
the same as used in boring for oil. The gas-bear-
ing strata are soft, pebbly sandstones, which dip to-
ward the south. At Kittanning the wells are eight
hundred feet deep; at Pittsburgh, forty-four miles south,
they are sixteen hundred feet deep. In good terri-
tory, when the rock is perforated, the gas rushes out
with great force. Instances are reported where this
force was sufficient to throw the drilling tools out of
the well. The latest case of the kind was the West-
inghouse well, at the East End, Pittsburgh. This well
was plugged for three days, shortly after gas was
struck. When the plug was drilled out, the tremen-
dous force of the gas threw the ponderous tools,
weighing over three thousand pounds, out of the hole
and fully three hundred feet into the air. This pressure
varies. With the well shut off, it has been known to
reach four hundred and fifty pounds to the square inch.
The quality of the gas is not the same in the different
wells. In some it is light and dry, in others it is wet
and heavy. Most wells throw out a quantity of salt
water, which contains a heavy precipitate that some-
times clogs the hole. To prevent this, the wells are
entirely closed a few minutes each day, until a strong
pressure is procured, when it is suddenly opened.
The rush of the liberated gas through a short escape-
pipe carries the precipitated matter with it, and the
wells by this means are kept open. Near to the well
the gas goes through a strong iron tank. The object
of this is to catch the water-drip from the well, and
prevent its passing into the distributing pipes, where
it would freeze in the winter time. The objections to
the use of natural gas in dwellings are the high press-
ure on the pipes, and consequent danger of leaks and
explosions, and the fluctuations of the pressure. (It is
well established that the pressure in the well is weaker
in the morning and stronger in the afternoon. A
general fluctuation is also noticed, simultaneous with
the changes of the moon.) These objections are over-
come by the use of automatic valves, which reduce the
pressure and regulate the flow of gas. From these
valves the gas is distributed through the town in the
same manner as the illuminating gas, excepting that
a high-pressure line is run to mills and factories.
The pressure for dwellings is about one pound, for
boilers and furnaces from thirty to forty pounds.
At Kittanning, Pa., natural gas is used almost ex-
clusively for heating purposes — in stoves, heaters,
open grates, under steam-boilers, in the foundries, and
in the puddling furnaces at the iron works. It is also
used for lighting the streets. The method giving the
best results consumes about twelve parts of air to one
of gas. This is done by means of an air-globe placed
at the end of the burner, which is usually a piece of
iron pipe, closed at the further end and perforated
with rows of small holes. The globe has inlets for
the air, and by the action of the gas through it the
air is drawn into the burner and mixes with the gas
OPEN LETTERS.
467
at the point of ignition. If the air is not used, the
flame makes a great deal of smoke and soot. By con-
suming the air, perfect combustion is obtained, and a
clean fire of intense heat is the result. In the private
house it is the ideal fuel. Nothing could be so conven-
ient: fires always ready; the turn of a stop-cock, the
stroke of a match, and a fire is lighted ; no coal to
carry ; no ashes ; no shivering over a cold stove on a
frosty morning. What a haven of rest and peace for
the lazy husband ! Housewives say their daily labors
are reduced fully one-third by the use of natural gas.
It makes a splendid fire for roasting and baking, and
is equal to the good hickory coals for broiling meats.
In open grates there is a variety of burners used, to
suit the fancy of the owner. Some have the andirons
and clay gas logs, in imitation of a wood fire ; others
fill the grate with broken sandstone, which is best for
holding the heat. A beautiful fire is made by covering
a number of the perforated pipes with a layer of
asbestos. When the fire is lighted, the asbestos, be-
coming heated, glows and sparkles, and the room is
filled with a cheerful mellow light. Under steam-boil-
ers the natural gas is used in a number of ways.
Some have the air-globes and long perforated pipes ;
others heat the gas before it reaches the fire by pass-
ing it through pipes in the boiler-flues. Ordinarily no
change in the construction of the furnace is required,
excepting to close it and shut off the draught. As a
light, the natural gas does not equal that made from coal.
The flame is not so bright and clear and is constantly
flickering. In small rooms it is used in the common
Argand burner with fair success. In large halls and
factories, where a strong light is required, the Siemens
incandescent gas-lamp has proved very satisfactory.
The greatest value of natural gas is for manufactur-
ing purposes. In burning bricks and lime, or in melt-
ing glass, iron, and steel, it has no equal. Its freedom
from smoke, sulphur, and other impurities makes it a
perfect fuel. Most of the iron works in the city of
Pittsburgh are using it, and are able to make a cleaner
and better grade of iron than they could with coal.
The steel works introduce it directly into the Siemens
open-hearth furnace, and produce a superior quality of
high carbon steel. Iron ore has been melted witji it.
It is believed by many that iron and possibly steel
can be made from the raw material by the use of it. For
making glass, in the words of a prominent manufac-
turer, " it is just the thing." At the Pittsburgh plate-
glass works, it has proved especially valuable for
tempering the large plates. By the use of gas this
company saves one thousand dollars a day, and can
make plate-glass superior to that of Europe. Since the
striking of large wells near Pittsburgh, manufacturers
have introduced it into their works as fast as it could
be conveyed to the city. Considering its abundance,
convenience, and economy, it will certainly revolution-
ize the manufacturing interests of this section, and pos-
sibly of the country.
That the reader may have an idea of how important
a factor natural gas may be in the industries of the
future, the following statement is given, based upon
the information of gentlemen familiar with the facts.
The heating capacity of natural gas is variously esti-
mated at from 250 to 400 cubic feet to a bushel
of coal. Assuming that three hundred feet, burn-
ed with the air and in a confined furnace, is the
average, we may approximate its value. Within a
radius of twenty miles, with Pittsburgh as a center,
there are twenty-five wells, with an average out-
put of 3,000,000 cubic feet each per day ; 75,000,000
in all, or 22,500,000,000 per year. This would equal
250,000 bushels, or 9260 tons, of coal per day, or 2,778,-
000 per year. The cost of drilling a gas well is $3000,
or $75,000 for the twenty-five. To convey this gas to
the city, allowing a six-inch pipe to every two wells,
and placing the mean distance traveled at fifteen miles,
would cost $917,000. The average cost of coal per
ton, delivered at the fires, is two dollars. The 9260 tons
of coal, the equivalent of this amount of gas per day,
would cost $18,520, or $5,556,000 per year. Deduct-
ing the cost of the gas, we have a saving in gas over
coal of $4,557,240 for the first year. The life of gas
wells is said to be eleven years. If this supply of gas
could be maintained by the addition of new wells for
ten years, which is not improbable, it would give a
saving of over $50,000,000 — figures which are not
more surprising to the reader than they are attractive
to the Pittsburgh manufacturer. This is not all. It is
estimated that there are 500 gas wells in the oil coun-
try and vicinity, which produce at least 200,000 cubic
feet each per day, or 100,000,000 in all. This gas could
be transported to one of the large cities in pipe lines,
as petroleum is at present. It could easily be collected
from the wells, and forced through the main pipes at
a high pressure by using air-compressors stationed
along the line. The idea is practical, the investment
inviting, and the matter is receiving the attention of
capitalists.
The products of natural gas are numerous. The
most important thus far are lamp or carbon black and
carbon points for the electric light. There are ten car-
bon-black works in operation, making 3000 pounds of
black per day. At a remote point, in Armstrong county,
Pa., a Boston firm has large works, locally known
as " the mystery," on account of the secrecy with
which it is conducted. Here they make the black, and
it is supposed coloring material also, from the gas.
At Stuartson furnace, in the same county, is another
" works " where the carbon points are made. Both these
works are guarded, and a stranger is not permitted to
be about them. A number of persons are experiment-
ing with the gas, with as many different objects in
view. It is impossible to learn what has been accom-
plished, as they are quick to see the advantage of keep-
ing secret any discovery they may have made.
What the future of this wonderful fuel is would be
difficult to foretell. Natural gas springs are known to
exist in many parts of the United States. This would
seem to indicate a wide distribution of it. In August
last a large well was struck at Crestline, Ohio, which
may open a vast territory. Where gas may or may
not be found can only be determined by the drill.
How far it may influence the manufacturing interests
of the years to come depends upon its supply. The
success which is attending the use of it in this section
has attracted the attention of manufacturers in others.
Wells will be put down in all parts of the country.
Upon their success or failure depends whether or not
natural gas shall be the fuel of the future.
J. D. Daugherty.
468
OPEN LETTERS.
Political "Work for Young Men.
" A politician," says Burke, " is a philosopher in
action." The best politician is the most practical
idealist. When we remember that a large part — per-
haps the greatest part — of the idealism of a country
resides in its young men, we understand why at the
present time our young men are looked to more and
more as a regenerating force in politics. What a stu-
pendous and far-reaching power would come into
existence were the political idealism of the nation to
be concentrated and converted into effective political
exertion ! The energy of this kind that lies latent for
want of an outlet, or wastes itself ineffectually in mis-
taken channels, far outweighs the slender amount that
has its perfect working as a practical force. From
our experience can we not point out some correct
course of political activity by which this mass of power
may be energized ? There is seen everywhere an in-
voluntary reaching out for some such guidance, to-
gether with an overestimation of the real value of this
unenergized power, and an evident misconception of
the methods by which it is to make itself felt. Says an
earnest writer, for instance, in one of The Century's
" Open Letters " for August :
" When the political machine shall be turned from
its present uses and abuses into a power for the ex-
termination of serious evils, .... our ' critical in-
difference ' will give place to a whole-hearted enthu-
siasm." " If they will give us a party which is based
upon principles, we who hold the principles will work
for it enthusiastically."
These expressions, with others, lead one to wonder
whether zeal is not prematurely mistaken for its effects,
and to ask of the writer — and in general of the ear-
nest young men of the country who are daily declar-
ing their high political principles -*- what is, in their
opinion, the nature and mode of expression of this
quality of political enthusiasm. What is their concep-
tion of this " work," so freely offered and promised as
valuable support to the party managers ? What is
political work ?
The expression of a mere sentiment of reform and
honesty, without well-directed practical effort, consti-
tutes no power in politics, and calls for no recognition
on the part of political managers. There is a gap of
considerable width between a laudable interest in po-
litical affairs and the accomplishment of a definite re-
sult in practical politics. Political power lies distinctly
beyond political zeal — further than many young men
imagine. How, then, shall they transmute zeal into
work and power ?
As affording some clue to those who are endeavor-
ing to come to atpractical solution of this question for
themselves, let the writer offer a few humble sugges-
tions from the experience of one of that class — young
men — most nearly concerned in this matter. Amid
present political conditions, the recognition of some
such principles as the following is, the writer is per-
suaded, inevitable, if earnest young men would see
their enthusiasm directed into effective work, and their
work crowned by power and success.
(i) First, then, let the young men recognize and
accept the positive distinction between actual political
work and a merely thoughtful interest in national
issues and general political reforms. Remember Aris-
totle's supremely practical distinction between g£{|
and evspycta, between a capability and an activity, a
yearning and a fulfilling. National politics form an
unpractical field for the exercise of a young man's
energies. No young man of moderate capacity can
expect to assume any important part in the discussion
and dissemination of their far-reaching principles, or
to undertake any valuable or even promising work in
behalf of them, strong and eager as may be his polit-
ical feelings. National campaigns and large political
controversies are conducted through the newspapers
and on the stump. The writers and the orators are
the effective workers. It is a broad and general work,
comprehensive in its spirit and in its results ; and men
of experience and popularity are those on whom it
falls. When we turn to the sphere of local politics,
there appears a marked difference. The genius of
municipal politics is the genius of the ward-club. Here
it is that genuine political work is seen — that work
in which every man of political standing must have
served apprenticeship — that work by which in the
beginning a man climbs out of obscurity and weakness,
and seizes position and influence and control. In the
work of that sphere belong canvassings, solicitations,
button-holings, persuasion of friends — every species
of activity that is likely to secure to oneself a majority
of the voting body. Influence, good-fellowship, wide
acquaintance, boldness, persuasiveness, unflagging
zeal ; a list of some of the necessary qualities is the
best exposition of the nature of the task that calls for
them. The sphere thus laid out is to be for us our
real political work. It comprises, in truth, the greater
portion of all political activity ; but it is the only por-
tion open to the young men of to-day, who are about
to make a beginning of laboring for their principles.
Let them, therefore, cast aside that conception of pol-
itics which imagines that the political machine is
moved mainly by the power of thought, and that they
accordingly hold a part of that power in themselves
by virtue of their high intellectuality. Let them real-
ize the intense commonplaceness and practicalness of
the fundamental agencies of politics. A patriotic in-
terest in national political issues, however unselfish
and noble-minded may be the passion, is not political
work, and never will be. Let the young man take for
a text the words of a political leader of ability who
was once asked what he thought of the young man
and the scholar in politics. " The scholar," he said,
" studies a German authority on the Constitution, and
some books on comparative politics, and goes out into
the world with a notion that he is a representative
figure of the scholar in politics, and wonders that the
people do not recognize him and send him at once to
Congress. The scholar should cultivate the simple
ways by which he may influence his own neighbor-
hood. The first thing for a scholar is to learn his
duties to his own neighbors before he can enter into
the political life of the people. . . . To be good for
anything in the public service, a young man needs to
have some sense and experience as well as money and
education. He should go to caucuses as a kinder-
garten, to conventions as a primary school, into the
service of his town as a grammar-school, to the legis-
lature as a gymnasium, and to the world as his uni-
versity. Too often the young man is a student of
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469
politics, not a politician." Observe again Burke's def-
inition: "A politician is a philosopher in action."
i( You may note," said Emerson, in almost his latest
public address, " that each aspirant who rises above
the crowd at first makes his obedient apprenticeship
in party tactics."
Never forget, then, that in practical politics is to be
found for beginners their real political work.
(2) Let this be a second general principle :
Direct your work under the conviction that the con-
trol of nominating bodies is an important condition in
the success of your principles. It is the only condition
which relieves you from the necessity of a severely re-
stricted choice, and allows an adequate exercise of
judgment in the selection of trustworthy candidates.
All political effort should aim primarily at securing
•control in nominating bodies. The expediency of this
principle is based on very simple reasoning. After
the nominations are made, there are two, at the most
three, candidates to choose from. What if neither is
suitable ? Is any positive good then attainable ? Are
we not reduced to a choice between evils ? Of what
avail is it to abide passively until the nominees are
offered us, and then impotently signify that we accept
neither of them ? How much better to seek the foun-
tain-head of nominations, the convention, and behind
it the ward-clubs and caucuses, and therein to obtain
power, and exercise free choice among an unlimited
range of candidates ! Success in the nominating body
is far more than half the battle. Preliminary control
of the convention, as it is the most difficult, is also the
most important task. Note how the political managers
of the great cities are content to possess simply the
mastership of the political machinery. Note how they
are found, not in public municipal offices, but in chair-
manship^ and executive committees of political organi-
zations. Can we not seize this lesson — that political
power originates in the local political associations —
that the lever of popular government rests on the
hidden fulcrum of party organizations, and is wielded
by the controllers of those agencies ? Let the young
men recognize that the best part of their political ef-
forts are to be spent in lifting the control of ward and
district politics from the hands of the unprincipled
minority to the hands of the honest-minded majority.
Let those who are entering politics remember that it
is better to be the wire-pullers than the puppets, and
that otherwise the only capacity which they can fill is
that of helpless spectators.
(3) In your local political work, next (and here let
me not be misconstrued into advocating anything but
the deepest devotion to principles) learn not to rely
too much on the power of abstractions as your rally-
ing standard. Do not be too confident that the
nobility of your cause will constitute a sufficient stock-
in-trade. In the average citizen you will find that you
can arouse little enthusiasm on behalf of abstract
principles — whether of scientific truth, of government,
or of lofty morality. Either in his political cynicism
he smiles at their realization, or in his contempt for
what is higher than himself he despises them. Suc-
cess of principles must be sought through the success
of individuals. Political work must aim to raise trust-
worthy men to power, and on them it is to rely for
the practical fulfillment of the desired end.
For abstractions men will not vote ; for individuals
they will. It is a principle of human nature that our
emotions are stirred in proportion to the concreteness
of the object of emotion that is presented to us. If
you are to enlist men's support in politics, present
the matter to them concretely. Make it a matter of
friendship to yourself or to the candidate — of suc-
cess of the party ; use any honest argument that may
promise to be effectual ; but your political zeal runs
exceeding risk of dying out speedily if you appeal to
them solely on the ground of political duty, of reform,
of unselfishness, — for you may as a rule expect ridicule,
suspicion, and worst of all, failure. It is a hard fact,
but it is too true to be disregarded. " The young
man," was the dictum of a local political manager,
" who is not going into politics to make something
out of it, is either a fool or a tool." So say they all;
and you will do well if you are prepared for it. Cyn-
icism and selfishness nowadays among those who
hold the suffrage shut up the avenues of political ac-
tivity and reform. When unselfishness and zeal for
political purity cannot thaw out these barriers, ply
them with whatever honest argumentative and emo-
tional weapons may be most apt to secure favor for
your suit.
If I might add one more suggestion, as a prime and
comprehensive principle of all practical politics, re-
formed or unreformed, it would be this : Organize,
organize, organize ! Combined knavery can be op-
posed only by combined honesty. " When bad men
combine," says Burke, " the good must associate ; else
they will fall, one by one, in a contemptible struggle."
Do not think that desultory magazine articles and
pulpit exhortations, or spasmodic seasons of political
house-cleaning, can compass the desired end. There
can be no effective substitute for such organized and
persevering work as will undermine the enemy's
stronghold — party organization — and possess it for
ourselves. Such a work will be thorough and progres-
sive. Such a work succeeds because it permeates the
organic structure of our political system. Its process
is subtle and slow, but sure. " Give me a fulcrum," was
Archimedes's phrase, " and I can move the world."
Give a political manager one hundred active young
men, and with the results of their work he can con-
trol and govern a city. In the city of the writer that
task is accomplished with fewer. Let the earnest young
men of each locality work together, become each one
a representative unit of influence, gather together
the units, concentrate their power, and they will con-
stitute a momentous governing force having the virtues
without the vices of a political boss, — the power with-
out the license, the use without the abuse, all the
power for good divorced from all its debasement for
evil.
John H. Wigmore.
A Great Historical Enterprise.
Mr. Hubert Howe Bancroft, the well-known
historian o'f the Spanish-American States, was origi-
nally a book-seller and publisher. Being permanently
established in San Francisco in 1856, he naturally
began to collect books, pamphlets, and other printed
matter containing information relating to the early
Spanish occupation of the country. His interest being
quickened by the results of his investigations, he pros-
,
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ecuted his search as far back as documentary history
and tradition would carry him, in the domain which he
had at first only cursorily explored. Every collector
knows how rapidly one's stores accumulate when once
the habit of collecting has taken hold upon him. Mr.
Bancroft's business and his library grew apace, and
finding his first store-room too strait for him, he built
anew, this time his goods and accumulations being
housed in a large structure, five stories high, in San
Francisco.
Meantime, as profits flowed in from the book-trade,
the mania for collecting took a firmer grasp upon the
publisher. Finding that much valuable information
concerning the early history of the Pacific States was
slowly dropping out of existence, as men died and oral
traditions vanished with them, Mr. Bancroft began the
arduous work of collecting written narratives taken
down by scribes from the lips of surviving Spanish
and American pioneers on the coast. The area of his
research was extended until his books, tracts, and docu-
ments represented all attainable knowledge relating to
the western half of the North American continent.
Then, consumed by an unquenchable thirst for more
information, he went to Europe and ransacked public ar-
chives, libraries, and other depositories, in quest of cov-
eted lore. At the sale of the Mexican collection (intended
by the unfortunate Maximilian as the foundation of an
imperial library), which was held in Leipsic, three thou-
sand volumes, many of them being unique, were secured.
The Ramirez sale in London, and that of the Squier
manuscripts in New York, also yielded the indefatiga-
ble collector valuable additions to his library. And in
this manner a remarkable collection of material slowly
accumulated.
Next, having gathered this rich harvest of historical
knowledge, Mr. Bancroft began to arrange, catalogue,
and classify the abundant but heterogeneous mass.
During six years he had secured ten thousand volumes,
among which were the standard chronicles of the
earlier historians, Peter Martyr, Oviedo, Las Casas,
and Purchas, as well as the histories of Ferrera, Ha-
inan, Robertson, and others of their class. To these
were added original manuscripts, some of which are of
priceless value, and printed documents such as the
" Documentos Ineditos," " Izcabalceta," and the like.
When we consider that the dictations of pioneer settlers,
copies and originals from colonial, mission, county, and
state archives were added to this vast mass, the extent
of the labors of the indexer may be estimated. The field
thus covered embraces an area equal to about one-
twelfth of the earth's surface ; and if the collector's
activity had stopped here, he would have accomplished
an undertaking for which civilization would have owed
him a debt of gratitude.
But the collector resolved to become a writer of his-
tory. He would separate the wheat from the chaff in his
collection, and would give the results to the world.
Accordingly, the library was removed to a fire-proof
structure built in the middle of a large lot in the out-
skirts of San Francisco. Here it was arranged, and,
assisted by a staff of competent men, Mr. Bancroft
began his arduous undertaking. Ten years were re-
quired to index the library, the work being conducted
precisely as in indexing a book. The several topics
desired to be reached were indicated, references made,
and information drawn forth in the shape of rough
material. This was revised and divided into chapters,
and other chapters were written from them ; and the
work was then put into Mr. Bancroft's hands in a state
advanced as far as possible. Mr. Bancroft rewrote,
revised, and, in many cases, went back to the original
sources and took out for himself the original rough
material.
Under the plastic hand of Mr. Bancroft has thus
arisen a valuable structure of historical literature. The
design of this industrious author comprises the issuing
of thirty-three octavo volumes. The first five, " The
Native Races," have been before the reading public
for several years. History proper, so to speak, begins
with the sixth volume of the series, which is devoted
to Central America. As the first points touched by
Europeans when they landed on the North American
continent were on the Isthmus of Darien and north-
ward, the propriety of beginning the history with that
of the Central American States is apparent. Mexico
occupies Volumes IX. and X., as the discovery and
conquest of that country followed the events described
in the previous volume. Then the work is resumed in
the second volume on Central America, which brings
the reader down to a. d. 1800. The thread of Mex-
ican history is taken up again in Volume XL, and the
recital is brought down to 1800 also, and in the suc-
ceeding volumes is carried forward, as " History of the
North Mexican States," to the same year. Having
thus concluded the history of the lower Spanish-Amer-
ican States, Mr. Bancroft goes northward and gives
us a history of California in five volumes, the first of
which — Volume XVIII. of the entire series — is just
now published. This fascinating volume begins with
the earliest mention of California by fabulists, chron-
iclers, and historians, and, drawing liberally from the
rich accumulations of which mention has previously
been made, ends with 1800, when the rule of the Span-
ish Viceroy, Don Diego de Borica, closed. Future
volumes will contain the history of Nevada, Utah,
the North-west coast, Oregon, Washington Territory,
Idaho and Montana, British Columbia and Alaska.
These are to be followed by two more volumes on
California, entitled " California Pastoral " and " Cali-
fornia Inter Pocula," the first embracing a history of
the country under Roman Catholic mission rule, and the
second that during the gold-seeking epoch. Two vol-
umes of essays and miscellanies — the scattered and
otherwise unmarshaled stragglers of this vast literary
column — bring up the rear of this, one of the most
enormous undertakings in historical writing ever pro-
jected by one man.
It will be seen from this cursory review of Mr.
Bancroft's work that his task has been to furnish and
classify vast stores of historical material, rather than
to erect a monument of literary beauty. There is no-
attempt here to popularize history, as Knight and
Macaulay have popularized English history. It is
true that graphic and vivid chapters appear through-
out every volume of this long procession ; and the
skill with which material points are made salient, and
immaterial facts are subordinated, is worthy of high
praise. But the author, embarrassed with his riches,
must needs hurry on to the completion of his appar-
ently interminable labors.
We catch glimpses of princes, potentates, and powers
famous in history ; of knights-errant, avaricious con-
OPEN LETTERS.
471
querors, and bloody-minded zealots ; of simple-minded
and pastoral tribes, warring savages, and willing con-
verts to self-denying missionaries ; of far -voyaging and
ignorant adventurers, fearless explorers, and covetous
gold- seekers ; and of an uncounted host of builders
who laid on the shores of the Pacific the foundations
of many States. The narrative marches on to its close.
But much cannot be said in praise of the literary qual-
ity of the work. When there has been so satisfying a
display of zeal, industry, and enthusiasm, the critical
reader would prefer to believe that the turgidity and
the affectation of high style which occasionally mar
these pages are the contributions of unlearned assist-
ants. The student of history, however, must overlook
the ambitious attempts at fine writing, and confine
his quest without diversion to the contents of this
store-house of available and well-arranged material.
From these stately tomes must be drawn hereafter the
only trustworthy history of 'that part of the North
American continent which lies between the Arctic
Ocean, the equator, the Pacific, and the Rocky
Mountains. «
Noah Brooks.
Old Questions and New.
Naturally, there is a good deal of interest mani-
fested in Mr. Cable's statement in the concluding chap-
ters of " Dr. Sevier " that the cause of the North
was just. There is also a good deal of interest felt
in his reply to the gentleman who challenged
his statement. It was inevitable that the statement
should meet with a challenge in some quarter, but
perhaps the most remarkable fact in connection with
the whole matter is that it should have been challenged
in only one quarter. So far as my observation extends,
no Southern newspaper has taken Mr. Cable to task,
and yet it would be safe to say that there are not ten
editors of Southern newspapers who have not read
" Dr. Sevier " from beginning to end. To a thoughtful
person, this fact is very significant — as significant,
indeed, as Mr. Cable's concession.
Five years ago such a statement made by a South-
ern man would have aroused quite a little tempest of
indignation ; but a great change has been going t>n in
the South, and one of the results of this change is the
tacit admission of those who are supposed to be the
chosen defenders of the South that Mr. Cable, as a
Southern man, has a right to hold opinions of his
own, even though they may run counter to the opinions
of other Southern men.
I am free to confess that Mr. Cable's declaration
that the cause of the Union was just shocked me a
little. It slipped in ahead of expectation ; it seemed to
be, at first glance, somewhat flippant. But a little re-
flection showed me that it is only a bold and fresh in-
terpretation of the attitude and expressions of thou-
sands and thousands of Southern people. For instance,
it is safe to say that there are not five hundred think-
ing men in the South to-day who believe in secession
either as a principle or as an expedient. There are
not ten who would vote to secede to-morrow, even
though such a movement was entirely practicable. In
other words, there are not ten thinking men in the
South who feel to-day (no matter what their feelings
may have been in the hot days of war, and the hotter
days of reconstruction) that secession would give them
any rights or advantages as valuable as those they now
have as citizens of States that are a part and parcel of
the American Union. I am not giving my opinion
merely, for that is worth little or nothing; I am giving
the result of observation, association, experience, and
discussion. ,
Mr. Cable, aroused from a dream of the Civil War,
discovers that that conflict was a very curious affair
indeed. Reflecting over it, he is moved to say that the
cause of the Union was just. Others, waking to the
realities of events, and recognizing facts as they stand,
are moved to admit that the South, taken as a whole,
is in a better condition to-day than it was in 1861.
Nobody wants slavery, nobody wants secession, and
everybody feels that we have as many rights and as
much freedom as the people of the North. Such a
situation must have a deeper meaning than we have
been in the habit of attaching to it. What is that
meaning ?
The substance of all this has been stated and re-
stated hundreds and hundreds of times in the leading
papers of the South, by the leading men of the South
in Congress and other public places, and by think-
ing men of all classes. The facts have been vari-
ously used by the politician, the place-hunter, and
others who have only a partial and fleeting interest in
facts of any kind ; and it now remains for the states-
men of both sides to reconcile their notions to this
most mysterious result of the integrity and elasticity
of our republican institutions, namely, that by some
queer twist of fate or fortune the vanquished share the
fruits of victory, and are as devoted to the Union as it
stands to-day as those who fought to preserve it intact.
All this sounds paradoxical, and so it is. The result
I have attempted to describe is a part of the stupen-
dous paradox of the war. Over the remains of this
paradox History is even now holding her grand inquest,
but the witnesses summoned are by no means agreed.
One from the North says it was a war to maintain the
American Union ; another from the North says it was
a war against slavery. One from the South says it was
a#war in defense of the reserved rights of the States ;
another from the South says it was a war in defense
of the institution of slavery. Well, History will settle
this matter to her own satisfaction, and we may be
sure that few will dispute the justice of the verdict.
Who shall say how many compromises of opinion
and prejudice are necessary to give us a clear view of
the truth ? Assuredly compromises are necessary, and
thus it happens that all the concession need not come
from the South. There is not a Northern man whose
opinion is worth having who will not frankly admit
that the South made a gallant fight for what it con-
ceived to be right — a fight that thoroughly illustrated
American valor. Moreover, there is not a thinking
man at the North who will not admit that American
slavery seems to have been a provision of Providence
for the advancement of a large part of the negro race.
This is a phase of the slavery question worthy the
attention of reflecting minds. The negroes came to
this country barbarians. They were savages ; but they
were not savages when freedom found them out. On
the contrary, it may be said that, in the history of the
world, there has never before been an instance where
a race of people only two hundred and fifty years re-
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moved from a condition of abject barbarism was so
closely related to civilization as were the negroes of
the South when they were made free. If this is true,
— and the statement of the fact is all the proof that is
necessary, — then the North and the whole world will
be compelled to admit that there was some good in
American slavery ; will be compelled to admit, in fact,
that American slavery was a part of the divine economy
which has in view the advancement of the human race.
The truth is, there is a new North as well as a new
South, showing that the tempest of war that blew in
on honest people was calculated to clear the atmos-
phere. It strengthened and settled matters, and cre-
ated that moral ozone so necessary to the health of a
nation. In view of these things, it is hardly necessary
to discuss the question whether Mr. Cable is entitled
to express his opinion that the cause of the Union
was a just cause.
A Southern Democrat.
Our Church Club.
In the so-called " good old times " the dwellers
in country villages were not divided into as many
cliques as to-day. People were more on a level
then, at least as to externals, and they met each other
in a freer and more informal way. It was not neces-
sary then, as it is now, to invent ways and means for
bringing together those who attended the same church
and sat side by side in the Sunday-school. This was
owing partly to the fact that life was not so crowded
nor so exacting then as now, and partly to the
equally evident fact that the churches in the olden
times were more the center of all things than they are
to-day. In and of themselves they gave to their people
a common ground on which to stand — a ground on
which high and low, rich and poor, learned and un-
learned, met and were as one, to a degree that seems
hardly possible to this eager, exigent present of ours,
with its multiplicity of interests and its ever-increasing
demands.
It was to meet this need — the need of a broad
plane upon which those of widely differing tastes,
habits, pursuits, and capacities could meet each other
and be happy — that, a few years ago, the women of a
certain church in a large New England village, with
the advice and cooperation of its pastor, formed a
society called " The Fortnightly." While it is neither
a school nor a prayer-meeting, and is not in the
slightest degree sectarian, yet it is as strictly a church
organization as is the Sunday-school itself. It could
add greatly to its numbers and its resources by throw-
ing open its doors and welcoming all comers with out-
stretched hands. It would often be glad to do so;
just as a family, no matter how united and how suffi-
cient unto itself it may be, sometimes finds that the
presence of a guest adds savor to the Thanksgiving
dinner, or zest to the Christmas feast. Yet, on the
whole, most households find it is wiser and pleasanter
to limit the table on those occasions to the family cir-
cle. So "The Fortnightly" is purely a family affair;
and to make it anything else would seriously interfere
with its workings and its practical results.
It has, as a matter of course, the officers common
to all societies — a president, vice-president, secretary,
and treasurer, who are elected annually. It has, also,
three standing committees, appointed yearly by the
president and ratified by the society : one on Christian
or benevolent work, which is popularly called the
Christian committee, though it does not claim to be
any more " pious " than other folk ; a social commit-
tee; and a committee on studies. The four officers
above named, with the chairmen of these committees,
constitute the board of directors, of which the pastor
is also a member ex officio. He has, however, never
availed himself of his right to be present at any meet-
ing of the board or the society, unless on special
invitation.
The managers mean to have no more red tape than
is absolutely necessary; yet it is found that a little is
indispensable, if only to tie it together. Therefore
Article Fourth of the Constitution provides that "Any
lady of the church or society, above the age of six-
teen, whose name shall be presented in writing by not
less than three members, may become a member by a
majority vote at any regular meeting, on condition of
subscribing to this constitution, and paying to the
treasurer the annual fee." This* fee, as may be sup-
posed, is a small one, so small as to be no burden.
But it was thought best, for many reasons, that it
should be exacted.
"The Fortnightly " is so fortunate as to have at its
command the pleasant church parlors, and there it
meets on every alternate Saturday afternoon, except
when otherwise ordered by the board of directors.
Perhaps the question oftenest asked of the members
is this: "What is the object of your society?" A
question that is briefly answered by the motto recently
adopted, "First to Receive; then to Give." Its
first and most direct object is personal and individual
growth ; not in any selfish or narrow sense, but be-
cause no one can give what he does not in some way
possess. He must himself have, before he can share
with others; he must be, before he can do. This
motto, emblazoned on a banner supported by an ap-
propriate standard, and decorated with the colors of
the society, holds a conspicuous place by the presi-
dent's table at all meetings, and, with the pretty though
inexpensive badge worn by the members, has done
much to foster the esprit de corps so important to the
well-being of every such organization.
" What does your society do ? " is another question.
It does a great many things. Through its social
committee it stretches out its hands to the stranger
within its gates. It brings together, and binds in
harmonious, pleasant relations, those who otherwise
would seldom meet. It keeps its finger, as it were,
on the pulse of the social life of the church.
Through its committee on Christian work, it cares
for a mission Sunday-school, and in connection with
other societies does its full share of the charitable
work of the town, beginning always with the work
that is nearest to its hand.
Yet, after all, it is perhaps true that the strongest
interests of the society center in its regular fort-
nightly meetings, and that from them go forth its
widest and most beneficent influences. Fully to un-
derstand this, it must be remembered that the steadily
lengthening roll of membership now numbers 170,
embracing women of all ages, from girls of sixteen to
white-haired matrons, and that, rain or shine, there is
an average attendance of half the members. There is
OPEN LETTERS.
473
great diversity in the homes from which they come.
Some are rich ; some are poor. Some have had every
advantage that money can buy, social position, and
abundant leisure; some have struggled all their lives
with straitened circumstances, if not with absolute
penury. Some are familiar with London, and Paris,
and Rome; some have never been out of sight of
their native mountains. It has of " sweet girl grad-
uates " not a few ; and it has also many a girl who not
only supports herself but helps to support others. It
has many whose province it is to minister, and many
who are ministered unto.
But with all these differences the club is bound to-
gether by the common tie of womanhood. Its members
have learned, as perhaps they could have learned in no
other way, that these other things are mere externals,
mere husks, the outer rind that may be removed with-
out touching the life beneath. It has been proved to
them beyond a peradventure that the life is more
than meat and the body than raiment.
When " The Fortnightly " was first organized, com-
paratively little importance was attached to the meet-
ings, per se. The journal was read; there was usu-
ally some business, more or less, to be attended to ;
and then the classes in history, literature, and art
went each to its own room, and worked each in its own
way. For two years this plan was carried out, and
with good results. But as the society grew and wid-
ened, it became more and more evident that there
were steadily increasing numbers who did not wish
to join the classes, and yet who did need and long for
something that it was the duty of the society to give
them in the way of mental quickening and stimulus.
An effort was accordingly made, while keeping up
the classes, to make the regular meetings more inter-
esting by essays, readings, talks, and recitations, with
such good (or bad) results that, little by little, the
classes dwindled, and the numbers in the large room
increased day by day.
Some time ago, after much deliberation, it was
thought best to drop the classes entirely, and try the
effect of making two hours of the alternate Saturdays
as rich, as full, as varied, as the resources of the
united society could make them. This plan has worked
to a charm. A programme for each meeting is made
out, and the work allotted, as long in advance as is
convenient — the particular study of this season and
the last having been the lives and works of represen-
tative women, covering a wide range of life and
thought.
One day, for instance, this was the programme :
France in the Time of Jeanne d'Arc.
Peasant Life in France in the Time of Jeanne
d'Arc.
Jeanne d'Arc.
Different Conceptions of Poets and Artists.
Translations from Schiller's " Maid of Orleans."
On easels in the room were a number of pictures
relating to the subject for the day, from old wood and
i steel engravings down to the inspired dreamer of
Bastien Lepage.
With Queen Elizabeth as the theme, this was the
programme :
Pen-portrait of Elizabeth.
Elizabeth as a Queen.
Elizabeth as a Woman.
Manners and Customs of the Day.
Literature.
Mary, Queen of Scots.
Readings— "Marie Stuart" (Schiller).
On another occasion Mrs. John Adams was chosen
Life and Times.
Puritan Homes.
Selections from Whittier.
Abigail Adams.
Selections from Letters of Mrs. Adams.
Colonial Belles.
Another group of women was :
Vittoria Colonna.
Madame de Stael.
Margaret Fuller.
Readings — " Michael Angelo."
Every possible effort is made to give variety, color,
and individuality to the exercises. History alternates
with poetry or romance, and mirth with earnestness.
On the Saturday after Christmas the subject chosen was
Mary, the Mother of Christ. The parlors were made
beautiful with drapery, garlands of cedar and hemlock,
and appropriate mottoes, among which "Ave Maria "
and " Blessed art Thou among Women " were con-
spicuous. Thirty different Virgins, Madonnas, and
Holy Families were on the walls. The papers were
on " The Inn at Bethlehem " and the " Legendary Life
of Mary," and Mrs. Browning's " Virgin Mary to the
Child Jesus " was read.
It will be seen at once that in an organization of
this kind nothing very profound or abstruse, and no
exhaustive treatment of any theme, can be so much as
attempted. Heaviness would be suicidal. To stimu-
late, to awaken, to lead on, is all that we have under-
taken. To this end every diversity of power and capac-
ity may be used. I venture to say that no one can have
anything to do with the management of such a society
for one year without being surprised at the resources
and the talent that will be developed. It has not
proved necessary to apologize for the papers, to re-
ceive them with large grains of allowance, or to say
they were " pretty fair, considering all things." They
have been good, and sometimes exceptionally so.
At one time, partly for the sake of variety and
partly as a sort of test, twenty young girls were
each asked to bring to the next meeting some notable
instance of womanly heroism, fortitude, or self-sacri-
fice, the papers not to be more than five minutes long.
The result was a pleasant surprise. No stereotyped,
hackneyed stories were reproduced. The matter was
fresh and relevant, and no two girls hit upon the
same incident or character.
The society occasionally keeps memorial days and
birthdays, and it has a letter-box, which is not use<| as
much as it ought to be, for " Questions " and " Sug-
gestions." Sometimes it allows its members to vote
for their favorite poems, and out of the list thus formed
a choice is made for readings and recitations. The
last gathering of the season is always made a social
event with attractive features.
The suggestive motto of the society, " First to Re-
ceive ; then to Give," strikes the key-note of its very
life. Whoever has received is expected to give ; and
who has not received ? But the willingness, the cheer-
474
OPEN LETTERS.
ful alacrity, with which all demands are responded to,
the absence of all petty jealousies and narrow-minded
criticism, the ready assent to all measures for the gen-
eral good, have been very marked. The tithes of " mint
and anise and cummin " have been paid without de-
mur ; neither have the gold, the myrrh, nor the frankin-
cense been held back.
In short, "The Fortnightly" maintains that the
woman loses her life who devotes it all to material
uses — who crowds it so full either of work or of pleas-
ure as to leave room for nothing else.
Like a previous letter, this is written in answer to
many inquiries ; and this must be the writer's only
apology for details and prolixity.
Julia C. R. Dorr.
Another Plan for "Women's Clubs.
The open letter, " More Words with Country-
women," presenting a new manner of providing in-
tellectual and literary feasts for those women who
may wish to and can partake of the same, is most
praiseworthy. Still there is an impediment to young
mothers which cannot be overruled, viz., babies. I am
one of that class, and sadly miss the mental food which
was furnished me at school. 'Tis true the precious
babes are the first care, but they are also a mother's
barrier to the acquisition of any but maternal knowl-
edge !
Mrs. Dorr's " Friends in Council " have meetings
fortnightly, and organize a committee, board of direct-
ors, etc. Then they have a plan of study, also prep-
aration of essays. Now, I want to ask how all this
can be accomplished when home requires your pres-
ence, time, and care. How can you attend these meet-
ings ? I write this in the cause of women of my own
standing and social status, who, it is true, have to do
their own work, but at the same time crave the intel-
lectual food — not as a necessity, but as part of the
manna on which they have been raised.
While we have not time to devote to these councils,
we have intervals of leisure at home, which we spend
in reading ancient and modern history when we
chance to light on them, but frequently intersperse
with romances, novelettes, descriptive notes, and, last
but not least, The Century. Now I am going to
suggest to many of my friends who are situated as I
am a scheme for organizing a literary club of an indef-
inite number. It will not be productive of any ebul-
litions of wit, nor will it lead to much learning ; but it
will be a source of entertainment which we poor mor-
tals sadly lack.
This scheme consists in establishing a library, to
be in the most convenient and commodious house of
a circle of friends, its mistress to be the librarian. All
the^members of the club to furnish what works they
possess, whether historical, ecclesiastical, poetical,
political, novels, or any addition they wish at times to
make. No criticisms or formal meetings, which to
me savor of the has bleu, but perfect liberty to each
member to call and select a book — one at a time —
when so disposed, and return in a reasonable number
of days. Have the library insured in case of accident,
and outside of this there will be no expense. This
clique of friends can then exchange notes and ideas
during any social call, if so inclined, and no need of
borrowing or lending books, no need of laboring on
literary compositions when other things more impor-
tant demand our attention. I do not place my views
in opposition to any, but as a woman who loves to
study and develop the mental faculties, — which have
only lain dormant since leaving school, — and with
the restraint of two " darling responsibilities."
Denver, Colorado.
M. L. JV.
Co-operative Studies — The Natural Sciences.
While reading Mrs. Dorr's very suggestive and
helpful letter in the September Century, on the
formation of societies for mutual study and discussion,
it occurred to us that this is just the time to put in a
plea for the cooperative study of the natural sciences.
Not that we undervalue the importance of history,
or consider that Greece and Rome belong in any sense
to a dead past, but there is such a very " living pres-
ent " all around us here and now.
Although winter is not the best time to begin the
study of a natural science, since the material neces-
sary for thorough work cannot always be readily ob-
tained, still private and public cabinets offer some-
thing, and much may be done to create the taste for
experimental work — work which could be pleasantly
and profitably carried through the summer months,
which are now so largely wasted.
The natural sciences seem to be particularly well
adapted to society work, so numerous and varied are
the phases any one of them presents — sufficient to
satisfy the demands of any society, however heteroge-
neous its elements. Take botany, for example ; what
opportunities for investigation and discussion would
arise from the consideration of
i. The Beginnings of Plant Life.
2. How Plants Grow.
3. Their Pedigrees.
4. Family Traits and How Modified.
5. Varieties and How Produced.
6. Carnivorous Plants.
7. Parasitic Plants.
8. Floriculture as an Art.
9. Floriculture as an Occupation for Women.
10. Flowers in Art.
11. Flowers in Poetry and Song.
12. Flowers in the Bible.
What a preparation such a winter's work would be
for the coming of the New Year, the real New Year,
which comes to us with the budding spring ! What
pleasant " field-days " might follow, and what choice
collections could be prepared for the following winter's
work, or as a nucleus for a village museum.
Entomology, or mineralogy, or indeed any other
one of the various branches of natural science, pre-
sents an equally broad and rich field for mutual labor
and discussion. Will not some society make the ex-
periment and report ?
*
Church Music.
A VOICE FROM THE CHOIR-LOFT.
In the first place, it cannot be doubted that a great
reformation has been going on during the past twenty
years, not only in the character of the music performed
in our churches, but as well in the character of the per-
OPEN LETTERS.
475
sons employed in the musical service of the sanctuary ;
this much must surely be patent to any one competent
to observe the change. One institution of former times
has seen its palmy days, and will soon be a thing of
the past. I allude to the " quartet choir," alone and
unaided. No educated church musician will to-day be
satisfied with such a choir; and with the tl quartet"
will die many a disturbing element.
Thus the reform in church music has been begun,
and indeed made good progress, and the question
would seem to be, what can be done to aid in the good
work, and to carry the same on toward completion ?
Money will be a potent factor in this, as in all good
works, so I will first take up the question of salaries ;
and, in behalf of my brother organists and choir-mas-
ters, I claim that the salaries generally offered are
totally inadequate to pay for the services expected and
demanded. I know I shall be met here, and at once,
with the statement that " the pay is fully as good as
the services rendered"; and my retort will be that
I the services are fully as good as the pay." And both
statements will, in the great majority of cases, be very
near to the truth. I am perfectly willing to admit that
the pay and the services are generally about on an
equality. But the trouble is, there is but little mani-
festation, on the part of the churches, of a readiness
to pay better prices for better work. On the contrary,
there seems to be a tendency in many places toward a
wholly unnecessary and petty economy in regard to
the music of the church. We too often hear the phrase,
" Oh, it is good enough for us ! " or, " It will do ! "
I think I am safe in saying that the average salary
now paid to organists is not so large as was paid five
or ten years ago. For one instance, I know of a city
claiming to have over one hundred thousand inhabi-
tants, and also claiming a great amount of musical
culture, where, as I am informed by good authority,
the highest salary paid to any organist is the munifi-
cent sum of four hundred dollars. One church in said
city, and one of the largest and most prosperous, pay-
ing its minister a salary of five thousand dollars, had
an organist who served them well and faithfully for
many years. Him they discharged a year ago, because
— why, because another organist could be secure4 for
fifty dollars less per year. And this is but a sample
of the encouragements which are to-day held out by
the churches to ambitious young people to fit them-
selves for church musicians. Another statement,
which I am sure all my brother professional organists
will say I am correct in making, is this : that there
are at present in this country fewer organ students
than there have been in times past ; I mean, of course,
in proportion to the number of places to be filled ; and
this I fully believe to be a consequence of the meager
salaries paid. I would therefore warn all church
music committees that the time is rapidly approaching
when they will have to put up with more and more
inefficient services on the organ-bench, or pay larger
salaries than they at present dream of paying. But
let it be known that the churches are ready and will-
ing to pay proper salaries for competent services, and
in a few years there will be an abundant supply of
educated church musicians. I imagine myself asked the
question, What would be a proper salary ? I will an-
swer that question boldly, and say that an efficient
organist and choir-master should receive a sum cer-
tainly not less than one-third of the total salary paid
to the minister of the same church. Methinks I hear
loud exclamations of dissent, even of indignation.
But let us reason together. I said an "efficient " or-
ganist and choir-master ; and I certainly would not
advise the payment of such a salary to any one of the
many incompetents who at present fill positions where
they have no more right than I would have at the
helm of a Mississippi River steam-boat. I am writing
of an ideal time in the future, when any church, will-
ing to pay a liberal salary, can secure good service.
And am I extravagant in my ideal ? I think not. I
have based my estimate of what should be the salary
of the organist and choir-master upon the salary of the
minister, for the reason that the clergy are very apt to
consider themselves not overpaid as a class, and I am
quite disposed to agree with them. Now the organist
and choir-master, to be at all competent, must surely
be a man of at least one-third the intelligence of the
minister ; his musical education must have cost at
least one-third as much as the theological education
of the minister ; and he must be able and willing to
devote at least one-third as much time to his depart-
ment of the church work as does the average clergy-
man to his parish work. I know this last statement
will be received by some with surprise, and by others
with incredulity. Many a time have I had said to me
the equivalent of this : " I would be very glad if I
could earn as much money as you can by a few min-
utes' work on Sunday and at rehearsal." Well! so
would I be glad, very glad indeed, if I could honestly
earn my salary by so little work as many good people
imagine. But every organist and choir-master knows
that his work cannot be done, with any satisfaction to
himself or to those whom he serves, without his de-
voting to it every week a number of hours sufficient
to constitute at least two good days' work. And I
really think that, in most cases, the meagerness of the
salary offered is due to ignorance of the amount of
time and labor required to satisfactorily fulfill the
duties of the position. While on this subject of sala-
ries, let me say that I have a still higher ideal of what
may be in the future. There are very many churches
in America abundantly able, and which ought to be
willing, to pay to their organist and choir-master " a
living salary " — a salary sufficient for all his needs — so
that he would not be forced to gain a livelihood by
other means, but would be able to devote his entire
time and work to the service of the church. And there
would be plenty to occupy his attention. He should
be present at all services or meetings, on week-days
as well as on Sundays ; should work in the Sunday-
school as well as in the church, meeting the children
of the school every week for practice ; the young peo-
ple of the church should be given an evening in every
week for practical and free instruction in the rudiments
of vocal music; advanced classes should also be
formed for choral practice ; congregational rehearsals
should be held as frequently as possible ; special in-
struction should be given to such young voices as gave
extraordinary promise of being available in the choir ;
all this being understood to be included in the pay
given to the choir-master, so that there would be no
feeling that a charity was being accepted.
In regard to the so-called " trials " of organists
and singers, I fully agree with the Rev. Dr. Rob-
476
OPEN LETTERS.
inson that they are simply a farce. They are fair
neither to the musicians nor to the church, and should
be done away with, as has, in at least a great measure,
the old plan of "preaching on trial." They are fully
as unsatisfactory, and, in some respects, for corre-
sponding reasons. And at the same time with the
" trial," I would do away with the equally faulty sys-
tem of yearly engagements. Let the engagements be
made terminable at the pleasure of either party to the
contract, such reasonable and proper notice being
given to the other party to the same as may have been
agreed upon. I have worked under both systems, and
believe the one proposed will be found much more
satisfactory ; that under it engagements will be much
more likely to prove agreeable and permanent, and far
better results be attained. Under the yearly engage-
ment plan both music committees and musicians get
into the way of beginning to be unsettled in mind at
least three months before the expiration of the year,
and to begin to look about to see if they cannot in
some slight degree better themselves, even though
the present situation of affairs be quite satisfactory,
and things are just settling down into good working
order.
Another great source of trouble is the want of any
interest taken by the members of the church in the
members of the choir. I do not mean in the music it-
self, or in the choir as a whole, but in the individuals
composing the same. A friendly word to some one
belonging to that body, a little bit of praise for the
singing of some particular anthem or hymn, goes much
further than is imagined. Much moral good may often
be accomplished by letting the members of the choir
feel that they are regarded as a part of the congrega-
tion, and not as a separate, possibly even a somewhat
antagonistic, body. But, surely, if the church is dis-
posed to regard the relation of the musicians to itself as
a mere matter of business, no fault can be found if they,
the musicians, regard it in the same light.
Edward Witherspoon.
Waterbury, Conn., June, \i
The Recent Legal -Tender Decision.
On page 540 of The Century for August last, in a
note accompanying Mr. Rice's " Work for a Constitu-
tional Convention," it is stated that in the case of Juil-
Jiard v. Greenman, no U. S., 421, " The Court holds
that when Congress is not expressly prohibited from
passing a certain law, it is left to its sole judgment
whether or not it be a constitutional law." If this is
really the meaning of the decision, all checks upon the
legislation of Congress would seem to be removed.
The only duty of the Supreme Court in deciding upon
the constitutionality of a law would be to inquire, " Is
Congress expressly forbidden to pass this law ? " If
not, the law must be declared constitutional. Under
such an interpretation, Congress would have power
to interfere in all matters, however local, now left to
the State legislatures — except the few expressly de-
nied to it. All constitutional objection to the giving
of money for the protection of the lands of the Missis-
sippi delta would fall to the ground — for such gifts
.are nowhere "expressly prohibited." The clauses of
the Civil Rights Bill lately declared void could be
reenacted and stand as law, since a Civil Rights Bill
is not "expressly prohibited" by the Constitution.
And so, for hundreds of more objectionable laws,
Congress would simply say to the Supreme Court,
"Hands off."
But I think the decision has been misinterpreted.
The question before the Court was whether Congress
could give United States notes the legal-tender quality.
The Court held that it could, not at all because it was
not expressly prohibited from so doing, — that must be
true of every power conceded to Congress, — but be-
cause Congress was expressly granted a power (to
borrow money), to carry out which this was a suitable
means. The difference between this interpretation
and the other is of course very great. In the one
case, every law which is not expressly forbidden is
constitutional. In the other, every law, to be constitu-
tional, must be, first, not forbidden, and must be, second,
a means of executing some power given by the Consti-
tution to Congress. As these powers are compara-
tively few, this second qualification cuts off hundreds
of laws, good, bad, and indifferent, which without it
Congress could enact with impunity.
It is impossible to give quotations in the space
allotted to an " open letter." It is owing to careless
and incomplete quotations from the fifty pages of the
decision that the general misapprehension concerning
its effect has arisen. I believe that a careful reading
of its whole text will convince any one that the Court
has only reapplied — in a very loose manner, per-
haps — the words of Marshall, spoken sixty years
ago:
" Let the end be legitimate — let it be within the
scope of the Constitution — and all the means which
are appropriate, which are plainly adapted to that end,
which are not prohibited, but consist with the letter
and spirit of the Constitution, are constitutional." (4
Wheaton, 316, 421.)
The end — to borrow money — was legitimate; the
Court declares that the means — to give the legal-
tender quality — are appropriate, are adapted to the
end, and are not prohibited. The last is the least im-
portant qualification, for it is simply a matter of course.
Harry H. Neill.
REJOINDER BY MR. RICE.
Mr. Neill contends, in the first place, that if my in-
terpretation of the decision in the recent legal-tender
case be correct, " all checks upon the legislation of
Congress would seem to be removed." I think that
in this he is mistaken. Putting the responsibility for
violating the Constitution upon Congress does not
remove a single constitutional check upon legislation.
On the contrary, it tends to increase the influence
of those checks, as I have endeavored to show in my
article. France, England, and Germany are governed
under constitutional limitations, and yet no one in
those countries ever dreamt of confiding the safeguards
of the people to the courts ; and it seems to me that a
truly responsible government cannot exist in our re-
public until in this respect we follow the example set
by the great nations of Europe.
Mr. Neill, however, goes beyond the argumentum
ab inconvenienli just referred to, and attempts to estab-
OPEN LETTERS.
477
lish positively the incorrectness of my interpretation.
To this second point I would reply, first by calling at-
tention to that portion of Judge Gray's opinion which
bases the constitutionality of the Legal Tender act on
the fact, among others, that the power to make the notes
of the government a legal tender in payment of pri-
vate debts is one of the powers " belonging to sover-
eignty in other civilized nations," and is not expressly
withheld from Congress by the Constitution. This
language is certainly quite different from the " words
of Marshall " quoted by my critic, and more than
warrants the interpretation criticised.
Secondly, I base myself on the decision itself, as
contradistinguished from the reasons for rendering it,
which, after all, is the main thing. Now, it is incon-
testable that the decision declares that under the power
" to borrow money " Congress may pass a lawmaking
mere paper a legal tender for private debts. I ask
whether, under a construction of the constitution so
broad and liberal as is involved in this decision, we
can conceive of a public measure which will not come
within one or the other of the powers expressly granted
to Congress ? If this question is answered in the
negative, and I am convinced that it must be, it follows
as a corollary that Congress is the sole and respon-
sible judge of the constitutionality of all acts not ex-
pressly prohibited.
Isaac L. Rice.
" Anachronism."
Editor of The Century :
Sir : I have seen, without the shame and confusion
which the fact might have been expected to bring me,
a newspaper paragraph convicting me of "anachro-
nism " in the first installment of my current story in your
pages. As I may hereafter repeat this cause of offense
to accurate minds, perhaps it will be well for me to state
the principle upon which I reconcile it to a conscience
not void of the usual anxiety. It appears to me that
I discharge my whole duty to reality in giving, as
well as I can, the complexion of the period of
which I write, and I would as lief as not allow one of
my persons to speak of Daisy Millerism, even a wjiole
year before Daisy Miller appeared in print, if it gave
a characteristic tint in the portraiture. In like manner
I would make bold to use a type-writer in 1875, when
it had only come into the market in 1874 ; and if an
electric light threw a more impressive glare upon
certain aspects of life than the ordinary gas-burner,
I should have no hesitation in anticipating the inven-
tions of Mr. Edison several months.
An artist illustrating my story would put the people
in the fashions of 1884, though they actually dressed
in those of 1875, and I think he would be right; for
it is the effect of contemporaneousness that is to be
given, and the general truth is sometimes better than
the specific fact.
• W. D. Howells.
The Death of Tecumseh.
Having observed in one number of your admirable
monthly, not very long ago, a query and a reply in
reference to the killing of Tecumseh, I have ever since
intended to add a remark of my own. The purport
of the reply, to the best of my recollection, was that it
had generally been supposed that Colonel Richard M.
Johnson, Vice-President during Mr. Van Buren's
presidential term, had slain Tecumseh, in a personal
encounter, during the battle of the Thames ; but that
some degree of doubt still rested on the fact. This re-
ply recalled to my mind the circumstance that about
the year 1842 I happened to be present where Colonel
Johnson was giving a graphic account of the whole
battle, and in particular of his hand-to-hand conflict
with a powerful Indian, whom he finally killed. The
colonel then remarked that for some time a doubt
had existed whether the Indian killed was really the
formidable chief or not ; but he added, in terms en-
tirely unqualified, that recently developed circum-
stances had removed all uncertainlyas to this fact. He
gave no information showing what circumstances had
determined his question, but simply spoke with posi-
tiveness on the subject.
Colonel Johnson took occasion, in the course of his
interesting narrative, to express a generous admiration
of the bravery of General William Henry Harrison,
his commander at that time, with whom, in a measure,
he may be said to have divided the honors of the
victory ; and either of the two, in the stirring events
of the time, could say, "Quorum magna pars fni."
Carroll, Md.
Benjamin B, Griswold.
The Apathy of 'Women.
The summary in " The Appeal for the Harvard
Annex" of bequests made by women to colleges from
which woman is excluded is of deep import and in-
terest. Woman's generosity, woman's unselfishness,,
are unquestioned ; but woman's apathy to the best in-
terests of her sex, to the limited advantages and op-
portunities for woman's advancement, is amazing.
The difficulty in awakening an interest in, or secur-
ing funds for, any institution devoted to the education
of girls may not be generally understood, but it is
universally experienced, whether the institution be
secular or sectarian. The apathy of women in this
direction is astonishing, for, without waiting to be
taught to reason, a woman's instinct should teach her
how much is involved. It is not for an exclusive,
limited work ; it is not for woman the appeal is made;
it is for a work that in its influences is infinite. It is
for the world's work, in its largest, broadest, deepest,
most literal, most practical sense. It is wise to recog-
nize the powers and responsibilities that are hers, and
to the very utmost develop in her such recognition
that they may be wielded for the good of the country,
the safety and well-being of the people.
Fayette, Missouri. C. P. W.
BRIC-A-BRAC.
Uncle Esek's Wisdom.
It is not power, but the balance of power, that
wins.
The best man living cannot give an undoubted bond
for his good behavior thirty days from date.
Civility is the lowest price we pay for things, and
repentance the highest.
All knowledge begins in doubt, and much of it ends
there.
If mankind had capacity equal to its malice we should
have no use for the Devil.
My friend, if you want to make people think as you
do, let them have their own way ; nothing else will
tire them out so soon.
The line between folly and wisdom is so uncertain
and indistinct that the philosopher and the fool are
often seen prospecting on each other's claims.
Hypocrisy and cunning travel together, and they
can't get very far separately.
The hardest man to shake from the ladder is the
one who mounts a rung at a time.
Men often climb half-way up the ladder and stay
there ; but it is seldom they fall half-way down and
stop short of the bottom.
Nature can make absolute laws, but she can't break
the least of them.
Familiarity is not friendship ; puppies end all their
frolics in a quarrel.
The fox carries the bad news, while the turtle crawls
with the good.
Fame follows us to the grave, scratches a hasty epi-
taph on our tombstone, and then hurries away for the
next man.
There is no satire in truth, and yet a man can't tell
the whole truth without being highly satirical.
There are lots of people who never know anything
until they run against it, and then they know too much.
Fools will bite on anything, like a frog in a puddle.
You can catch them and throw them back again as
often as you please.
Aim high, young man ; then attraction of gravita-
tion, if nothing else, may get your ball into the bull's
eye.
Every one expects to be remembered after they are
dead, and yet not one in a million can give any good
reason why.
The poverty of youth is generally the avarice of old
age.
" Nature abhors a vacuum " ; therefore she fills
some heads with saw-dust.
The man who never takes a chance is beaten just as
often as any one else.
Very precise people have but few brains. That is
what makes them so precise.
Revenge makes a hornet respectable, but it is das-
tardly in a man.
You can't be familiar without losing a certain
amount of respect for yourself, and for the other man
too.
The great misfortune with most of us is, we are
constantly looking ahead for our experience, instead
of looking behind.
No man can expect to live with the virtuous and
mingle with the vicious and keep pure.
In Miss Kate L's Birthday Book.
We parted, and mine eyes were wet ;
Thine, too, I think were brimming.
With tears or brine ? Love, I forget.
Could it be both ? I think not. Yet,
You know we were in swimming.
Charles Henrv Webb.
The Fair Physiologist and the Bachelor of Medicine.
A LAY OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY.
" Oh tell me, gentle maid," he cries,
" Whence flows that falling tear,
Why all-suffused those glist'ning eyes ?
The cause I fain would hear."
"The cause," she says, with downcast eye,
" Unless my mem'ry fail, is
Intensified activity
In the Glandula Lachrymalis."
" But oh, methinks that from your breast
There heaves a gentle sigh,
Refusing, too, to be repressed ;
Sweet maiden, tell me why ? "
" I think," she says, " a sigh is due
To deepened Inspiration,
And this, again, is owing to
Some Reflex Excitation.'1''
" But, mantling on your cheek, I see
The lovely damask rose.
Declare, oh, dearest one, to me
Whence this rich luster flows ? "
" Blushing is caused," the maid replies,
" As Huxley well observes,
By much-dilated arteries
And Vaso-motor Nerves."
" But tell me farther, maiden dear,
Of all these signs the reason.
Do not a blush, a sigh, a tear
Point to some central lesion ? "
"Their cause" (she faintly makes reply)
" As yet escapes detection,
Unless — perchance — they signify
Some — cardiac affection."
" Ah, maid, your diagnosis true
To sure proof is subjected,
Since, by contagion caught from you,
My heart, too, is infected.
And now, to cure us both, I trow,
One med'cine and no more is,
Oh, take the sweet prescription now :
Sume Aurantii Florcs.* "
J. Harper Benson.
Uncle Esek.
* Take orange flowers.
BRIC-A-BRAC.
479
Miss Angelica : " I suppose you have been going out a great deal lately, Mr. McFamish ? '
Mr. McF. : " No. I have only been to one dinner in two weeks."
Miss A. : " Dear me ! You must be hungry ! "
Her "Waiting.
The sunbeams dimpled all the azure ocean,
The robins caroled vows of sweet devotion,
And proudly dipped and rose the snug ship Starling,
When young Elisha whispered, " Good-bye, darling !
'Twill not be long to wait."
The dusty bees buzzed in and out the bluebells,
The roses blushed and tossed their heads like true
belles,
The sun threw fleeting shadows 'cross the mowing,
The brooklet gurgled softly in its flowing, —
And it was long to wait.
Through gay autumnal woods the wind went sighing,
For all his summer sweethearts lay a-dying;
Blue gentians fringed the tiny upland river,
Some late bird-note set one sad heart a-quiver, —
And it was long to wait.
The snow fell thick on river, wood, and clearing,
The blasts swept round and round in mad careering,
And out among the rocks, from dusk to dawning,
Sounded the fog-bell's wildest cry of warning, —
And it was long to wait.
Spring came again, clad in her beauty royal,
As spring will come to steadfast hearts and loyal,
And lo ! the Starling into harbor swinging,
While from each hedge and tree the birds were sing-
ing,
" It was not long to wait ! "
Emma C. Dowd.
480
BRIC-A-BRAC.
Here by My Fire.
Here by my fire, which cracks and glows,
Idly I sit, while fleecy snows
Are lying on the earth's cold breast,
And muse on all that I love best,
Forgetful of my wants and woes.
Soft-footed Sleep a touch bestows,
And weary eyelids part way close,
And fitfully I wake and rest
Here by my fire.
The flames are full of friends and foes ; —
The mute procession comes and goes,
Led by a form divinely dressed :
Of her I dream. This girlish guest
May share my seat some time — who knows?
Here by my fire.
Frank Dempster Sherman.
A Hen on her Eggs.
Ah ! ah ! this time I've got, I think, just five,
White as the moon upon an August night.
I long to see the contents well alive,
For those chicks, still unborn, are my delight.
Bessie Brown, M. D.
'Twas April when she came to town ;
The birds had come, the bees were swarming
Her name, she said, was Doctor Brown :
I saw at once that she was charming.
She took a cottage tinted green,
Where dewy roses loved to mingle ;
And on the door, next day, was seen
A dainty little shingle.
Her hair was like an amber wreath;
Her hat was darker, to enhance it.
The violet eyes that glowed beneath
Were brighter than her keenest lancet.
The beauties of her glove and gown
The sweetest rhyme would fail to utter.
Ere she had been a day in town
The town was in a flutter.
The gallants viewed her feet and hands,
And swore they never saw such wee things ;
The gossips met in purring bands
And tore her piecemeal o'er the tea-things.
The former drank the Doctor's health
With clinking cups, the gay carousers ;
The latter watched her door by stealth,
Just like so many mousers.
My eldest egg — now let me pause and see :
He'll be a valiant rooster-bird, of course,
Having the grace of the ailantus tree,
A linnet's voice, the brute strength of a horse.
My second, I must very fondly dream,
Will be a poule de lettres, and very wise ;
She in linguistics will be held supreme,
And she will learn the idiom of the flies.
That third, delicious, speckled egg of mine
Will bring me forth the handsomest of males,
With military genius, I opine —
A fowl the foe of garden slugs and snails.
That other there — that dotted little dear —
Will cause my poor maternal mind regret ;
For she will be, I positively fear,
The wayward Cleopatra of my set.
But, ah ! the one that has a beauty mark
Right on the top, from Duty ne'er will quail;
She, Christian-like, will suffer in the dark
And be the chickens' Florence Nightingale.
So saying, the hen clucked loudly in her joy,
And waved her wings upon the unhatched eggs ;
But then appeared a stalwart poultry-boy,
With squinting eyes and odious crooked legs !
He seized her offspring right before her eyes,
Took the three best, the ones she prized the most,
And, to the mother's infinite surprise,
Vanished around the corner like a ghost !
But Doctor Bessie went her way
Unmindful of the spiteful cronies.
And drove her buggy every day
Behind a dashing pair of ponies.
Her flower-like face so bright she bore,
I hoped that time might never wilt her.
The way she tripped across the floor
Was better than a philter.
Her patients thronged the village street;
Her snowy slate was always quite full.
Some said her bitters tasted sweet ;
And some pronounced her pills delightful.
'Twas strange — I knew not what it meant —
She seemed a nymph from Eldorado ;
Where'er she came, where'er she went,
Grief lost its gloomy shadow.
Like all the rest, I too grew ill;
My aching heart there was no quelling.
I tremble at my doctor's bill, —
And lo ! the items still are swelling.
The drugs I've drunk you'd weep to hear,!
They've quite enriched the fair concocter,
And I'm a ruined man, I fear,
Unless — I wed the Doctor!
Samuel Mint urn Peck.
The Half-ring Moon.
Over the sea, over the sea,
My love he is gone to a far countree ;
But he brake a golden ring with me,
The pledge of his faith to be.
And, while she hurried after him to say,
" Spare, spare my children, and be ever blest ! "
A weasel, who had seen no food that day,
Happened to tramp along, and sucked the rest.
Over the sea, over the sea,
He comes no more from the far countree;
But at night, where the new moon loved to be,
Hangs the half of a ring for me.
Cupid Jones.
John B. Tabb»
HEAD OF A MAN, BY L. BAKHUIZEN.
[ENGRAVED BY HENRY VELTEN, AFTER A PHOTOGRAPH BY AD. BRAUN & CO., PARIS, OF THE PAINTING IN
THE MUSEUM OF THE HERMITAGE, ST. PETERSBURG.]
MID W INTER NUMBER.
The Century Magazine.
Vol. XXIX.
FEBRUARY, 1885.
No. 4.
ffc'-r,
fiuna.
ESCUTCHEONS IN THE CLOISTER OF SANTA MARIA NOVELLA.
A FLORENTINE MOSAIC.
(first paper.)
I.
All the way down from Turin to Bologna
there was snow; not, of course, the sort of
snow we had left on the other side of the Alps,
or the snow we remembered in America, but
a snow picturesque, spectacular, and no colder
or bleaker to the eye from the car- window than
the cotton-woolly counterfeit which clothes a
landscape of the theater. It covered the whole
Lombard plain to the depth of several inches,
and formed a very pretty decoration for the
naked vines and the trees they festooned. A
sky which remained thick and dun through-
out the day contributed to the effect of winter,
for which, indeed, the Genoese merchant in
our carriage said it was now the season.
But the snow grew thinner as the train
drew southward, and about Bologna the
ground showed through it in patches. Then
the night came on, and when we reached
Florence at nine o'clock we emerged into an
atmosphere which, in comparison with the
severity of the transalpine air, could only be
called mildly reproachful. For a few days we
rejoiced in its concessive softness witli some
such sense of escape as must come to one who
has left moral obligation behind; and then
our penalty began. If we walked half a mile
away from our hotel, we despaired of getting
back, and commonly had ourselves brought
home by one of the kindly cab-drivers who
had observed our exhaustion. It came finally
to our not going away from our hotel to such
distances at all. We observed with a mild
passivity the vigor of the other guests,who went
and came from morning till night, and brought
to the tablc-d'hdte minds full of the spoil of
their day's sight-seeing. We confessed that
we had not, perhaps, been out that day, and
we accounted for ourselves by saying that we
had seen Florence before, a good many years
ago, and that we were in no haste, for we were
going to stay all winter. We tried to pass it off
as well as we could, and a fortnight had gone
by before we had darkened the doors of a
church or a gallery.
I suppose that all this lassitude was the
effect of our sudden transition from the tonic
air of the Swiss mountains ; and I should be
surprised if our experience of the rigors of a
Florentine December were not considered li-
belous by many whose experience was differ-
ent. Nevertheless, I report it ; for the reader
may like to trace to it the languid lack of ab-
solute opinion concerning Florence and her
phenomena, and the total absence of final
wisdom on any point, which I hope he will be
able to detect throughout these pages.
11.
It was quite three weeks before I began
to keep any record of impressions, and I can-
not therefore fix the date at which I pushed
my search for them beyond the limits of
[Copyright, 1884, by The Century Co. All rights reserved.]
484
A FLORENTINE MOSAIC.
the Piazza Santa Maria Novella, where we
were lodged. It is better to own up at
once to any sin which one is likely to be
found out in, for then one gains at least the
credit of candor and courage ; and I will con-
fess here that I had come to Florence with
the intention of writing about it. But I rather
wonder now why I should have thought of
writing of the whole city when one piazza in
it was interesting enough to make a book
about. It was in itself not one of the most
interesting piazzas of Florence in the ordinary
way. I do not know that anything very his-
torical ever happened there ; but that is by
no means saying that there did not. There
used, under the early Medici and the late
grand dukes, to be chariot races in it, the
goals of which are the two obelisks by
John of Bologna, set upon the backs of the
sonally the men were beautiful : not large or
strong, but regular and refined of face, rank
and file alike, in that democracy of good
looks which one sees in no other land. They
marched with a lounging, swinging step, under
a heavy burden of equipment, and with the
sort of quiet patience to which the whole
nation has been schooled in its advance
out of slavish subjection to the van of
civilization.
They were not less charming when they
came through off duty, the officers in their
statuesque cloaks with the gleam of their
swords beneath the folds, striding across the
piazza in twos or threes, the common soldiers
straggling loosely over its space with the air
of peasants let loose amid the wonders of a
city, and smoking their long, straw-stemmed
Italian cigars, with their eyes all abroad. I do
bronze turtles which the sympathetic observer not think they kept up so active a courtship
will fancy gasping under their weight at either
end of the irregular space ; and its wide floor
is still unpaved, so that it is a sop of mud in
rainy weather, and a whirl of dust in dry.
At the end opposite the church is the terminus
of the steam tramway running to Prato, and
with the nursemaids as the soldiers in the Lon-
don squares and parks, but there was a friend-
liness in their relations with the population
everywhere that spoke them still citizens of a
common country, and not alien to its life in any
way. They had leisure just before Epiphany
the small engine that drew the trains of two or to take a great interest in the preparations the
three horse-cars linked together was perpetu- boys were making for the celebration of that
ally fretting and snuffling about the base of feast, with a noise of long, slender trumpets of
the obelisk there, as if that were a stump and
the engine were a boy's dog with intolerable
conviction of a woodchuck under it. From
time to time the conductor blew a small horn
of a feeble, reedy note, like that of the horns
which children find in their stockings on Christ-
mas morning ; and then the poor little engine
hitched itself to the train, and with an air of
hopeless affliction snuffled away toward Prato,
and left the woodchuck under the obelisk to
escape. The impression of a woodchuck was
confirmed by the digging round the obelisk
which a gang of workmen kept up all winter;
they laid down water-pipes, and then dug
them up again. But when the engine was
gone we could give our minds to other sights
in the piazza.
glass; and I remember the fine behavior of a
corporal in a fatigue-cap, who happened along
one day when an orange-vender and a group
of urchins were trying a trumpet, and extort-
ing from it only a few stertorous crumbs of
sound. The corporal put it lightly to his lips,
and blew a blast upon it that almost shivered
our window-panes, and then walked off with
the effect of one who would escape gratitude;
the boys looked after him till he was quite
out of sight with mute wonder, such as pur-
sues the doer of a noble action.
One evening an officer's funeral passed
through the piazza, with a pomp of military
mourning ; but that was no more effective
than the merely civil funeral which we once
saw just at twilight. The bearers were in white
cowls and robes, and one went at the head
of the bier with a large cross. The others
carried torches, which sometimes they inverted,
swinging forward with a slow processional
movement, and chanting monotonously, with
the clesfl" dark of the evening light, keen and
beautiful, around them.
At other times we heard the jangle of a
small bell, and looking out we saw a priest
of Santa Maria, with the Host in his hand
and his taper-bearing retinue around him,
going to administer the extreme unction to
some passing soul in our neighborhood. Some
of the spectators uncovered, but for the most
for we were not taxed to pay for it, and per- part they seemed not to notice it, and the
in.
One of these was the passage of troops,
infantry or cavalry, who were always going
to or from the great railway station behind
the church, and who entered it with a gay
blare of bugles, extinguished midway of the
square, letting the measured tramp of feet
or the irregular clack of hoofs make itself
heard. This was always thrilling, and we
could not get enough of the brave spectacle.
We rejoiced in the parade of Italian military
force with even more than native ardor,
A FLORENTINE MOSAIC.
485
solemnity had an effect of business which I
should be at some loss to make the reader
feel. But that is the effect which church cere-
monial in Italy has always had to me. I do
not say that the Italians are more indifferent
to their religion than other people, but that,
having kept up its shows, always much the
same in the celebration of different faiths, —
Etruscan, Hellenic, Hebraic, — so long, they
member, they lifted their woe-begone coun-
tenances and broke into a long disconsolate
bray, expressive of a despair which has not
yet found its way into poetry and is only
vaguely suggested by some music of the mi-
nor key.
These donkeys, which usually stood under
our hotel, were balanced in the picture by the
line of cabs at the base of the tall buildings on
AN ORANGE-VENDER.
were more tired of them, and were willing to
let it transact itself without their personal con-
nivance when they could.
IV.
All the life of the piazza was alike novel to
the young eyes which now saw it for the first
time from our windows, and lovely in ours, to
which youth seemed to come back in its revis-
ion. I should not know how to give a just sense
of the value of a man who used to traverse
the square with a wide wicker tray on his
head, piled up with Chianti wine flasks that
looked like a heap of great bubbles. I must
trust him to the reader's sympathy, together
with the pensive donkeys abounding there,
who acquired no sort of spiritual pride from
the sense of splendid array, though their
fringed and tasseled harness blazed with bur-
nished brass. They appeared to be stationed
in our piazza while their peasant-owners went
about the city on their errands, and it may
have been in an access of homesickness too
acute for repression that, with a preliminary
quivering of the tail and final rise of that
the other side, whence their drivers watched our
windows with hopes not unnaturally excited
by our interest in them, which they might
well have mistaken for a remote intention of
choosing a cab. From time to time one of
them left the rank, and took a turn in the
square from pure effervescence of expectation,
flashing his equipage upon our eyes, and
snapping his whip in explosions that we heard
even through the closed windows. They were
of all degrees of splendor and squalor, both
cabs and drivers, from the young fellow with
false, floating blue eyes and fur-trimmed coat,
who drove a shining cab fresh from the build-
er's hands, to the little man whose high hat
was worn down almost to its structural paste-
board, and whose vehicle limped over the
stones with querulous complaints from its
rheumatic joints. When we began to drive out,
we resolved to have always the worldlier turn-
out ; but we got it only two or three times,
falling finally and permanently — as no doubt
we deserved, in punishment of our heartless
vanity — to the wreck at the other extreme
of the scale. There is no describing the zeal
and vigilance by which this driver obtained
and secured us to himself. For a while we
486
A FLORENTINE MOSAIC.
practiced devices for avoiding him, and did
not scruple to wound his feelings; but we
might as well have been kind, for it came to
the same thing in the end. Once we had al-
most escaped. Our little man's horse had been
feeding, and he had not fastened his bridle
on when the portiere called a carriage for us.
He made a snatch at his horse's bridle; it
came off in his hand and hung dangling ; an-
other driver saw the situation and began to
whip his horse across the square; our little
man seized his horse by the forelock, and drag-
ging him along at the top of his speed, arrived
at the hotel door a little the first. What
could we do but laugh ? Everybody in the
piazza applauded, and I think it must have
been this fact which confirmed our subjection.
After that we pretended once that our little
man had cheated us; but with respectful
courage he contested the fact, and convinced
us that we were wrong ; he restored a gold
pencil which he had found in his cab ; and,
though he never got it, he voluntarily promised
to get a new coat, to do us the more honor
when he drove us out to pay visits.
v.
He was, like all of his calling with whom we
had to do in Florence, amiable and faithful, and
he showed that personal interest in us from the
beginning which is instant with most of them,
and which found pretty expression when I
was sending home a child to the hotel from a
distance at nightfall. I was persistent in get-
ting the driver's number, and he divined the
cause of my anxiety.
" Oh ! rest easy ! " he said, leaning down
toward me from his perch. " I, too, am a
father!"
Possibly a Boston hackman might have gone
so far as to tell me that he had young ones
of his own, but he would have snubbed in
reassuring me; and it is this union of grace
with sympathy which, I think, forms the true
expression of Italian civilization. It is not
yet valued aright in the world; but the time
must come when it will not be shouldered
aside by physical and intellectual brutality.
I hope it may come so soon that the Italians
will not have learned bad manners from the
rest of us. As yet, they seem uncontaminated,
and the orange-vender who crushes a plump
grandmother up against the wall in some
narrow street is as gayly polite in his apolo-
gies, and she as graciously forgiving, as they
could have been under any older regime.
But probably the Italians could not change
if they would. They may fancy changes in
themselves and in one another, but the barba-
rian who returns to them after a long absence
cannot see that they are personally different,
for all their political transformations. Life,
which has become to us like a book which
we silently peruse in the closet, or at most read
aloud with a few friends, is still a drama with
them, to be more or less openly played. This
is what strikes you at first, and strikes you
at last : it is the most recognizable thing in
Italy, and I was constantly pausing in my
languid strolls, confronted by some dramatic
episode so bewilderingly familiar that it
seemed to me I must have already attempted
to write about it. One day, on the narrow
sidewalk beside the escutcheoned cloister-
wall of the church, two young and handsome
people stopped me while they put upon that
public stage the pretty melodrama of their
feelings. The bare-headed girl wore a dress
of the red and black plaid of the Florentine
laundresses, and the young fellow standing
beside her had a cloak falling from his left
shoulder. She was looking down and away
from him, impatiently pulling with one hand
at the fingers of another, and he was vividly
gesticulating, while he explained or expostu-
lated, with his eyes not upon her, but looking
straight forward ; and they both stood as if, in
a moment of opera, they were confronting an
audience over the footlights. But they were
both quite unconscious, and were merely
obeying the histrionic instinct of their race.
So was the school-boy in clerical robes, when,
goaded by some taunt, pointless to the foreign
bystander, he flung himself into an attitude
of deadly scorn, and defied the tormenting
gamins ; so were the vender of chestnut-paste
and his customer, as they debated over the
smoking viand the exact quantity and quality
which a soldo ought to purchase, in view of the
state of the chestnut market and the price de-
manded elsewhere ; so was the little woman
who deplored, in impassioned accents, the
non-arrival of the fresh radishes we liked with
our coffee, when I went a little too early for
them to her stall ; so was the fruiterer who
called me back with an effect of heroic mag-
nanimity to give me the change I had for-
gotten, after beating him down from a franc
to seventy centimes on a dozen of mandarin
oranges. The sweetness of his air, tempering
the severity of his self-righteousness in doing
this, lingers with me yet, and makes me
ashamed of having got the oranges at a just
price. I wish he had cheated me.
We, too, can be honest if we try, but the
effort seems to sour most of us. We hurl our
integrity in the teeth of the person whom we
deal fairly with ; but when the Italian makes
up his mind to be just, it is in no ungracious
spirit. It was their lovely ways, far more than
A FLORENTINE MOSAIC.
487
their monuments of history and art, that made
return to the Florentines delightful. I would
rather have had a perpetuity of the cameriere's
smile when he came up with our coffee in
the morning than Donatello's San Giorgio, if
either were purchasable ; and
the face of the old chamber-
maid, Maria, full of motherly
affection, was better than the
facade of Santa Maria No-
vella.
VI.
It is true that the church
bore its age somewhat bet-
ter; for though Maria must
have been beautiful, too, in
her youth, her complexion
had not that luminous flush
in which three hundred years
a school-boy. have been painting the mar-
ble front of the church. It is
this light, or this color, — I hardly know which
to call it, — that remains in my mind as the most
characteristic quality of Santa Maria Novella ;
and I would like to have it go as far as possi-
ble with the reader, for I know that the edifice
would not otherwise present itself in my pages,
however flatteringly entreated or severely cen-
sured. I remember the bold mixture of the styles
in its architecture,' the lovely sculptures of its
grand portals, the curious sun-dials high in its
front ; I remember the brand-new restoration
of the screen of monuments on the right, with
the arms of the noble patrons of the church
carved below them, and the grass of the space
inclosed showing green through the cloister-
arches all winter long ; I remember also
the unemployed laborers crouching along its
sunny base for the heat publicly dispensed in
Italy on bright days — when it is not needed ;
and they all gave me the same pleasure, equal
in degree, if not in kind. While the languor of
these first days was still heavy upon me, I crept
into the church for a look at the Ghirlandajo
frescoes behind the high altar, the Virgin of
Cimabue, and the other objects which one is
advised to see there, and had such modest
satisfaction in them as may come to one who
long ago, once for all, owned to himself that
emotions to which others testified in the pres-
ence of such things were beyond him. The
old masters and their humble acquaintance
met shyly, after so many years ; these were
the only terms on which I, at least, could
preserve my self-respect ; and it was not till
we had given ourselves time to overcome our
mutual diffidence that the spirit in which their
work was imagined stole into my heart and
made me thoroughly glad of it again. Per-
haps the most that ever came to me was a
sense of tender reverence, of gracious quaint-
ness in them ; but this was enough. In the
meanwhile I did my duty in Santa Maria
Novella. I looked conscientiously at all the
pictures, in spite of a great deal of trouble I
had in putting on my glasses to read my
" Walks in Florence " and taking them off to
see the paintings ; and I was careful to iden-
tify the portraits of Poliziano and the other
Florentine gentlemen and ladies in the fres-
coes. I cannot say that I was immediately
sensible of advantage in this achievement;
but I experienced a present delight in the
Spanish chapel at finding not only Petrarch
and Laura, but Boccaccio and Fiammetta, in
the groups enjoying the triumphs of the
church militant. It will always remain a con-
fusion in our thick Northern heads, this attri-
bution of merit through mere belief to people
whose lives cast so little luster on their creeds ;
but the confusion is an agreeable one, and I
enjoyed it as much as when it first overcame
me in Italy.
VII.
The cicerone who helped me about these
figures was a white-robed young monk, one
of twelve who are still left at Santa Maria
Novella to share the old cloisters now mainly
occupied by the pupils of a military college
and a children's school. It was noon, and
the corridors and the court were full of boys
at their noisy games, on whom the young
father smiled patiently, lifting his gentle voice
above their clamor to speak of the suppression
of the convents. This was my first personal
knowledge of the effect of that measure, and
I now perceived the hardship which it must
have involved, as I did not when I read of it,
with my Pro-
testant satis-
faction, in the
newspapers.
The uncom-
fortable thing
about any in-
stitution which
has survived its
usefulness is
that it still em-
bodies so much
harmless life
that must suf-
fer in its des-
truction. The
monks and __ ,_—
nuns had been ['^
a heavy bur-
den nO dOUbt, A CHESTNUT-VENDER.
488
A FLORENTINE MOSAIC.
A LABORER.
for many ages, and at
the best they cum-
bered the ground ; but
when it came to a ques-
--- tion of sweeping them
away, it meant sorrow
and exile and dismay
to thousands of gentle
and blameless spirits
like the brother here,
who recounted one of
many such histories so
meekly, so unresentfully. He and his few
fellows were kept there by the piety of certain
faithful who, throughout Italy, still maintain
a dwindling number of monks and nuns in
their old cloisters wherever the convent hap-
pened to be the private property of the order.
I cannot say that they thus quite console the
sentimentalist who would not have the con-
vents reestablished, even while suffering a
poignant regret for their suppression ; but I
know from myself that this sort of sentiment-
alist is very difficult, and perhaps he ought
not to be too seriously regarded.
VIII.
The sentimentalist is very abundant in
Italy, and most commonly he is of our race
and religion, though he is rather English than
American. The Englishman, so chary of his
sensibilities at home, abandons himself to them
abroad. At Rome he already regrets the good
old days of the temporal power, when the
streets were unsafe after nightfall and unclean
the whole twenty-four hours, and there was
no new quarter. At Venice he is bowed down
under the restorations of the Ducal Palace
and the church of St. Mark; and he has no
language in which to speak of the little
steamers on the Grand Canal, which the Vene-
tians find so convenient. In Florence, from
time to time, he has a panic prescience that
they are going to tear down the Ponte Vec-
chio. I do not know how he gets this, but he
has it, and all the rest of us sentimentalists
eagerly share it with him when he comes in
to the table-d 7/ dte luncheon, puts his Baedeker
down by his plate, and before he has had a
bite of anything calls out : " Well, they are
going to tear down the Ponte Vecchio ! "
The first time that this happened in our
hotel, I was still under the influence of the
climate; but I resolved to visit the Ponte
Vecchio with no more delay, lest they should
be going to tear it down that afternoon. It
was not that I cared a great deal for the
bridge itself, but my accumulating impressions
of Florentine history had centered about it as
the point at which that history really began
to be historic. I had formed the idea of a little
dramatic opening for my sketches there, with
Buondelmonte riding in from his villa to meet
his bride, and all that spectral train of Ghibel-
line and Guelphic tragedies behind them on the
bridge ; and it appeared to me that this could
not be managed if the bridge were going to be
torn down. I trembled for my cavalcade, igno-
miniously halted on the other side of the Arno,
or obliged to go round and come in on some
other bridge without regard to the fact ; and
at some personal inconvenience I hurried off
to the Ponte Vecchio. I could not see that
the preparations for its destruction had begun,
and I believe they are still threatened only in
the imagination of sentimental Anglo-Saxons.
The omnibuses were following each other
over the bridge in the peaceful succession of
so many horse-cars to Cambridge, and the
ugly little jewelers' booths glittered in their
wonted security on either hand all the way
across. The carriages, the carts, the foot-pas-
sengers were swarming up and down from the
thick turmoil
of Por San
Maria ; and
the bridge did
not respond
with the slight-
est tremor to
the heel clan-
destinely
stamped upon
it for a final
test of its sta-
bility.
But the
alarm I had
suffered was
no doubt use-
ful, for it was
after this that
I really began
to be serious with my material, as I found it
everywhere in the streets and the books, and
located it from one to the other. Even if one
has no literary designs upon the facts, that is
incomparably the best way of dealing with
the past. At home, in the closet, one may
read history, but one can realize it, as if it were
something personally experienced, only on the
spot where it was lived. This seems to me the
prime use of travel ; and to create the reader
a partner in the enterprise and a sharer in its
realization seems the sole excuse for books of
travel, now when modern facilities have abol-
ished hardship and danger and adventure, and
nothing is more likely to happen to one in
Florence than in Fitchburg.
In this pursuit of the past, the inquirer will
THE SUN.
A FLORENTINE MOSAIC.
491
often surprise himself in the possession of a
genuine emotion ; at moments the illustrious
or pathetic figures of other days will seem to
walk before him unmocked by the grotesque
and burlesquing shadows we all cast while in
the flesh. I will not swear it, but it would
take little to persuade me that I had vanishing
glimpses of many of these figures in Florence.
One of the advantages of this method is that
you have your historical personages in a sort
of picturesque contemporaneity with one an-
other and with yourself, and you imbue them
all with the sensibilities of our own time. Per-
haps this is not an advantage, but it shows
what may be done by the imaginative faculty ;
and if we do not judge men by ourselves,
how are we to judge them at all?
IX.
I took some pains with my Florentines,
first and last, I will confess it. I went quite
back with them to the lilies that tilted all
over the plain where they founded their city
in the dawn of history, and that gave her that
flowery name of hers. I came down with
them from Fiesole to the first marts they held
by the Arno for the convenience of the mer-
chants who did not want to climb that long
hill to the Etruscan citadel ; and I built my
wooden hut with the rest hard by the Ponte
Vecchio, which was an old bridge a thousand
years before Gaddi's structure. I was with
them all through that dim turmoil of wars,
martyrdoms, pestilences, heroisms, and trea-
sons for a thousand years, feeling their in-
creasing purpose of municipal freedom and
hatred of the one-man power (il governo dyun
solo) alike under Romans, Huns, Longobards,
Franks, and Germans, till in the eleventh
century they marched up against their mother
city, and destroyed Fiesole, leaving nothing
standing but the fortress, the cathedral, and
the Caffe Aurora, where the visitor lunches
at this day, and has an incomparable view of
Florence in the distance. When, in due time,
the proud citizens began to go out from their
gates and tumble their castles about the ears
of the Germanic counts and barons in the
surrounding country, they had my sympathy
almost to the point of active cooperation •
though I doubt now if we did well to let those
hornets come into the town and build other
nests within the walls, where they continued
nearly as pestilent as ever. Still, so long as
no one of them came to the top permanently,
there was no danger of the one-man power
we dreaded, and we could adjust our arts,
our industries, our finances to the state of
street warfare, even if it lasted, as at one time,
for forty years. I was as much opposed as
Dante himself to the extension of the national
limits, though I am not sure now that our
troubles came from acquiring territory three
miles away, beyond the Ema, and I could
not trace the bitterness of partisan feeling
even to the annexation of Prato, whither it
took me a whole hour to go by the steam-
tram. But when the factions were divided un-
der the names of Guelph and Ghibelline, and
subdivided again into Bianchi and Neri, I
was always of the Guelph and the Bianchi
party, for it seemed to me that these wished
the best to the commonwealth, and preserved
most actively the traditional fear and hate of
the one-man power. I believed heartily in the
wars against Pisa and Siena, though after-
ward, when I visited those cities, I took their
part against the Florentines, perhaps because
they were finally reduced by the Medici — a
family I opposed from the very first, uniting
with any faction or house that contested its
rise. They never deceived me when they
seemed to take the popular side, nor again
when they voluptuously favored the letters
and arts, inviting the city full of Greeks to
teach them. I mourned all through the reign
of Lorenzo the Magnificent over the subjec-
tion of the people, never before brought un-
der the one-man power, and flattered to their
undoing by the splendors of the city and the
state he created for him. When our disso-
lute youth went singing his obscene songs
through the moonlit streets, I shuddered
with a good Piagnone's abhorrence ; and I
heard one morning with a stern and solemn
joy that the great Frate had refused absolu-
tion to the dying despot who had refused
freedom to Florence. Those were great days
for one of my thinking, when Savonarola real-
ized the old Florentine ideal of a free com-
monwealth, with the Medici banished, the
Pope defied, and Christ king; days incred-
ibly dark and terrible, when the Frate paid
for his good-will to us with his life, and suf-
fered by the Republic which he had restored.
Then the famous siege came, the siege of fif-
teen months, when Papist and Lutheran united
under one banner against us, and treason did
what all the forces of the Empire had failed
to effect. Yet Florence, the genius of the
great democracy, never showed more glorious
than in that supreme hour, just before she
vanished forever, and the Medici bastard en-
tered the city out of which Florence had died,
to be its liege lord where no master had ever
been openly confessed before. I could follow the
Florentines intelligently through all till that;
but then, what suddenly became of that burn-
ing desire of equality, that deadly jealousy of a
492
A FLORENTINE MOSAIC.
THE VIRGINIA CIGAR.
tyrant's domination, that love of country sur-
passing the love of life ? It is hard to recon-
cile ourselves to the belief that the right can
be beaten ; that the spirit of a generous and
valiant people can be broken ; but this is what
seems again and again to happen in history,
though never so signally,
so spectacularly, as in
Florence when the Me-
dici were restored. After
that there were conspira-
cies and attempts of in-
dividuals to throw off the
yoke ; but in the great
people,the prostrate body
of the old democracy, not
a throe of revolt. Had
they outlived the passion of their youth for lib-
erty, or were they sunk in despair before the
odds arrayed against them ? I did not know
what to do with the Florentines from this point ;
they mystified me, silently suffering under the
Medici for two hundred years, and then sleep-
ing under the Lorrainese for another century,
to awake in our own time the most polite,
the most agreeable of the Italians perhaps,
but the most languid. They say of them-
selves, " We lack initiative " ; and the foreigner
most disposed to confess his ignorance can-
not help having heard it said of them by other
Italians that while the Turinese, Genoese,
and Milanese, and even the Venetians, excel
them in industrial enterprise, they are less even
than the Neapolitans in intellectual activity ;
and that when the capital was removed to
Rome they accepted adversity almost with in-
difference, and resigned themselves to a sec-
ond place in everything. I do not know
whether this is true; there are some things
against it, as that the Florentine schools are
confessedly the best in Italy, and that it would
be hard anywhere in that country or another
to match the group of scholars and writers
who form the University of Florence. These
are not all Florentines, but they live in Flor-
ence, where almost any one would choose to
live if he did not live in London, or Boston,
or New York, or Helena, Montana T. There
is no more comfortable city in the world, I
fancy. American canned goods, including Bos-
ton baked beans, are to be had at the princi-
pal grocers', and there is almost every shade
of Protestant preaching, with Catholic ser-
mons in English every Sunday. But you can-
not paint comfort so as to interest the reader
of a magazine paper. Even the lack of ini-
tiative in a people who conceal their adver-
sity under very good clothes, and have abol-
ished beggary, cannot be made the subject
of a graphic sketch ; one must go to their
past for that.
x.
Yet if the reader had time, I would like to
linger a little on our way down to the Via
Borgo Santi Apostoli, where it branches off
into the Middle Ages out of Via Tornabuoni,
not far from Vieusseux's Circulating Library.
For Via Tornabuoni is charming, and merits
to be observed for the ensemble it offers of
the contemporary Florentine expression, with
its alluring shops, its confectioners and cafes,
its florists and milliners, its dandies and tour-
ists, and, ruggedly massing up out of their
midst, the mighty bulk of its old Strozzi palace,
mediaeval, somber, superb, tremendously im-
pressive of the days when really a man's house
was his castle. Everywhere in Florence, the
same sort of contrast presents itself in some
degree ; but nowhere quite so dramatically as
here, where it seems expressly contrived for the
sensation of the traveler when he arrives at
the American banker's with his letter of credit
the first morning, or comes to the British
pharmacy for his box of quinine pills. It is
eminently the street of the tourists, who are
always haunting it on some errand. The
best shops are here, and the most English is
spoken ; you hear our tongue spoken almost
as commonly as Italian and much more loudly,
both from the chest and through the nose,
whether the one is advanced with British
firmness to divide the groups of civil and
military loiterers on the narrow pavement
before the confectioner Giacosa's, or the other
is flattened with American curiosity against the
panes of the jewelers' windows. There is not
here the glitter of mosaics which fatigues the
eye on the Lungarno or in Via Borgognissanti,
nor the white glare of new statuary — or stat-
uettary, rather
— which ren-
ders other
streets impas-
sable ; but
there is a so-
bered richness
in the display,
and a local
character in
the prices
which will so-
ber the pur
chaser.
Florence is
not well pro-
vided with
spaces for the
outdoor loun-
ging which
Italian leisure
loves, and you
r,visr>
A FLORENTINE FLOWER-GIRL.
A FLORENTINE MOSAIC.
493
must go to the Cascine for much Florentine
fashion if you want it ; but something of it is
always rolling down through Via Tornabuoni
in its carriage at the proper hour of the day,
and something more is always standing before
Giacosa's, English-tailored, Italian-mannered,
to bow, and smile, and comment. I was glad
that the sort of swell whom I used to love in
the Piazza at Venice abounded in the narrower
limits of Via Tornabuoni. I was afraid he was
dead; but he graced the curbstone there with
the same lily-like disoccupation and the same
sweetness of aspect which made the Procuratie
Nuove like a parterre. He was not without his
small dog or his cane held to his mouth; he was
very, very patient and kind with the aged crone
who plays the part of Florentine flower-girl in
Via Tornabuoni, and whom I after saw aiming
with uncertain eye a boutonniere of violets at
his coat-lapel ; there was the same sort of calm,
heavy-eyed beauty looking out at him from
her ice or coffee through the vast pane of the
confectioner's window, that stared sphinx-like
in her mystery from a cushioned corner of
Florian's ; and the officers went by with tink-
ling spurs and sabers, and clicking boot-heels,
differing in nothing but their Italian uniforms
and complexions from the blonde Austrian
military of those far-off days. I often won-
dered who or what those beautiful swells might
be, and now I rather wonder that I did not
ask some one who could tell me. But perhaps
it was not important ; perhaps it might even
have impaired their value in the picture of a
conscientious artist who can now leave them,
without a qualm, to be imagined as rich and
noble as the reader likes. Not all the fre-
quenters of Doney's famous cafe were both,
if one could trust hearsay. Besides those who
could afford to drink the first sprightly run-
nings of his coffee-pot, it was said that tljere
was a genteel class who, for the sake of being
seen to read their newspapers there, paid for
the second decantation .from its grounds,
which comprised what was left in the cups
from the former. This might be true of a
race which loves a goodly outside perhaps a
little better than we do ; but Doney's is not
the Doney's of old days, nor its coffee so very
good at first hand. Yet if that sort of self-
sacrifice goes on in there, I do not object ; it
continues the old Latin tradition of splendor
and hunger which runs through so many pleas-
ant books, and is as good in its way as a beggar
at the gate of a palace. It is a contrast ; it flat-
ters the reader who would be incapable of it ;
and let us, have it. It is one of the many con-
trasts in Florence of which I spoke, and not
all of which there is time to point out. But if
you would have the full effect of the grimness
and rudeness of the Strozzi Palace (drolly
parodied, by the way, in a structure of the
same street which is like a Strozzi Palace on the
stage), look at that bank of flowers at one cor-
ner of its base,— roses, carnations, jonquils,
great Florentine anemones, — laying their
delicate cheeks against the savage blocks of
stone, rent and burst from their quarry, and
set here with their native rudeness untamed
by hammer or chisel.
XI.
The human passions were wrought almost
as primitive into the civic structure of Flor-
ence, down in the thirteenth century, which you
AT DONEY S.
will find with me at the bottom of the Borgo
Santi Apostoli, if you like to come. There
and thereabouts dwelt the Buondelmonti, the
Amidei, the Uberti, the Lamberti, and other
noble families, in fastnesses of stone and iron
as formidable as the castles from which their
ancestors were dislodged when the citizens
went out into the country around Florence,
and destroyed their strongholds and obliged
them to come into the city ; and thence from
their casements and towers they carried on
their private wars as conveniently as ever,
descending into the streets, and battling about
among the peaceful industries of the vicinity
for generations. It must have been inconven-
ient for the industries, but so far as one can
understand, they suffered it just as a Ken-
tucky community now suffers the fighting out
of a family feud in its streets, and philosophic-
ally gets under shelter when the shooting be-
gins. It does not seem to have been objected
to some of these palaces that they had vaulted
494
A FLORENTINE MOSAIC.
passageways under their first stories, provided
with trap-doors to let the "besieged pour hot
water down on the passers below ; these ave-
nues were probably strictly private, and the
citizens did not use them at times when family
feeling ran high. In fact, there could have
been but little coming and going about these
houses for any who did not belong in them.
A whole quarter, covering the space of several
American city blocks, would be given up to
the palaces of one family and its adherents,
in a manner which one can hardly understand
without seeing it. The Peruzzi, for example,
inclosed a Roman amphitheater with their
palaces, which still follow in structure the
circle of the ancient edifice; and the Peruzzi
were rather peaceable people, with less occa-
sion for fighting-room than many other Flor-
entine families — far less than the Buondel-
monti, Uberti, Amidei, Lamberti, Gherardini,
and others, whose domestic fortifications seem
to have occupied all that region lying near
the end of the Ponte Vecchio. They used to
fight from their towers on three corners of
Por San Maria above the heads of the people
passing to and from the bridge, and must
have occasioned a great deal of annoyance
to the tourists of that day. Nevertheless, they
seem to have dwelt in very tolerable enmity
together till one day when a Florentine gen-
tleman invited all the noble youth of the city
to a banquet at his villa, where, for their
greater entertainment, there was a buffoon
playing his antics. This poor soul seems not
to have been a person of better taste than
some other humorists, and he thought it droll
to snatch away the plate of Uberto degl' In-
fangati, who had come with Buondelmonte,
at which Buondelmonte became furious, and
resented the insult to his friend, probably in
terms that disabled the politeness of those
who laughed, for it is recorded that Oddo di
Arrigo deiFifanti, " a proud and resolute man,"
became so incensed as to throw a plate and
its contents into Uberto's face. The tables
were overturned, and Buondelmonte stabbed
Oddo with a knife ; at which point the party
seems to have broken up, and Oddo returned
to Florence from Campi, where the banquet
was given, and called a family council to plot
vengeance. But a temperate spirit prevailed
in this senate, and it was decided that Buon-
delmonte, instead of dying, should marry
Oddo's niece, Reparata degli Amidei, differ-
ently described by history as a plain girl, and
as one of the most beautiful and accomplished
damsels of the city, of a very noble and con-
sular family. Buondelmonte, a handsome and
gallant cavalier, but a weak will, as appears
from all that happened, agreed to this, and
everything was happily arranged, till one day
when he was riding by the house of Forese
Donati. Monna Gualdrada Donati was look-
ing out of the window, and possibly expecting
the young man. She called to him, and when
he had alighted and come into the house she
began to mock him.
"Cheer up, young lover! Your wedding-
day is coming, and you will soon be happy
with your bride."
" You know very well," said Buondelmonte,
" that this marriage was a thing I could not
get out of."
" Oh, indeed ! " cried Monna Gualdrada.
" As if you did not care for a pretty wife ! "
And then it was, we may suppose, that she
hinted those things she is said to have insin-
uated against Reparata's looks and her fitness
otherwise for a gentleman like Buondelmonte.
" If I had known you were in such haste
to marry — but God's will.be done ! We can-
not have things as we like in this world ! "
And Machiavelli says that the thing Monna
Gualdrada had set her heart on was Buon-
delmonte's marriage with her daughter, " but
either through carelessness, or because she
thought it would do any time, she had not
mentioned it to any one." She added, prob-
ably with an affected carelessness, that the
Donati were of rather better lineage than the
Amidei, though she did not know whether he
would have thought her Beatrice as pretty as
Reparata. And then suddenly she brought
him face to face with the girl, radiantly beau-
tiful, the most beautiful in Florence. "This
is the wife I was keeping for you," said
Monna Gualdrada ; and she must have known
her ground well, for she let the poor young
man understand that her daughter had long
been secretly in love with him. Malespini
tells us that Buondelmonte was tempted by a
diabolical spirit to break faith at this sight ;
the devil accounted for a great many things
then to which we should not now, perhaps,
assign so black an origin. " And I would very
willingly marry her," he faltered, "if I were
not bound by that solemn promise to the
Amidei"; and Monna Gualdrada now plied
the weak soul with such arguments and rea-
sons, in such wise as women can use them,
that he yielded, and giving his hand to Bea-
trice, he did not rest till they were married.
Then the Amidei, the Uberti, the Lamberti,
and the Fifanti, and others who were out-
raged in their cousinship or friendship by this
treachery and insult to Reparata, assembled
in the church of Santa Maria sopra Porta to
take counsel again for vengeance. Some
were of opinion that Buondelmonte should
be cudgeled, and thus publicly put to shame ;
others that he should be wounded and dis-
figured in the face ; but Mosca Lamberti
A STREET IN FLORENCE.
A FLORENTINE MOSAIC.
497
rose and said : " There is no need of all
these words. If you strike him or disfigure
him, get your graves ready to hide in. Cosa
falta capo ha / " With which saying he advised
them to make an end of Buondelmonte alto-
gether. His words had the acceptance that
they would now have in a Kentucky family
council, and they agreed to kill Buondel-
monte when he should come to fetch home
his bride. On Easter morning, in the year
12 15, they were waiting for him in the house
of the Amidei, at the foot of the Ponte Vec-
chio ; and when they saw him come riding,
richly dressed in white, on a white palfrey,
over the bridge, and " fancying," says Ma-
chiavelli, " that such a wrong as breaking an
engagement could be so easily forgotten,"
they sallied out to the statue of Mars which
used to be there. As Buondelmonte reached
the group, — it must have been, for all his
courage, with a face as white as his mantle, —
Schiatta degli Uberti struck him on the head
with a stick, so that he dropped stunned from
his palfrey. Then Oddo di Arrigo, whom he
had stabbed, and Mosca Lamberti, who had
pronounced his sentence, and Lambertaccio
Amidei, " and one of the Gangolandi," ran
and cut his throat.
There arose a terrible tumult in the city,
and the girl whose fatal beauty had wrought
this horror, governing herself against her
woman's weakness with supernatural strength,
mounted the funeral car beside her lover's body,
and taking his head into her lap, with his blood
soaking her bridal robes, was drawn through
the city everywhere, crying for vengeance.
From that hour, they tell us, the factions that
had long tormented Florence took new names,
and those who had sided with the Buondel-
monti and the Donati for the Pope against
the Emperor became Guelphs, while the parti-
sans of the Amidei and the Empire became
Ghibellines, and began that succession of re-
ciprocal banishments which kept a good fourth
of the citizens in exile for three hundred years.
XII.
What impresses one in this and the other
old Florentine stories is the circumstantial
minuteness with which they are told, and
their report has an air of simple truth very
different from the literary factitiousness to
which one is tempted in following them.
After six centuries the passions are as living,
the characters as distinct, as if the thing hap-
pened yesterday. Each of the persons stands
out a very man or woman, in that clear, strong
light of the early day through which they
move. From the first the Florentines were
Vol. XXIX.— 49.
able to hit each other off with an accuracy
which comes of the southern habit of living
much together in public, and one cannot
question these lineaments. Buondelmonte,
Mosca Lamberti, Monna Gualdrada, and
even that " one of the Gangolandi," how
they possess the imagination ! Their palaces
still rise there in the grim, narrow streets, and
seem no older in that fine Florentine air than
houses of fifty years ago elsewhere. They
were long since set apart, of course, to other
uses. The chief palace of the Buondelmonti
is occupied by an insurance company ; there
is a little shop for the sale of fruit and vege-
tables niched into the grand Gothic portal of
the tower, and one is pushed in among the
pears and endives by the carts which take up
the whole street from wall to wall in passing.
The Lamberti palace was confiscated by the
Guelph party, and was long used by the Art
of Silk for its guild meetings. Now it is a fire-
engine house, where a polite young lieutenant
left his architectural drawings to show us
some frescoes of Giotto lately uncovered there
over an old doorway. Over a portal outside
the arms of the guild were beautifully carved
by Donatello, as you may still see ; and in a
lofty angle of the palace the exquisite loggia
of the family shows its columns and balustrade
against the blue sky.
I say blue sky for the sake of the color, and
because that is expected of one in mentioning
the Florentine sky ; but, as a matter of fact, I
do not believe it was blue half a dozen days
during the winter of '82-83. The prevailing
weather was gray, and down in the passages
about the bases of these mediaeval structures
the sun never struck, and the point of the
mediaeval nose must always have been very
cold from the end of November till the begin-
ning of April. '
The tradition of an older life continues into
the present everywhere ; only in Italy it is a
little more evident, and one realizes in the
discomfort of the poor, who have succeeded
to these dark and humid streets, the discom-
fort of the rich who once inhabited them, and
whose cast-off manners have been left there.
Monna Gualdrada would not now call out to
Buondelmonte riding under her window, and
make him come in and see her beautiful
daughter ; but a woman of the class which now
peoples the old Donati houses might do it.
I walked through the Borgo Santi Apostoli
for the last time late in March, and wandered
round in the winter, still lingering in that won-
derful old nest of palaces, before I came out
into the cheerful bustle of Por San Maria, the
street which projects the glitter of its jewelers'
shops quite across the Ponte Vecchio. One
of these, on the left corner, just before you
498
A FLORENTINE MOSAIC.
reach the bridge, is said to occupy the site
of the loggia of the Amidei ; and if you are
young and strong, you may still see them
waiting there for Buondelmonte. But my eyes
are not very good any more, and I saw only
the amiable modern Florentine crowd, swollen
by a vast number of English and American
tourists, who at this season begin to come up
from Rome. There are a good many anti-
quarian and bric-a-brac shops in Por San
Maria; but the towers from which the vanished
families used to fight have been torn down,
so that there is comparatively little danger
from a chance bolt there.
XIII.
One of the furious Ghibelline houses of
this quarter were the Gherardini, who are
said to have become the Fitzgeralds of Ire-
land, whither they went in their exile, and
where they enjoyed their fighting privileges
long after those of their friends and ac-
quaintances remaining in Florence had been
cut off. The city annals would no doubt tell
us what end the Amidei and the Lamberti
made ; from the Uberti came the great Fari-
nata, who, in exile with the other Ghibellines,
refused with magnificent disdain to join them
in the destruction of Florence. But the his-
tory of the Buondelmonti has become part
of the history of the world. One branch of
the family migrated from Tuscany to Cor-
sica, where they changed their name to Buo-
naparte, and from them came the great Na-
poleon. As to that "one of the Gangolandi,"
he teases me into vain conjecture, lurking
in the covert of his family name, an elusive
personality which I wish some poet would
divine for us. The Donati afterward made
a marriage which brought them into as
lasting remembrance as the Buondelmonti;
and one visits their palaces for the sake of
Dante rather than Napoleon. They inclose,
with the Alighieri house in which the poet
was born, the little Piazza Donati, which you
reach by going up the Corso to the Borgo
degli Albizzi, and over against them on that
street the house of the Portinari stood, where
Beatrice lived, and where it must have been
that she first appeared to the rapt boy who
was to be the world's Dante, " clothed in a
most noble color, a modest and becoming
crimson, garlanded and adorned in such wise
as befitted her very youthful age." The pal-
ace of the Salviati — in which Cosmo I. was
born, and in which his father, Giovanni delle
Bande, taught the child courage by flinging
him from an upper window into the arms of
a servitor below — has long occupied the
site of the older edifice ; and the Piazza Do-
nati, whatever dignity it may once have had,
is now nothing better than a shabby court.
The back windows of the tall houses sur-
rounding it look into it when not looking
into one another, and see there a butcher's
shop, a smithy, a wagon-maker's, and an inn for
peasants with stabling. On a day when I
was there, a wash stretched fluttering across
the rear of Dante's house, and the banner of
a green vine trailed from a loftier balcony.
From one of the Donati casements an old
woman in a purple knit jacket was watching
a man repainting an omnibus in front of the
wagon shop ; a great number of canaries sang
in cages all round the piazza; a wrinkled
peasant with a faded green cotton umbrella
under his arm gave the place an effect of rus-
tic sojourn ; and a diligence that two playful
stable-boys were long in hitching up drove
jingling out, with its horses in brass-studded
head-stalls, past where I stood under the fine
old arches of the gateway. I had nothing to
object to all this, nor do I suppose that this
last state of his old neighborhood much
vexes the poet now. It was eminently pic-
turesque, with a sort of simple cheerfulness
of aspect, the walls of the houses in the little
piazza being of different shades of buff, with
window-shutters in light green opening back
upon them from those casements where the
shrieking canaries hung. The place had that
tone which characterizes so many city per-
spectives in Italy, and especially Florence —
which makes the long stretch of Via Borgo-
gnissanti so smiling, and bathes the sweep of
Lungarno in a sunny glow wholly independ-
ent of the state of the weather. As you stroll
along one of these light-yellow avenues you
say to yourself, " Ah, this is Florence ! " And
then suddenly you plunge into the gray-
brown gloom of such a street as the Borgo
degli Albizzi, with lofty palaces climbing in
vain toward the sun, and frowning upon the
street below with fronts of stone, rude or
sculptured, but always stern and cold ; and
then that, too, seems the only Florence. They
are in fact equally Florentine ; but I suppose
one expresses the stormy yet poetic life of the
old commonwealth, and the other the serene,
sunny commonplace of the Lorrainese regime.
I was not sorry to find this the tone of
Piazza Donati, into which I had eddied from
the austerity of Borgo degli Albizzi. It really
belongs to a much remoter period than the
older-looking street — to the Florence that
lingers architecturally yet in certain narrow
avenues to the Mercato Vecchio, where the
vista is broken by innumerable pent-roofs,
balconies, and cornices; and a throng of oper-
atic figures in slouch hats and short cloaks
I
A FLORENTINE MOSAIC.
499
are so very improbably bent on any realistic
business, that they seem to be masquerading
there in the mysterious fumes of the cook-
shops. Yet I should be loath, for no very
tangible reason, to have Piazza Donati like
one of these avenues or in any wise different
from what it is ; certainly I should not like to
have the back of Dante's house smartened up
like the front, which looks into the Piazza San
Martino. I do not complain that the restora-
tion is bad; it is even very good, for all that I
know ; but the unrestored back is better, and I
have a general feeling that the past ought to be
allowed to tumble down in peace, though I have
no doubt that whenever this happened I should
be one of the first to cry out against the bar-
barous indifference that suffered it. I dare
say that in a few hundred years, when the fact
of the restoration is forgotten, the nineteenth
century mediaevalism of Dante's house will
be acceptable to the most fastidious tourist.
I tried to get into the house, which is open to
the public at certain hours on certain days, but
I always came at ten on Saturday, when I ought
to have come at two on Monday, or the like;
and so at last I had to content myself with
the interior of the little church of San Martino,
where Dante was married, half a stone's cast
from where he was born. The church was
, closed, and I asked a cobbler, who had brought
his work to the threshold of his shop hard by,
for the sake of the light, where the sacristan
! lived. He answered me unintelligibly, with-
out leaving off for a moment his furious ham-
mering at the shoe in his lap. He must have
i been asked that question a great many times,
and I do not know that I should have taken
any more trouble in his place ; but a woman
j in a fruit-stall next door had pity on me,
! knowing doubtless that I was interested in
San Martino on account of the wedding, and
sent me to No. i. But No. i was a house so
\ improbably genteel that I had not the courage
| to ring; and I asked the grocer alongside for
a better direction. He did not know how to
j give it, but he sent me to the local apothecary,
who in turn sent me to another number. Here
\ another shoemaker, friendlier or idler than the
I first, left off gossiping with some friends of
! his, and showed me the right door at last in
\ the rear of the church. My pull at the bell
shot the sacristan's head out of the fourth-
story window in the old way that always de-
; lighted me, and I perceived even at that dis-
tance that he was a man perpetually fired with
j zeal for his church by the curiosity of stran-
gers. I could certainly see the church, yes;
he would come down instantly and open it
I from the inside if I would do him the grace
to close his own door from the outside. I com-
plied willingly, and in another moment I stood
within the little temple, where, upon the whole,
for the sake of the emotion that divine genius,
majestic sorrow, and immortal fame can accu-
mulate within one's average commonplaceness,
it is as well to stand as any other spot on earth.
It is a very little place, with one-third of the
space divided from the rest by an iron-tipped
wooden screen. Behind this is the simple altar,
and here Dante Alighieri and Gemma Donati
were married. In whatever state the walls
were then, they are now plainly whitewashed,
though in one of the lunettes forming a sort
of frieze half round the top was a fresco said
to represent the espousals of the poet. The
church was continually visited, the sacristan
told me, by all sorts of foreigners, English,
French, Germans, Spaniards, even Americans,
but especially Russians, the most impassioned
of all for it. One of this nation, one Russian
eminent even among his impassioned race,
spent several hours in looking at that picture,
taking his stand at the foot of the stairs by
which the sacristan descended from his lodg-
ing into the church. He showed me the very
spot ; I do not know why, unless he took me
for another Russian, and thought my pride
in a compatriot so impassioned might have
some effect upon the fee I was to give him.
He was a credulous sacristan, and I cannot
find any evidence in Miss Horner's faithful
and trusty " Walks in Florence " that there is
a fresco in that church representing the es-
pousals of Dante. The paintings in the lunettes
are by a pupil of Masoccio's, and deal with
the good works of the twelve Good Men of
San Martino, who, ever since 1441, have had
charge of a fund for the relief of such shame-
faced poor as were unwilling to ask alms.
Prince Strozzi and other patricians of Flor-
ence are at present among these Good Men,
so the sacristan said ; and there is an iron
contribution-box at the church door, with an
inscription promising any giver indulgence, suc-
cessively guaranteed by four popes, of twen-
ty-four hundred years ; which seemed really to
make it worth one's while.
XIV.
In visiting these scenes, one cannot but
wonder at the small compass in which the
chief facts of Dante's young life, suitably to
the home-keeping character of the time and
race, occurred. There he was born, there he
was bred, and there he was married to
Gemma Donati after Beatrice Portinari died.
Beatrice's father lived just across the way from
the Donati houses, and the Donati nouses
adjoined the house where Dante grew up
with his widowed mother. He saw Beatrice
5°°
A FLORENTINE MOSAIC.
in her father's house, and he must often have
been in the house of Manetto de' Donati as a
child. As a youth he no doubt made love to
Gemma at her casement ; and here they must
have dwelt after they were married, and she
began to lead him a restless and unhappy
life, being a fretful and foolish woman, by
the accounts. One realizes all this there with
a distinctness which the clearness of the Ital-
ian atmosphere permits. In that air events
do not seem to age any more than edifices ;
a life, like a structure, of six hundred years
ago seems of yesterday, and one feels toward
the Donati as if that troublesome family were
one's own contemporaries. The evil they
brought on Dante was not domestic only,
but they and their party were the cause of his
exile and his barbarous sentence in the pro-
cess of the evil times which brought the
Bianchi and Neri to Florence. There is in
history hardly anything so fantastically mali-
cious, so tortuous, so perverse, as the series
of chances that ended in his banishment.
Nothing could apparently have been more
remote from him, to all human perception,
than that quarrel of a Pistoja family, in which
the children of Messer Cancelliere's first
wife, Bianca, called themselves Bianchi, and
the children of the second called themselves
Neri, simply for contrary-mindedness' sake.
But let us follow it, and see how it reaches
the poet and finally delivers him over to a
life of exile and misery. One of these Can-
cellieri of Pistoja falls into a quarrel with an-
other and wounds him with his sword. They
are both boys, or hardly more, and the father
of the one who struck the blow bids him go
to his kinsmen and beg their forgiveness.
But when he comes to them the father of the
wounded youth takes him out to the stable,
and striking off the offending hand on a block
there, flings it into his face. " Go back to
your father and tell him that hurts are healed
with iron, not with words." The news of this
cruel deed throws all Pistoja into an incompre-
hensible mediaeval frenzy. The citizens arm
and divide themselves into Bianchi and Neri ;
the streets become battle-fields. Finally some
cooler heads ask Florence to interfere. Flor-
ence is always glad to get a finger into the
affairs of her neighbors, and to quiet Pistoja
she calls the worst of the Bianchi and Neri
to her. Her own factions take promptly to
the new names ; the Guelphs have long ruled
the city ; the Ghibellines have been a whole
generation in exile. But the Neri take up the
old Ghibelline role of invoking foreign inter-
vention, with Corso Donati at their head —
a brave man, but hot, proud, and lawless.
Dante is of the Bianchi party, which is that
of the liberals and patriots, and in this qual-
ity he goes to Rome to plead with the Pope
to use his good offices for the peace and free-
dom of Florence. In his absence he is ban-
ished for two years and heavily fined; then
he is banished for life, and will be burned if he
comes back. His party comes into power, but
the sentence is never repealed, and in the despair
of an exile Dante, too, invokes the stranger's
help. He becomes Nero ; he dies Ghibelline.
I walked up from the other Donati houses
through the Via Borgo degli Albizzi to the
Piazza San Pier Maggiore to look at the
truncated tower of Corso Donati, in which he
made his last stand against the people when
summoned by their Podesta to answer for all
his treasons and seditions. He fortified the ad-
joining houses, and embattled the whole neigh-
borhood, galling his besiegers in the streets
below with showers of stones and arrows.
They set fire to his fortress, and then he es-
caped through the city wall into the open
country, but was hunted down and taken by
his enemies. On the way back to Florence
he flung himself from his horse, that they
might not have the pleasure of triumphing
with him through the streets, and the soldier
in charge of him was surprised into running
him through with his lance, as Corso intended.
This is the story that some tell ; but others say
that his horse ran away, dragging him over the
road by his foot, which caught in his stirrup, and
the guard killed him, seeing him already hurt to
death. Dante favors the latter version of his
end, and sees him in hell, torn along at the heels
of a beast, whose flight is toward " the valley
where never mercy is." The poet had once
been the friend as well as brother-in-law of
Corso, but had turned against him when Corso's
lust of power threatened the liberties of Flor-
ence. You must see this little space of the city
to understand how intensely narrow and local
the great poet was in his hates and loves, and
how considerably he has populated hell and
purgatory with his old neighbors and acquaint-
ance. Among those whom he puts in Para-
dise was that sister of Corso's, the poor Pic-
carda, whose story is one of the most pathetic
and pious legends of that terrible old Flor-
ence. The vain and worldly life which she
saw around her had turned her thoughts
toward heaven, and she took the veil in the
convent of Santa Chiara. Her brother was
then at Bologna, but he repaired straightway
to Florence with certain of his followers,
forced the convent, and dragging his sister
forth amid the cries and prayers of the nuns,
gave her to wife to Rosellino della Tosa, a
gentleman to whom he had promised her.
She, in the bridal garments with which he had
replaced her nun's robes, fell on her knees,
and implored the succor of her Heavenly
IN THE SIERRAS.
Soi
Spouse and suddenly her beautiful body was
covered with a loathsome leprosy, and in a
few days she died inviolate. Some will have
it that she merely fell into a slow infirmity,
and so pined away. Corso Donati was the
brother of Dante's wife, and without ascrib-
ing to Gemma more of his quality than Pic-
carda's, one may readily perceive that the poet
had not married into a comfortable family.
In the stump of the old tower which I had
come to see, I found a poulterer's shop,
bloody and evil-smelling, and two frowsy
girls picking chickens. In the wall there is a
tablet signed by the Messer Capitani of the
Guelph Party, forbidding any huckster to sell
his wares in that square under pain of a certain
fine. The place now naturally abounds in
them. The Messer Capitani are all dead, with
their party, and the hucksters are no longer
afraid.
W. D. Howelh.
JOHN OF BOLOGNA S DEVIL.
- llf*
■ : .,
IN THE SIERRAS.
Out of the heat and toil and dust of trades,
Far from the sound of cities and of seas,
I journeyed lonely, and alone I sought v
The valley of the ages and the place
Of the wind-braided waters.
I was one,
A pilgrim, whose blind steps led thitherward
Into the shadow and forgetfulness
That bless secluded streams and sheltering
vales :
Fleeing the blare of traffic, in the track
Of autumn solitudes I followed where
The leaves were falling to the littered ground,
And every leaf was ripened to the fall.
Once earlier had I sought the same retreat,
Haunted of listless steps and careless eyes;
Green was the mantle of the leafy hill,
Swollen the stream along the spongy bank;
The meadow was a lake where swelling knolls
Lifted their grassy islands to the sun.
But autumn is the lovelier, the best;
And here at last I cast me at my length
In the mid-valley, where the stream expands
Lake -wise, and lilies lift their broad green palms
Against the sunshine, and the skaters slide
Upon the water, and the beetles dive
Into their shady gardens; while ashore
The glossy water-thrush trips close upon
And courtesies at the margin as she wets
All of her slender body in the pool.
And here a myriad creatures built and toiled
At their incessant masonry.
I heard
The meadows drinking in the wet; the sod
Supping the generous sunshine; now forgot
The sea-tides burdened with careering fleets,
The land-tides pouring o'er the thundering
pave,
And the tumultuous clangor of the bells
In smoke-wreathed steeple and tower.
Sweeter I found
In solitude the deep and tranquil stream
Of autumn, broken on her golden fields
By zephyr hissing through the hedge, the sigh
Of airy waterfalls, as in the wood
The plaintive robin's tender tremolo.
S°2
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
Look up, my heart, unto the heights ! look up
Beyond the frosty hills, through torrent and
wood,
On to the wind-swept highland, with its bed
Of diamond-powdered snow ; my good steed cast
The solid snow-seals from his heavy hoofs,
Till all the sparkling plain was struck across
With stained and dingy crescents.
So we toiled ;
Now through the clustering groves' white-
cushioned boughs,
And now through openings, and anon between
The tall unbending columns that impale
The architectural forests.
There no lack
Of the imploring cries that startle us —
The jay-bird's shrill alarm, and many notes
Untraceable to any tongue whatever,
Heaven-born and brief.
Sometimes we faintly heard
The wee ground-squirrel's whistle sharp and
clear ;
Sometimes the drum of pheasant ; or the boom
Of the woodpecker raining rapid blows
Upon his hollow tree.
Anon we sank
Into the awful canons, where the brook
Hissed between icy fangs that cased the shore,
Slim, lank, and pallid blue.
There we beheld
The flower-like track of the coyote, near
The fairy tracery where the squirrel skipped
Graceful and shy; yet farther on we saw
The small divided hollows where the doe
Dropped her light foot and lifted it away;
And then the print of some designing fox
Or dog's more honest paw ; the solid bowls
That held the swaying oxen's spreading hoof;
And suddenly, in awe, the bear's broad palm
With almost human impress.
Journeying
Under the sky's blue vacancy, I saw
How Nature prints and publishes abroad
Her marvelous gospels.
Here the wind-burnt bark,
Like satin glossed and quilted; scattered twigs
In mystic hieroglyphics ; the gaunt shrubs
That seem to point to something wise and
grave ;
The leafless stalks that rise so desolate
Out of their slender shafts within the drift;
Under the dripping gables of the fir
The slow drops softly sink their silent wells
Into the passive snow; and over all
Swept the brown needles of the withering
pine.
Thither, my comrade, would I fly with thee,
Out of the maelstrom, the metropolis,
Where the pale sea-mist storms the citadels
With ghastly avalanches.
The hot plains,
Dimmed with a dingy veil of floating dust,
The brazen foot-hills, the perennial heights,
And the green girdle of the spicy wood
WTe thread with gathering rapture.
Still we climb !
The season and the summit passed alike,
High on the glacial slopes we plant our feet
Beneath the gray crags insurmountable ;
Care, like a burden, falling from our hearts;
Joy, like the wings of morning, spiriting
Our souls in ecstasy to outer worlds
Where the moon sails among the silver peaks
On the four winds of Heaven !
Charles Warren Stoddard.
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
A discussion of any art or artist readily
enough might begin with a chapter on Fash-
ion. Of this I ask no livelier illustration than
the experience of a poet whose time-honored
method is just now fresh in favor, as if he
were at matins instead of even-song. It is
somewhat strange that the Greeks — at least
those late Athenians who spent their time in
nothing else but either to tell or to hear some
new thing — should have left vacant the seat
in their hemicycle to which their gay inher-
itors have directed that puissant goddess, La
Mode. The dullest know that to her are sa-
cred, as the school-books say, not only dress
and manners, but styles of furniture, decora-
tion, and all that caters to the lust of the eye
and the pride of life. But the adept perceive
that fashion often decides our taste in litera-
ture, our bent of study, and even of religious
thought; how much it has to do with the
spirit, no less than the outcome, of human
effort. Progress comes by experiment, and
this from ennui — ennui that leads to voy-
ages, wars, revolutions, and plainly to change
in the arts of expression; that cries out to the
imagination, and is the nurse of the invention
whereof we term necessity the mother. The
best of modes is not above challenge. No
stroke can always hold the trophy. Pretty
much the same instinct that makes a woman
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
503
accept the later, perhaps the uglier, style of
dress, secures a trial, even a vogue, to some
new method in art or letters. Few demur
longer than Taglionrs sister, who stared at a
bonnet, the last new thing from Paris, then
laughed outright and said, " How very ridic-
ulous you look, my dear Can you
get me one like it ? " In fact, we must have
discovery, and that by licensing the fashions
of successive times, most of them defective,
many retrogressive, a few on the path to higher
use and beauty. These few may return again
and again ; they go out of sight, but on an
elliptic orbit. Contemporary judgment is least
of all judicial. The young forestall novelty
itself. The old mistrust or look backward
with a sense of loss. It is hard for either to
apply tests that are above each fashion, yet
derived from all. I suppose that in vicious,
and in barren, periods of our English song,
men's faculties were much the same as ever;
that a sense of beauty was on the alert. There
is an exhortation to critical humility when
some despised style of a past century suddenly
appears fit and attractive ; when, from caprice
or wholesome instinct, we pick up the round-
bowed spectacles of our forebears and see
things as they saw them. Their art, dress,
accent, quaintly rebuke us ; their dainty spirit
lives again, and we adopt, as lightly as we
formerly contemned, a fashion which we avow
that at last we rightly interpret.
It is wholly natural, then, that a poet like
Dr. Holmes should have been in vogue and
out of vogue ; one who easily can afford to
regard either position with tranquillity, but
at times, it may be, thought somewhat too
antiquated by wits of the new dispensation. At
this moment, — the favorite both of Time, to
whom thanks for touching him so gently, and
of a tide that again bears him forward, — he
is warmly appreciated by verse-makers of the
latest mode. As a scientific homilist, his pop-
ular gauge has been less subject to fluctua-
tions. Science has but one fashion — to lose
nothing once gained ; and Holmes's pluck and
foresight kept him ahead till his neighbors
caught up and justified him. His verse, how-
ever, puts us on terms with a man of certain
tastes and breeding; it is the result of quali-
ties which may or may not be fashionable at
a given date. Just now they connect him
with the army of occupation, — a veteran, it
is true, but, despite his ribbons and crosses,
assuredly not " retired."
The distinction between his poetry and
that of the new makers of society-verse is
that his is a survival, theirs the attempted
revival, of something that has gone before.
He wears the seal of " that past Georgian
day " by direct inheritance, not from the old
time in England, but from that time in Eng-
land's lettered colonies, whose inner sections
still preserve the hereditary language and
customs as they are scarcely to be found
elsewhere. His work is as emblematic of
the past as are the stairways and hand-
carvings in various houses of Cambridge,
Portsmouth, and Norwich. Some of our
modern verse is a symptom of the present
renaissance, — which itself delights in going
beyond its models. More spindles, more arti-
fice, more furbelows and elaborate graces.
Its originals were an imitation, as we find
them in the villas of Pope and Walpole, in
Hogarth's toilet-party, in architecture, gar-
dening, costume, furniture, manners. Here
were negro pages, gewgaws, silks and por-
celain from China (as now from Japan) —
a mixture of British, Gallic, and Oriental
fashions and decorations. Now we are work-
ing in much the same spirit, and even more
resolutely, with novelties added from regions
then unfamiliar, but reviving in both life and
literature the manner of that day. A new
liking for the Georgian heroics and octosyl-
labics is queerly blended with our practice
in the latest French forms, — themselves a
revival of a far more ancient minstrelsy.
Such things when first produced, the genuine
expression of their time, may yield a less
conscious pleasure, but are of more worth ;
they have the savor of honest purpose, which
their imitation lacks. Among living old-style
poets, Dr. Holmes, the least complex and
various, seems most nearly to the manner
born ; his work, as I say, being a survival,
and not an experiment. It is freshened, how-
ever, by the animation which, haplessly for
compilers of provincial literature, was wanting
in the good Old Colony days. The maker
wears the ancestral garb, and is a poet in
spite of it. His verses have the courtesy and
wit, without the pedagogy, of the knee-buckle
time, and a flavor that is really their own.
There are other eighteenth-century survivors,
whose sponsors are formality and dullness;
but Holmes has the modern vivacity, and
adjusts without effort even the most hack-
neyed measures to a new occasion. Through-
out the changes of fifty years he has practiced
the method familiar to his youth, thinking it
fit and natural, and one to which he would
do well to cling. The conservative persist-
ency of his muse is as notable in matter as
in manner. On the whole, so far as we can
classify him, he is at the head of his class,
and in other respects a class by himself.
Though the most direct and obvious of the
Cambridge group, the least given to subtil-
ties, he is our typical university poet ; the min-
strel of the college that bred him, and within
5°4
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
whose liberties he has taught, jested, sung,
and toasted, from boyhood to what in com-
mon folk would be old age. Alma Mater has
been more to him than to Lowell or Long-
fellow,— has occupied a surprising portion of
his range ; if we go back to Frere and Canning,
even to Gray, for his like, there is no real
prototype, and yet, as a university poet, he
curiously illustrates his own theories of natu-
ral descent. Behind him figure many Har-
vard rhymesters, — scholars and divines, who,
like the Wartons at Oxford, wrote verse
whether poets or not, English and Latin nullo
discrimine, and few indeed were our early
verse-makers that were not college men.
Holmes would be Holmes, if Norton and
Urian Oakes, — to say nothing of their Tenth
Muse, Mistress Bradstreet, whose Augustan
features, if some Smybert only had preserved
them for us, assuredly should distinguish the
entrance to the Harvard Annex,' — if these
worthies, even if Byles and Green, had not
flourished before him; but he is the lawful
heir to their fervor, wit, and authority, and
not until he came into his estate could Har-
vard boast a natural songster as her laureate.
Two centuries of acclimation, and some ex-
perience of liberty, probably were needed to
germinate the fancy that riots in his meas-
ures. Before his day, moreover, the sons of
the Puritans hardly were ripe for the doctrine
that there is a time to laugh, that humor is
quite as helpful a constituent of life as gravity
or gloom. Provincial-wise, they at first had
to receive this in its cruder form, and relished
heartily the broad fun of Holmes's youthful
verse. Their mirth-maker soon perceived that
both fun and feeling are heightened when
combined. The poet of " The Last Leaf" was
among the first to teach his countrymen that
pathos is an equal part of true humor; that
sorrow is lightened by jest, and jest redeemed
from coarseness by emotion, under most con-
ditions of this our evanescent human life.
What one does easily is apt to be his forte,
though years may pass before he finds this
out. Holmes's early pieces, mostly college-
verse, were better of their kind than those of
a better kind written in youth by some of his
contemporaries. The humbler the type, the
sooner the development. The young poet
had the aid of a suitable habitat; life at Har-
vard was the precise thing to bring out his
talent. There was nothing of the hermit-
thrush in him ; his temper was not of the
withdrawing and reflective kind, nor mood-
ily introspective, — it throve on fellowship,
and he looked to his mates for an audience
as readily as they to him for a toast-master.
He seems to have escaped the poetic measles
altogether ; if not, he hid his disorder with
rare good sense, for his verse nowhere shows
that he felt himself " among men, but not of
them"; on the contrary, he fairly might
plume himself on reversing the Childe's
boast, and declare " I have loved the world,
and the world me." The thing we first note
is his elastic, buoyant nature, displayed from
youth to age with cheery frankness, — so that
we instinctively search through his Dutch
and Puritan ancestries to see where came in
the strain that made this Yankee Frenchman
of so likable a type. Health begets relish, and
Holmes has never lacked for zest, — zest that
gives one the sensations best worth living
for, if happiness be the true aim of life. He
relished from the first, as keenly as an actor
or orator or a clever woman, appreciation
within sight and sound. There is an un-
written Plaudite at the end of every poem,
almost of every stanza. He has taken his
reward as he went along, even before print-
ing his songs'; and if he should fail of the
birds in the bush, certainly has held to every
one in hand. It is given to few to capture
both the present and the future, — to Holmes,
perhaps, more nearly than to most of his
craft, yet he would be the last to doubt that
he stands on lower ground than those to
whom poetry, for its own sake, has been a
passion and belief. In his early work the
mirth so often outweighed the sentiment as
to lessen the promise and the self-prediction
of his being a poet indeed. Some of one's
heart-blood must spill for this, and, while
many of his youthful stanzas are serious and
eloquent, those which approach the feeling
of true poetry are in celebration of com-
panionship and good cheer, so that he seems
like a down-east Omar or Hafiz, exemplify-
ing what our gracious Emerson was wont to
preach, that there is honest wisdom in song
and joy.
If the Rev. Abiel Holmes had serious
thoughts of finding his boy so animated by
the father's " Life of Dr. Stiles " as to be set
upon entering the ministry, they must have
faded out as he read the graceless rhymes,
the comic and satiric verse, which the viva-
cious youth furnished to " The Collegian."
His metrical escapades also boded ill, as in
Lowell's case, for a long allegiance to the
law, — which, it seems, he read after gradua-
tion. No one can long remain a good lawyer
and a fertile man of letters. The medical
profession, however, has teemed with poets
and scholars; for its practice makes literary
effort a delightful change, an avocation,
rather than a fatiguing addition to scriptural
labor for daily bread. Holmes is a shining
instance of one who has done solid work as
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
5°S
a teacher and practitioner, in spite of his suc-
cess in literature. As a versifier, he started
with the advantage of hitting the public by
buffo-pieces, and with the disadvantage of
being expected to make his after-hits in the
same manner, — to write for popular amuse-
ment in the major rather than the minor key.
His verses, with the measured drum-beat of
their natural rhythm, were easily understood ;
he bothered his audience with no accidental
effects, no philandering after the finer lyrical
distinctions. It is not hard to surmise what
"standard" poets had been found on his
father's book-shelves. Eloquence was a fea-
ture of his lyrics, — such as broke out in the
line, "Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!"
and the simple force of "Old Ironsides" is
indeed worth noting as it culminates in the
last stanza. The making of verse that is seized
upon by school-day spokesmen barely out-
lived the influence of Croly, of Drake and
Halleck, of Pierpont with his " Stand ! the
ground's your own, my braves ! " and Holmes
himself would scarcely write in this way now.
Yet one who sees, looming up by the Ports-
mouth docks, a fine old hulk to which these
lines secured half a century of preservation
will find them coming again to mind. " The
Meeting of the Dryads," another early poem,
is marked by so much grace that it seems
as if the youth who wrote its quatrains
might in time have added a companion-
piece to " The Talking Oak." The things
which he turned off with purely comic aim
were neatly finished, and the merriment of
a new writer, who dared not be "as funny"
as he could, did quite as much for him as
his poems of a higher class. The fashion of
the latter, however, we see returning again.
There is the pathetic silhouette of the old
man, who so
" Shakes his feeble head,
That it seems as if he said,
' They are gone.' "
This equals the best recent knee-buckle
verse, and excels most of it in simplicity. It
taught a lesson to Locker and Saxe, and more
than one among younger favorites look up to
Holmes affectionately, conscious that the
author of " The Last Leaf," " My Aunt,"
" The Dilemma," and of later trifles still more
refined, like " Dorothy Q.," is the Nestor of
their light-armed holiday encampment.
A poet so full of zest is wont to live his life,
rather than to scorn delights in service of the
thankless muse. Dr. Holmes's easy-going
method, and a sensible estimate of his own
powers, have defined the limits of his zeal.
His poetry was and is, like his humor, the
overflow of a nervous, original, decidedly
intellectual nature ; of a sparkling life, no less,
in which he gathered the full worth of hey-
day experiences. See that glimpse of Paris, a
student's penciled sketch, with Clemence trip-
ping down the Rue de Seine. It is but a bit,
yet through its atmosphere we -make out a
poet who cared as much for the sweets of the
poetic life as for the work that was its product.
He had through it all a Puritan sense of duty,
and the worldly wisdom that goes with a due
perception of values, and he never lost sight
of his practical career. His profession, after
all, was what he took most seriously. Ac-
cepting, then, with hearty thanks, his care-
dispelling rhyme and reason, pleased often by
the fancies which he tenders in lieu of imagi-
nation and power, — we go through the collec-
tion of his verse, and see that it has amounted
to a great deal in the course of a bustling fifty
years. These numerous pieces divide them-
selves, as to form, into two classes, — lyrics
and poetic essays in solid couplet- verse ; as to
purpose, into the lighter songs that may be
sung, and the nobler numbers, part lyrical,
part the poems, both gay and sober, delivered
at frequent intervals during his pleasant career.
He is a song- writer of the natural kind, through
his taste for the open vowel-sounds, and for
measures that set themselves to tune. Lyrics
of high grade, whose verbal and rhythmical
design is of itself sufficient for the spiritual
ear, are not those which are best adapted to
the musician's needs. Some of Holmes's bal-
lads are still better than his songs. Lines in
" The Pilgrim's Vision " have a native flavor :
" Come hither, God-be-Glorified,
And sit upon my knee;
Behold the dream unfolding
Whereof I spake to thee,
By the winter's hearth in Leyden,
And on the stormy sea."
Even his ballads are raciest when brimmed
with the element that most attracts their
author, that of festive good-fellowship. He
gives us a brave picture of Miles Standish,
the little captain, stirring a posset with his
sword :
" He poured the fiery Hollands in, — the man that
never feared, —
He took a long and solemn draught, and wiped his
yellow beard ;
And one by one the musketeers — the men that
fought and prayed —
All drank as 'twere their mother's milk, and not a
man afraid."
Yet if the poet's artistic conscience had
been sterner, the last two stanzas of this ballad
" On Lending a Punch-bowl " would not
have been spared to weaken its proper close.
In his favorite department Holmes always
has been an easy winner, gaining in quality
5°6
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
as fast as the standard of such work has ad-
vanced. In fact, he has advanced the stand-
ard by his own growth in brain-power and
wisdom. There was a time when half our
public men wrote poems for recitation, — when
every set oration was paired with a plat-
form-poem. The Phi Beta Kappa Society was
answerable for many labored pentameters of
Everett, Winthrop, Sprague, and other versi-
fiers, bom or made, — equally so the number-
less corporations of the federative Saxon race
in our aspiring municipalities. Of all these ora-
tors in rhyme, Holmes, by natural selection,
survives to our day, — and how aptly he
flourishes withal ! From his start as class-
poet, and his step to the front with "Poetry,
a Metrical Essay," the intervals have not
been long between his rhymed addresses of
the standard platform length : at first named,
like the books of Herodotus, after the Muses,
— "Urania," "Terpsichore," and so on, — a
practice shrewdly abandoned, seeing that the
Graces, the Fates, and all the daughters of
Nereus hardly would suffice to christen the
long succession of the Doctor's metrical dis-
quisitions, greater or less, that ceases not
even with our day. In the years that followed
his graduation, while practicing in Boston and
afterward a lecturer at Dartmouth, he was
summoned, nothing loath, whenever a dinner-
song or witty ballad was needed at home,
and calls from transpontine and barbaric re-
gions came fast upon him as his popularity
grew. Here are some forty printed poems,
which cheered that lucky class of '29, and
how many others went before and after them
we know not. Among college-poets the para-
gon,— and surely this the ideal civic bard,
who at the outset boasted of his town,
" Her threefold hill shall be
The home of art, the nurse of liberty,"
and who has celebrated her every effort, in
peace or war, to make good the boast. He
is an essential part of Boston, like the crier
who becomes so identified with a court that
it seems as if Justice must change her quar-
ters when he is gone. The Boston of Holmes,
distinct as his own personality, certainly must
go with him. Much will become new, when
old things pass away with the generation of
a wit who made a jest that his State House
was the hub of the solar system, and in his
heart believed it. The time is ended when
we can be so local; this civic faith was
born before the age of steam, and cannot
outlast, save as a tradition, the advent of
electric motors and octuple-sheets. Towns
must lose their individuality, even as men, —
who yearly differ less from one another. Yet
the provincialism of Boston has been its
charm, and its citizens, striving to be cosmo-
politan, in time may repent the effacement
of their birth-mark.
I have referred to the standing of Dr.
Holmes as a life-long expert in the art of
writing those natty lyrics, satires, and jeux
d'esprit, which it has become the usage to
designate as society-verse. Ten years ago,
when discussing this " patrician " industry, I
scarcely foresaw how actively it soon would
be pursued. Its minor devotees certainly
have a place in the Parnassian court ; but, if
content with this petted service, must rank
among the squires and pages, and not as
lords of high degree. To indulge in a con-
ceit,— and no change of metaphor is too
fanciful with respect to the poetry of con-
ceits and graces, — much of our modish verse
is only the soufBee and syllabub of a banquet
from which strength-giving meats and blooded
wine are absent. Taken as the verse which
a drawling society affects to patronize, it
figures even with the olives and radishes
scattered along the meal, wherefrom arro-
gance and beauty languidly pick trifles while
their thoughts are on something else, — or
with the comfits at the end, lipped and fin-
gered by sated guests, or taken home as a
souvenir and for the nursery. And yet so-
ciety-verse, meaning that which catches the
secret of that day or this, may be — as poets
old and new have shown us — picturesque,
even dramatic, and rise to a high degree of
humor and of sage or tender thought. The
consecutive poems of one whose fancy plays
about life as he sees it, may be a feast com-
plete and epicurean, having solid dishes and
fantastic, all justly savored, cooked with dis-
cretion, flanked with honest wine, and whose
cates and dainties, even, are not designed to
cloy. Taken as a whole, Holmes's poetry has
regaled us somewhat after this fashion. His
pieces light and wise — " Contentment," the
" Epilogue to the Breakfast-table Series,"
" At the Pantomime," " A Familiar Letter,"
etc. — are always enjoyable. One or two are
exquisite in treatment of the past. " Dorothy
Q.," that sprightly capture of a portrait's
maiden soul, has given, like " The Last Leaf,"
lessons to admiring pupils of our time. For
sheer humor, " The One-hoss Shay " and
" Parson Turell's Legacy " are memorable, —
extravagances, but full of character, almost
as purely Yankee as " Tarn O'Shanter " is
purely Scotch. In various whimsicalities,
Holmes sets the key for Harte and others to
follow. " The First Fan," read at a bric-a-
brac festival in 1877, proves him an adept
in the latest mode. There is also a conceit
of showing the youngsters a trick or two, in
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
5°7
the story " How the Old Horse Won the
Bet," told to the class of '71 by the minstrel
of the class of '29, and pointed with the
moral that "A horse can trot, for all he's old."
Good and bright as these things are, some
of his graver work excels them. Where most
in earnest he is most imaginative; this, of
course, is where he is most interested, and
this again, in moods the results of his scien-
tific bent and experience. Here he shows
himself akin to those who have both lightness
and strength. Thackeray's reverential mood,
that was so beautiful, is matched by the feel-
ing which Holmes, having the familiarity with
Nature that breeds contempt in graver men,
exhibits in his thoughts upon " The Living
Temple." The stanzas thus named, in meas-
ure and reverent effect, are not unworthy to
be read with Addison's lofty paraphrase of
the Nineteenth Psalm. Humility in presence
of recognized law is the spirit of the flings at
cant and half-truth in his rhymed essays.
There are charity and tenderness in "The
Voiceless," "Avis," "Iris," and "The Silent
Melody." Another little poem, " Under the
Violets," reveals the lover of Collins. But
" The Living Temple" and " The Chambered
Nautilus " doubtless show us their writer's
finest qualities, and are not soon to be for-
gotten. There is a group of his " Vignettes,"
in recollection of Wordsworth, Moore, Keats,
and Shelley, whose cadence is due to that
gift of sympathetic vibration which poets seem
to possess. These pieces are as good as any
to furnish examples of the sudden fancies
peculiar to Holmes's genius, whose glint, if
not imagination, is like that of the sparks
struck off from it. One from the stanzas on
Wordsworth :
" This is my bark, — a pygmy's ship ;
Beneath a child it rolls;
Fear not, — one body makes it dip,
But not a thousand souls."
And this from the Shelley poem, which has
an eloquent movement throughout :
" But Love still prayed, with agonizing wail,
' One, one last look, ye heaving waters, yield ! '
Till Ocean, clashing in his jointed mail,
Raised the pale burden on his level shield."
The things which, after all, sharply distinguish
Holmes from other poets, and constitute the
bulk of his work, are the lyrics and metrical
essays composed for special audiences or occa-
sions. Starting without much creative ambition,
and as a bard of mirth and sentiment, it is plain
that he was subject to faults which an easy
standard entails. His aptitude for writing,
with entire correctness, in familiar measures,
has been such that nothing but an equal men-
tal aptness could make up for the frequent
padding, the inevitably thin passages, of his
longer efforts, and for the conceits to which,
like Moore and Hood, he has been tempted
to sacrifice the spirit of many a graceful poem.
To this day there is no telling whither a fancy,
once caught and mounted, will bear this lively
rider. Poetry at times has seemed his diver-
sion, rather than a high endeavor; yet per-
haps this very seeming is essential to the
frolic and careless temper of society-verse.
The charm that is instant, the triumph of the
passing hour, — these are captured by song
that often is transitory as the night which
listens to it. In Holmes we have an attractive
voice devoted to a secondary order of expres-
sion. Yet many of his notes survive, and are
worthy of a rehearing. A true faculty is
requisite to insure this result, and it is but just
to say that with his own growth his brilliant
occasional pieces strengthened in thought,
wit, and feeling.
With respect to his style, there is no one
more free from structural whims and vagaries.
He has an ear for the " classical " forms of
English verse, the academic measures which
still bid fair to hold their own — those con-
firmed by Pope and Goldsmith, and here in
vogue long after German dreams, Italian
languors, and the French rataplan had their
effect upon the poets of our motherland across
the sea. His way of thought, like his style,
is straightforward and sententious; both are
the reverse of what is called transcendental.
When he has sustained work to do, and
braces himself for a great occasion, nothing
will suit but the rhymed pentameter; his
heaviest roadster, sixteen hands high, for a
long journey. It has served him well, is his
by use and possession, and he sturdily will
trust it to the end :
" Friends of the Muse, to you of right belong
The first staid footsteps of my square-toed song;
Full well I know the strong heroic line
Has lost its fashion since I made it mine ;
But there are tricks old singers will not learn,
And this grave measure still must serve my1 turn.
Nor let the rhymester of the hour deride
The straight-backed measure with its stately stride;
It gave the mighty voice of Dryden scope ;,,
It sheathed the steel-bright epigrams of Pope;
In Goldsmith's verse it learned a sweeter strain ;
Byron and Campbell wore its clanking chain ;
I smile to listen while the critic's scorn
Flouts the proud purple kings have nobly worn ;
Bid each new rhymer try his dainty skill
And mould his frozen phrases as he will ;
We thank the artist for his neat device, —
The shape is pleasing, though the stuff is ice."
He compares it, as contrasted with later
modes, to " the slashed doublet of the cava-
So8
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
lier," — the costume that would be chosen by
Velasquez or Van Dyke. Now, the heroic
measure is stately, but if picturesqueness is to
be the test, few will back his opinion that in
this measure, as written by Pope's adherents,
" Unfading still the better type endures." In
the course of English song, the rhymed pen-
tameter has included more distinct styles than
even blank- verse, and quite as plainly takes
on the stamp of its molder. For the man,
after all, makes or mars it ; it lends itself with
fatal readiness to merely didactic uses, and
hence has been the patient slave of dullards.
As written by Chaucer, it was picturesque, full
of music and color, — the interfluent, luxuri-
ous pentameter couplet, revived by Hunt and
Keats, and variously utilized for metrical
narrative by successive nineteenth-century
poets. Still, the " straight-backed," heroic
measure of Queen Anne's time, say what we
will, must be a natural and generic English
form, that could so maintain itself to our own
day. Recall Pope's measure in " The Dun-
ciad," and again, in " The Rape of the
Lock," — that elegant mock-epic which yet
stands at the head of all poetry a-la-mode.
How it delights a class that still read Byron
and Campbell and Scott, the learned body
of jurists and other professional men, sensible
and humane, who care little for the poetry of
beauty alone. I observe that lawyers, veteran
judges, merry and discreet, enjoy the verse
of Holmes. It was asked concerning Landor,
" Shall not the wise have their poets as well
as the witless ? " and shall we begrudge the
wigged and gowned their rations of wit and
epigram and lettered jest ? Not the form, but
the informing spirit, is the essential thing, and
this many, who are on the watch for American
originality, fail to comprehend. An apt taster
knows which wine has the novel flavor, though
the vintages look alike to the eyes.
The mechanism of Holmes's briefer occa-
sional poems is fully as trite and simple.
Whether this may be from choice or limitation,
he has accumulated a unique series of pieces,
vivacious as those of Tom Moore, but with the
brain of New England in them, and notions
and instances without end. How sure their
author's sense of the fitness of things, his gift of
adaptability to the occasion, — to how many
occasions, and what different things ! He out-
rivals Kossuth, the adroit orator who landed in
a new world, master of its language, and had
forensic arguments for the bar, grace and
poetry for women, statistics for merchants,
and an assortment of local allusions for the
respective towns and villages in which he
pleaded his cause. A phantasmagory of the
songs, odes, and rhymed addresses, of so
many years; collegiate and civic glories;
tributes to princes, embassies, generals, heroes ;
welcomes to novelists and poets; eulogies
of the dead ; verse inaugural and dedicatory ;
stanzas read at literary breakfasts, New Eng-
land dinners, municipal and bucolic feasts;
odes natal, nuptial, and mortuary; metrical
delectations offered to his brothers of the
medical craft — to which he is so loyal —
bristling with scorn of quackery and challenge
to opposing systems, — not only equal to all
occasions, but growing better with their in-
crease. The half of his early collections is
made up from efforts of this sort, and they
constitute nine- tenths of his verse during the
last thirty years. Now, what has carried
Holmes so bravely through all this, if not a
kind of special masterhood, an individuality,
humor, touch, that we shall not see again ?
Thus we come, in fine, to be sensible of the
distinctive gift of this poet. The achievement
for which he must be noted is, that in a field
the most arduous and least attractive he
should bear himself with such zest and fitness
as to be numbered among poets, and should
do honor to an office which they chiefly dread
or mistrust, and which is little calculated to
excite their inspiration.
Having in mind the case of our Autocrat,
one is moved to traverse the ancient maxim,
and exclaim, " Count no man unhappy till
his dying day." There are few instances
where a writer, suddenly, and after the age
when fame is won " or never," compels the
public to readjust its estimate of his powers.
Holmes was not idle as a rhymester from
1836 to 1857 ; but his chief labor was given
to medical practice and instruction, and it
was fair to suppose that his literary capacity
had been gauged. Possibly his near friends
had no just idea of his versatile talent until
he put forth the most taking serial in prose
that ever established the prestige of a new
magazine. At forty-eight he began a new ca-
reer, as if it were granted him to live life
over, with the wisdom of middle-age in his
favor at the start. Coming, in a sense, like
an author's first book, " The Autocrat of the
Breakfast-table" naturally was twice as clever
as any " first book " of the period. It appears
that this work was planned in his youth ; but
we owe to his maturity the experience, drol-
lery, proverbial humor, and suggestion that
flow at ease through its pages. Little is too
high or too low for the comment of this
down-east philosopher. A kind of atten-
uated Franklin, he views things and folks
with the less robustness, but with keener dis-
tinction and insight. His pertinent maxims
are so frequent that it seems, as was said
of Emerson, as if he had jotted them down
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
5°9
from time to time and here first brought them
to application; they are apothegms of com-
mon life and action, often of mental experi-
ence, strung together by a device so original
as to make the work quite a novelty in liter-
ature. The Autocrat holds an intellectual
tourney at a boarding-house table ; there
jousts against humbug and stupidity, gives
light touches of knowledge, sentiment, illus-
tration, coins here and there a phrase des-
tined to be long current, nor forgets the
poetic duty of providing a little idyl of human
love and interest. Here, also, we find his
best lyrical pieces, — on the side of beauty,
" The Chambered Nautilus " and " The Liv-
ing Temple " ; on that of mirth, " The One-
Hoss Shay " and its companion-piece. How
alert his fancy ! A tree blows down in his
woods ; he counts the rings — there are hun-
dreds of them. " This is Shakspere's. The tree
was seven inches in diameter when he was
born, ten inches when he died. A little less
than ten inches when Milton was born ; sev-
enteen when he died. . . . Here is the span
of Napoleon's career. ... I have seen many
wooden preachers, never one like this." Again,
of letters from callow aspirants : " I have two
letters on file ; one is a pattern of adulation, the
other of impertinence. My reply to the first, con-
taining the best advice 1 could give, conveyed in
courteous language, had brought out the sec-
ond. There was some sport in this, but Dullness
is not commonly a game fish, and only sulks after
he is struck." In fine, the Autocrat, if not pro-
found, is always acute, — the liveliest of monol-
ogists, and altogether too game to be taken at
a disadvantage within his own territory.
Two later books, completing the Autocrat
series, follow in a similar vein, their scene
the same boarding-house, their slight plots
varied by new personages and by-play,^ the
conductor of the Yankee symposia the same
Autocrat, through the aid of a Professor and
a Poet successively. The best comment on
these works is made by their sagacious au-
thor, who likens them to the wine of grapes
that are squeezed in the press after the first
juice that runs of itself from the heart of the
fruit has been drawn off. In this lies a recog-
nition of the effect of a market that comes to
an author somewhat late in his life. It is too
much to expect that one who makes a won-
derfully fresh start at fifty should run better
and better, as if in the progressive and not
the decadent course of life, which latter
our author himself reckons from a much ear-
lier stage. And a paying American market
for purely literary work began with the foun-
dation of the "Atlantic." Poe's will had been
too weak to wait for it; Hawthorne had
striven for years ; others had struggled and
gone down. A lucrative demand for Holmes's
prose was too grateful not to be utilized ; be-
sides, the income of the magazine required
his efforts. I have laid stress upon the need
of a market to promote literary activity, but
it is worth while to note how far. At certain
times and in special cases, too ready a sale
tends to lower the grade of ideal work. This
may even now be observed. On the one
hand, new writers certainly are brought out
by the competition between our thriving pub-
lishers of books and periodicals ; on the other,
those who prove themselves capable, and are
found available by the caterers, are drawn
into a system of over-methodical production
at stated intervals. The stint is furnished reg-
ularly ; each year or half-year the new novel
is thrown off, cleverly adapted to the popular
taste. Ideal effort is deadened ; the natural
bent of a poetic mind is subordinated to la-
bor that is best paid. The hope, patience,,
aspiration that should produce a masterpiece
are cast aside. If there be a general advance
it is monotonous, and at the expense of in-
dividual genius. My deduction is that mat-
ter supplied regularly for a persistent market,
though of a high order of journey-work, is
not improperly designated by that name.
" The Professor " is written somewhat in
the manner of Sterne, yet without much art-
ifice. The story of Iris is an interwoven thread
of gold. The poems in this book are inferior
to those of the Autocrat, but its author here
and there shows a gift of drawing real char-
acters; the episode of the Little Gentleman
is itself a poem, — its close very touching,
though imitated from the death-scene in Tris-
tram Shandy. "The Poet at the Breakfast-
table," written some years after, is of a more
serious cast than its predecessors, chiefly de-
voted to Holmes's peculiar mental specula-
tions and his fluent gossip on books and learn-
ing. He makes his rare old pundit a liberal
thinker, clearly of the notion that a high schol-
arship leads to broader views. I do not think
he would banish Greek from a college curric-
ulum; but if he should, the Old Master would
cry out upon him. Between the second and
third works of this series, his two novels had
appeared, — curious examples of what a clever
observer can do by way of fiction in the after-
noon of life. As conceptions, these were def-
inite and original, as much so as Hawthorne's ;
but that great romancer would have presented
in a far more dramatic and imaginative fashion
an Elsie Venner, tainted with the ophidian
madness that so vexed her human soul, — a
Myrtle Hazard, inheriting the trace of Indian
savagery at war with her higher organization.
The somewhat crude handling of these tales
betrays the fact that the author was not trained
51'
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
by practice in the novelist's art. But they
have the merit of coming down to fact with
an exhibition of common, often vulgar, every-
day life in the country towns of Massachusetts.
This, and realistic drawings of sundry provin-
cial types, Holmes produces in a manner di-
rectly on the way to the subsequent evolution
of more finished works, like Howells's "A
Modern Instance " and " The Undiscovered
Country." Meanwhile he verifies his birth-
right by adapting these narratives to the debate
on inherited tendency, limited responsibility,
and freedom of the will. On the whole, the
novels and the Autocrat volumes were indig-
enous works, in plot and style behind the deft
creations of our day, but with their writer's
acumen everywhere conspicuous. If their
science and suggestion now seem trite, it must
be owned that the case was opposite when
they were written, and that ideas now familiar
were set afloat in this way. Little of our recent
literature is so fresh, relatively to our period,
as these books were in consideration of their
own. As Holmes's humor had relaxed the
grimness of a Puritan constituency, so his
prose satire did much to liberalize their clerical
system. This was not without some wrath and
objurgation on the part of the more rigid
clergy and laity alike, and at times worked to
the disadvantage of the satirist and his pub-
lishers. The situation now seems far away and
amusing : equally so, the queer audacity of
his off-hand pronunciamentos upon the grav-
est themes. He was responsible, I fear, for a
very airy settlement of distracting social prob-
lems, to his own satisfaction and that of a gen-
eration of half- informed readers ; for getting
ready sanction to his postulate of a Brahmin
caste, and leading many a Gifted Hopkins to
set up for its representative. Yet his dialogues
and stories are in every way the expression of
a stimulating personage, their author, — a frank
display of the Autocrat himself. If one would
learn how to be his own Boswell, these five
books are naive examples of a successful
American method.
Holmes's mental fiber, sturdier with use,
shows to advantage in a few poems, speeches,
and prose essays of his later years. These
illustrate the benefits to an author of having,
in Quaker diction, a concern upon him; each,
like the speech " On the Inevitable Crisis,"
is the outflow of personal conviction, or, like
" Homeopathy vs. Allopathy," " The Physi-
ology of Versification," etc., the discussion of
a topic in which he takes a special interest.
Jonathan Edwards he had epitomized in
verse :
" The salamander of divines.
A deep, strong nature, pure and undefined;
Faith, strong as his who stabbed his sleeping child."
The notable prose essay on Edwards ex-
cites a wish that he oftener had found occa-
sion to indulge his talent for analytic charac-
terization. He has few superiors in discernment
of a man's individuality, however distinct that
individuality may be from his own. Emerson,
for example, was a thinker and poet whose
chartered disciples scarcely would have se-
lected Holmes as likely to proffer a sympa-
thetic or even objective transcript of him.
Yet, when the time came, Holmes was equal
to the effort. He presented with singular
clearness, and with an epigrammatic genius at
white heat, if not the esoteric view of the
Concord Plotinus, at least what could enable
an audience to get at the mold of that serene
teacher and make some fortunate surmise of
the spirit that ennobled it. I do not recall a
more faithful and graphic outside portrait.
True, it was done by an artist who applies
the actual eye, used for corporal vision, to the
elusive side of things, and who thinks little
too immaterial for the test of reason and
science, — who looks, we might say, at unex-
plored tracts by sunlight rather than starlight.
But it sets Emerson before us in both his
noonday and sundown moods; in his char-
acter as a town-dweller, and also as when "he
looked upon this earth very much as a visitor
from another planet would look on it." With
no waste words, the poet's walk, talk, bearing,
and intellect, are illustrated by a series of
images, and in a style so vehicular as to de-
serve unusual praise. Writing before the ap-
pearance of Dr. Holmes's full treatise on the
theme, we read this Boston address and sus-
pect that in understanding of the Emerso-
nian cult he is not behind its votaries. His
acceptance of it may be another thing, de-
pending, like his religion, upon the cast of
his own nature.
Many were surprised to find Mr. Arnold
rating Emerson, as a writer, below Montaigne.
The latter, however rare and various, de-
pended largely in his essays on citations from
the ancients, — in fact, from writers of every
grade and period; while of Emerson's infre-
quent borrowing it may be said that his para-
phrase often is worth more than the original,
and that otherwise each of his fruitful sen-
tences contains some epigram, or striking
thought, illuminated by a flash of insight and
power. Holmes, among our poets, is another
original writer, but his prose is a setting for
brilliants of a different kind ; his shrewd say-
ings are bright with native metaphor; he is a
proverb-maker, some of whose words are not
without wings. When he ranges along the
line of his tastes and studies, we find him
honestly bred. Plato and the Stagirite, the
Elzevir classics, the English essayists, the
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
5*1
fathers' of the healing art, must be in sight on
his shelves, even though
" The damp offspring of the modern press
Flaunts on his table with its pictured dress."
But his proper study is man, the regard of
people and movements close at hand. Some-
what distrustful of the "inner light," he stands
squarely upon observation, experience, induc-
tion; yet at times is so volatile a theorist that
one asks how much of his saying is conviction,
and how much mirth or whim. His profession
has put him on the alert for natural tendency,
in the belief that fortune goes by inheritance.
Crime and virtue are physically foreordained.
He takes unkindly to sentimental attempts at
reform. His temper and training so largely
affect his writings that the latter scarcely can
be criticised from the merely literary point of
view. Holmes's conservatism, then, goes well
enough with a poet of the old regime, and
with the maker of light satires and well-bred
verse. In these the utterance of a radical
would be as out of keeping as Brown of Osa-
watomie in a court-suit. There is no call for
diatribes on his lack of sympathy with the
Abolitionists, with the transcendentalists, with
new schools of medicine and art. What has
this to do with the service of our gallant and
amiable jongleur ? He sticks to his own like
the wearer of " The Entailed Hat." Innova-
tion savors ill to his nostril; yet we feel that
if brought face to face with a case of wrong
or suffering, his action would be prompted by
a warm heart and as swift as any enthusiast
could desire. When the Civil War broke out,
this conservative poet, who had taken little
part in the agitation that preceded it, shared
in every way the spirit and duties of the time.
None of our poets wrote more stirring war
lyrics during the conflict, none has been more
national so far as loyalty, in the Websterian
sense, to our country and her emblems is con-
cerned. He always has displayed the simple
instinctive patriotism of the American minute-
j man. He may or may not side with his neigh-
bors, but he is for the nation ; purely repub-
lican, if scarcely democratic. His pride is not
of English, but of long American descent.
| The roundheads of the old country were the
cavaliers of the new, — a band of untitled
| worthies moving off to found clans of their
town. "Other things being equal," the doc-
tor does prefer " a man of family." He goes
j" for the man with a gallery of family portraits
against the one with a twenty-five cent da-
guerreotype," unless he finds " that the latter is
the better of the two." Better, he thinks, ac-
cept asphyxia than a mesalliance, that lasts fifty
years to begin with, and then passes down the
line of descent. Even our " chryso-aristoc-
racy " he thinks is bettered by the process
which secures to those " who can afford the
extreme luxury of beauty " the finest speci-
mens of " the young females of each succes-
sive season." Thus far our sacerdotal cele-
brant of genealogies and family-trees. It is
likely that he takes more interest than his
compeers in the Proc. Mass. Hist. Soc. But
he represents his section within these limits
as strictly as the poet of the library, the poet
of the new and radical upper class, the fervent
poet of liberty and exaltation, — or even as
Emerson, that provincial citizen of the world
at large. Our Eastern group of poets is
unique ; we shall have no other of one caste
and section so distinct in its separate per-
sonages. The Puritan strain in Holmes's
blood was kept pure in the secluded province
of Connecticut, where the stern Calvinism of
the migration yet holds sway. He stands for
the ancestral feeling as squarely as he refutes
the old belief; and it is well enough that such
a poet should be the minstrel of established
feasts, and loyal to his class, rather than the
avatar of new classes and conditions. He is
of Cambridge and Beacon Hill, and in point
of style, usage, social life, will maintain his
ground with rhyme and banter, — small swords
allowed the Ruperts of to-day. Otherwise he
gives his judgment free scope, and no super-
stition trammels the logic of his inquisitive
mind. It has required some independence for
a man of letters, the friend of Lowell and
Emerson, to be a Tory, and for a trimontane
poet to be a progressive and speculative
thinker.
There is an unconscious sense of the artis-
tic in the self-differentiation of social life. It or-
ganizes a stage performance ; each one makes
himself auxiliary to the whole by some dra-
matic instinct that loyally accepts the part
allotted. Holmes has filled that of hereditary
chamberlain, the staff never leaving his hand,
and has performed its functions with uncom-
mon ardor and distinction. It would not be
strange if those who often have seen at their
ceremonies this " fellow of infinite jest, of
most excellent fancy," appreciate less than
others the strength of his ripest years. The
younger men who gathered to pay him their
tributes on his seventieth birthday felt that if
he did not sing at his own fete his thought
might well be :
— " You are kind ; may your tribe be increased,
But ai this I can give you such odds if I will ! "
He did sing, and the mingled gayety and
tenderness of the song made it, as was fitting,
one of his sweetest. The occasion itself mel-
512
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
lowed his voice, and a mere fancy has not
often played more lightly around the edge of
feeling than when he said :
" As on the gauzy wings of fancy flying
From some far orb I track our watery sphere,
Home of the struggling, suffering, doubting, dying,
The silvered globule seems a glistening tear."
Five more years have been added to the
youth of his old age, and in them, if not so
prolific as once, he has given us some of his
neatest work in verse and prose. These ef-
forts have not died with the occasions that
called them out. Their beauty, it is true,
took on increase by the manner in which the
author suited his action to his word. The
youth, who has heard this last of the recita-
tionists deliver one of his poems, will recall
in future years the fire and spirit of a vet-
eran whose heart was in his work, who reads
a stanza with the poetic inflection that no el-
ocutionist can equal, who with it gives you
so much of himself — the sparkling eye, the
twinkling by-play of the mouth, the nervous
frame on tip-toe in chase of imagery un-
leashed and coursing. Such a poet lifts the
glow and fancy of the moment into the re-
gion of art, but of the art which must be
enacted to bring out its full effect, and in
which no actor save the artist himself can
satisfactorily essay the single role.
If the question is asked, Would the verse
of Doctor Holmes be held in so much favor if
he had not confirmed his reputation by prose
replete with poetic humor and analogy ? the
fairest answer may be in the negative. To-
gether, his writings surely owe their main suc-
cess to an approximate exhibition of the author
himself. Where the man is even more lively
than his work, the public takes kindly to the
one and the other. The jester is privileged
even in the court of art and letters ; yet if
one could apply to Holmes — the jester, hom-
ilist, and man of feeling — his own process,
we should have analysis indeed. Were the
theme assigned to himself, we should have an
inimitably honest setting forth of his merits
and foibles, from this keen anatomist of mind
and body, this smile-begetter, this purveyor
to so many feasts. As a New Englander he
long ago was awarded the highest sectional
praise, — that of being, among all his tribe,
the cutest. His cleverness and versatility be-
wilder outside judges. Is he a genius ? By
all means. And in what degree ? His prose,
for the most part, is peculiarly original. His
serious poetry scarcely has been the serious
work of his life; but in his specialty, verse
suited to the frolic or pathos of occasions, he
has given us much of the best delivered in his
own time, and has excelled all others in deliv-
ery. Both his strength and weakness lie in
his genial temper and his brisk, speculative
habit of mind. For, though almost the only
modern poet who has infused enough spirit
into table and rostrum verse to make it
worth recording, his poetry has appealed to
the present rather than the future ; and, again,
he has too curious and analytic a brain for
purely artistic work. Of Holmes as a satirist,
which it is not unusual to call him, I have
said but little. His metrical satires are of the
amiable sort that debars him from kinsman-
ship with the Juvenals of old, or the Popes
and Churchills of more recent times. There
is more real satire in one of Hosea Biglow's
lyrics than in all our laughing philosopher's
irony, rhymed and unrhymed. Yet he is a
keen observer of the follies and chances which
satire makes its food. Give him personages,
reminiscences, manners, to touch upon, and
he is quite at home. He may not reproduce
these imaginatively, in their stronger combi-
nations; but the Autocrat makes no un-
seemly boast when he says : " It was in
teaching of Life that we came together. I
thought I knew something about that, that I
could speak or write about it to some purpose."
Let us consider, then, that if Holmes had died
young, we should have missed a choice
example of the New England fiber which
strengthens while it lasts ; that he has lived
to round a personality that will be traditional
for at least the time granted to one or two
less characteristic worthies of revolutionary
days ; that — " 'twas all he wished " — a few
of his lyrics already belong to our select an-
thology, and one or two of his books must
be counted as factors in what twentieth-cen-
tury chroniclers will term (and here is matter
for reflection) the development of "early"
American literature.
Edmund C. Stedman.
— »»
/%^^ /^2^^X^^
Vol. XXIX.— 50.
<?Z£^.
CANADA AS A WINTER RESORT.
When the sarcastic Voltaire sneered at the
New France which was lost to Louis XV.
through the frivolous influence of a Pompa-
dour and the ignorant indifference of the
French court, he thought to gratify the
vanity of his monarch by congratulating him
upon getting rid of "those 1500 leagues of
snow." This seems to have been the text
which some modern tourists have taken
for their descriptions of Canada; and it
would be very amusing to collect such writ-
ings of early travelers, and to read them
in January in Winnipeg, Toronto, Kingston,
Montreal, Quebec, or Halifax, in face of the
populations of these cities enjoying the gay
delights of the snow in complete uncon-
sciousness of the misery of their existence.
Surely, then, the wind is tempered to the
shorn Canadian lambs. But no ! The more it
blows and the more it snows, the better
" Canucks " seem to like it.
It is only within the last quarter of a cen-
tury that intelligent Europeans have really
become ashamed of the Old World ignorance
of America, which associated most of the
continent, but especially the north, with eter-
nal ice. How many supposed that polar bears
and buffaloes were easily found about the sub-
urbs of New York and Montreal ! But how
could an Englishman who has been brought
up upon the damp and delusive pictures
drawn by Spenser, Shakspere, Thomson,
and a host of others, and who once every
year passes through the long purgatory of a
London winter, — how could he have any
true conception of the charm and cheer to be
got out of the dry snow, the bracing air, and
the clear skies of the same season in Canada ?
How could any mortal who defines snow as
" a wet, sticky substance, seven inches of
which make one inch of water"; whose asso-
ciations with it are full of slush in which he is
more likely to drown than to drive ; who lives
where fogs, sleet, east winds, and suicidal blues
are said to have made the English tempera-
ment what it is, — how could any soul, born
and bred in such climatic conditions, be able
to picture what a genuine Canadian winter
means ? Fancy what a difference it would
have made to the literature of the world had
the English poets had such a winter to write
about. But Canada should yet produce the
true poet of winter, for the true poetry of
winter is here.
It would be folly to deny that winter has
no dark side ; but has not the balmiest sum-
mer, with its malaria and its many ills, a dark
side too ?
We do not pretend to say that Canada as
a winter resort is suitable for every delicate
invalid, but we do say that it is becoming
popular, because the most beneficial for many
invalids suffering from lung and throat dis-
eases, for the whole train of nervous diseases
brought on by overwork or overworry; and
that it is possible to enjoy every hour here in
a hundred ways in the open air of the coldest
days, and to get far more benefit than even
mountain or sea-shore in summer can bestow.
You have only to test it to prove it. But you
must not come in patent-leathers and light
underclothing to enjoy the open air. It would
be as absurd to go to the sea-side in July
muffled to the eyes in woolens and bear-skin.
The historian who hopes to do justice to
the development and idiosyncrasies of the
Canadian people will find it impossible to
ignore the molding influences of the winter.
It is a peculiar fact that in a country contain-
ing three million and a half square miles,
occupied by immense lakes and great prairies,
there are fewer varieties of this particular sea-
son than in smaller countries of Europe cor-
responding in latitude. Excepting in strips
along the ocean and lake coasts, the Canadian
winter is strangely alike in its dry and bracing
character; and, in fact, the same may be said
of the climates of the other seasons. We have
no fever-breeding miasmatic region from the
Atlantic to the Pacific, and our winter is not
the fickle fraud of New York and Illinois.
Minnesota, Manitoba, and Quebec are much
alike. Manitoba has the paradise of climates,
summer and winter, and we shall soon see the
invalid resorting there for restoration, instead
of to Colorado or Florida. Every country and
climate has drawbacks and disappointments.
I can remember winters when we had heavy
rain in Montreal ; but these are very excep-
tional. The characteristic winter begins in
December, has everything in good order for
Christmas celebrations, is dry, clear, stimulat-
ing, except during the three days of the Jan-
uary thaw, and goes out in March, sometimes
lion-like, often lamb-like. There is no part of
the country in which it resembles the tradi-
tional damp and unpleasant season of England.
Slight frosts, wet, windy days " to one thing
constant never," warm changes, — it is this
which cuts to the marrow. There are more
CANADA AS A WINTER RESORT.
5i5
chilblains in New York than in all
Canada. The winter diseases of Eng-
land have hardly any existence in
Canada from December to March.
If you imagine for a moment that
we are anxious to change the Cana-
dian for any London or New York
winter, I would commend you to
drop in upon us almost any time
from Christmas to March, and be in
at the death of your own delusion.
The " Winter Carnival" of Montreal
has killed the superstition that our
winter is inhospitable. Those who
traduced it now come in thousands
to enjoy it. To those who dreaded
cold weather the season is something
of a revelation. The atmosphere com-
pels them to exertion, and exertion
brings health.
Nothing is truer than that the win-
ter has an invigorating influence upon
mankind. The Canadians are har-
dier and healthier than their cousins
over the border, mainly because of
this and of their indulgence in open-
air exercises. Dr. Hurlburt, of Ot-
tawa, who has given special attention
to the subject of climates, shows very
clearly, in his contrasts of the Old
World with the New, that the regions
of the Old which lie in latitudes and
positions similar to the greater part
of the United States, are inferior for
the abode of man to those which
correspond with Canada. He argues
that our latitude is not only that
in which the most valuable and abundant
cereals and grasses are found, in which the
ox, sheep, and horse find the most favorable
conditions to health, but that in which man
attains the greatest energy of body and
mind; that from which have sprung the
conquering races, and the races that best
rule the rest of the world. In an interest-
DKIVING IN THE STREETS OF MONTREAL.
side ; but the reverse side is not the true side.
Snow-blockades and drifts have their summer
counterparts in mud and floods ; but mud and
floods are no true picture of summer. An in-
valid cannot enjoy a bracing air like a healthy
man. There are people all the time dying " of
the weather." Their bones are as sensitive to
coming changes as a barometer. As I said be-
ing study of the regions of the Old and New fore, it is by no means every delicate person
Worlds lying in the same latitudes, he looks
to a period when the population of five
millions will become fifty millions, with the
opening and development of the Dominion.
He shows the value of frost as nature's own
plowman in pulverizing the soil ; the value of
snow as a protector and a fertilizer ; the im-
portance to the farmer and lumberman of a
season in which trees are more easily felled
and drawn than in summer, land more easily
cleared, produce more easily brought to mar-
ket, and a great deal of work better done than
could be done at any other time. It is well,
too, that the land as well as the farmer should
have a rest. To every picture there is a reverse
who should make Canada his winter resort; but
it is well known that our winters have cured
chronic cases for which Colorado and Florida
were alone supposed to be beneficial. Every
winter numbers resort to Montreal, Quebec,
Halifax, and Winnipeg for no other reason than
that for which they once went to tropical cli-
mates. I know of patients who were regularly
sent to Bermuda and the West Indies, and oth-
ers to such winter climates as Nice, without
more than temporary benefit, who were com-
pletely cured by the outdoor life of our Mon-
treal and Quebec winters. Two years ago we
had an exceptionally severe winter in Mani-
toba. Its severity and peculiarities were pre-
5*6
CANADA AS A WINTER RESORT.
cisely the same in Dakota and Minnesota, which lasted eight days, and kept us in a
I was en route from Brandon to Winnipeg, a situation not likely again to occur. The storm
distance of one hundred and eighty miles by was so severe that relief-trains could not leave
rail, and was caught in a snow-blockade Winnipeg, and a couple of us who had the j
CANADA AS A WINTER RESORT.
5*7
long snow-shoes used on the prairies tramped to
and from farm-houses a couple of miles distant
for provisions for the passengers. The snow-
plows were of no use, and in a desperate
attempt to cut a way through the
drifts, the engine jumped the tract
and came to grief. The train was
pulled back from the debris by
an engine in the rear, and the
next morning we found our-
selves separated from the
wreck by deep drifts, some of
them fifteen feet high. Night
after night passed ; the coal
and wood ran short ; two
of the cars were aband-
oned by the passengers,
and, to economize fuel,
we were crowded into
the two remaining cars.
The sleeping accom-
modation improvised
was very amusing.
Fancy roosting two
in a single seat, ,4
with your knees
doubled up to
your chin ; or ly-
ing like sardines,
four in a double
seat ; or propped
on top of the back
of the seats, which
were turned up
and brought to-
gether so as to
form a sort of dou-
ble deck. Shovel-
ers had been
working day and
night, but there
were too few of
them ; and at last
the passengers
went to work, and
from 9 a. m. until
5 p. m. pitched the snow with
might and main, and suc-
ceeded in clearing the
track. In order to pass the
obstacle of the wrecked
engine, we raised old rails, got ties
and laid a new* side-track on the
hard snow, and our cars were safely shoved
forward. Shovelers from Winnipeg had suc-
TOBOGGANING AT NIGHT.
to do his share of the shoveling. He had
very thin moccasins on his feet, and during
the day, as there was a warm wind, they were
wet through. He never expected to see
England again, but that one day's work cured
him effectually. Other persons suffering from
ceeded, with the snow-plow, in reaching us, throat and lung affections have not since been
and we were soon on our way. The effect of
this exposure upon the health of many of the
passengers was remarkably good. One clergy-
man who had come out from England for
some affection of the throat, was determined
troubled. One would suppose the conditions
were just those to provoke illness, but the
very reverse was the case.
It is curious to observe the difference be-
tween the snow-fall in Manitoba and Quebec.
S'8
CANADA AS A WINTER RESORT.
OLD INDIAN MAKING SNOW-SHOES.
In a heavy storm in Quebec, it falls lightly
in large, fleecy flakes, and makes heavy tracks
for snow-shoeing and sleighing. In Mani-
toba, as in Minnesota, it falls in crystals of a
closer character, and packs so much finer and
tighter that a square foot of it, after a dry
storm, weighs nearly double that of Quebec
snow. This density partly explains why, though
only eighteen inches in depth, it remains so long
on the ground. One can walk without snow-
shoes on the top of high drifts immediately
after a storm, and can travel very easily on
the prairies on snow-shoes. In drifts the
wooden shovel is of little use, owing to the
compactness of the snow ; and on the railway
track snow-plows that would cut through a
hundred yards in Quebec or Vermont will
stick in Manitoba at thirty, as if they had
run into a sand-bank. The Northern Pacific
Railway, like the Canadian Pacific, has had
the same difficulties to contend with ; but they
are not insurmountable, and the North-west
snow, after all, is nothing to compare to that
of Quebec. The study we have made, in Que-
bec especially, is one to convert Voltaire's
" 1500 leagues of snow" into a source of
health and pleasure. I venture to
assert the superiority of our Cana-
dian climate, from Nova Scotia to
the Rockies, and the hardier char-
acter and habits of the people, as
displayed in their love of outdoor
diversions, and the English fondness
of hard work in these enjoyments.
It may be that we devote too much
attention to them; Americans do not
devote enough. Athletic Rome did
not decline when her sports wrere
absorbing, but when they became
brutal. Greece flourished most when
her sports were most popular. You
cannot trace all through our winter
one taint of the vulgar or brutal in
our enjoyments ; they are as pure
as the snow. You cannot find char-
ity at any other season so generous.
The poor suffer in every country and
climate, but I believe they suffer less
in Canada in winter than anywhere
at any other time. There is a criminal
pauperism with which no country
can deal. The curse of drink brings
its long train of evils, and it is no won-
der if, in a Canadian winter, Jack
Frost should have no mercy upon a
class who have no pity for themselves.
The Province of Quebec, the an-
cient center of military, political,
and ecclesiastical power under the
French regime, must bear the palm
of transforming winter into a na-
tional season of healthy enjoyment ; and
Montreal is the metropolis of the Snow King,
as it is of commerce. You can have delightful
days and weeks in Toronto, where ice-boat-
ing is brought to perfection, and the splendid
bay is alive with the skaters and the winter
sailors ; or in curling or skating rink, or with
the "Toronto Snow-shoe Club," when they
meet at the Guns in Queen's Park for a
tramp to Carleton, you may get a good com-
pany, and, at any rate, thorough pleasure.
Kingston has its grand bay, its glorious
toboggan slides on Fort Henry, its magnificent
scope for sham-fights on the ice, its skating,
curling, snow-shoeing, and its splendid roads.
Winnipeg has its ambitious leaps into any-
thing and everything which older cities pos-
sess. Halifax has its pleasant society, its
garrison of British red-coats, — the only sight
of them to be seen on the continent, — its lively
winter brimful of everything the season in
Canada is famed for. Quebec, ever glorious,
kissing the skies up at its old citadel, is just the
same rare old city, with its delightful mixture
of ancient and modern, French and English ;
its vivacious ponies and its happy-go-lucky
CANADA AS A WINTER RESORT.
5T9
cariole drivers ; its How shall I hope to describe what has
rinks and its rol- been done to make Canada as a winter
licking ; its songs resort better known to all the world ? The
and its supersti- first snow-fall is an intoxicant. Boys go snow-
tions; its tobog- mad. Montreal has a temporary insanity,
gan hill at Mont- The houses are prepared for the visit of King
morenci, which North Wind, and Canadians are the only peo-
nature has erect- pie in the world who know how to keep warm
ed every year outdoors as well as indoors. The streets are
since the Falls gay with life and laughter, and everybody
seems determined to make the most of
the great carnival. Business goes to the
dogs. There is a mighty march of
tourists and towns people crunch-
g over the crisp snow, and a
constant jingle of sleigh-bells,
you go to any of the to-
boggan slides, you
will witness a sight
that thrills the on-
looker as well
as thetobog-
first rolled over the
cliffs ; its hills and
hollows, and its historic
surroundings ; its agree-
able French- English society,
the most charming brotherhood that 'i,
ever shook hands over the past. Were it
not for what Mr. Robert McGibbon and his
committee invented for Montreal, — we mean
the "Winter Carnival," — Quebec would be
the Mecca for tourists in winter. Indeed, they
cannot complete their visit if they do not run
down to Quebec for a day or two.
ganist. The natural
hills were formerly
the only resort ; but
some one introduced
the Russian idea of
erecting a high wood-
en structure, up one side
of which you drag your
toboggan, and down the
other side of which you fly like a rocket.
These artificial slides are the more popular,
as they are easier of ascent, and can be made
so as to avoid cahots, or bumps.
Within the last few years a score of
regular toboggan clubs have been organized.
A SKATING
CARNIVAL.
520
CANADA AS A WINTER RESORT.
GOING TO-
BOGGANING.
Everybody has gone crazy on the subject,
and men, women, and children revel in the
dashing flight. The hills are lit by torches
stuck in the snow on each side of the track,
and huge bonfires are kept burning, around
which gather picturesque groups. Perhaps
of all sports of the carnival this is the most
generally enjoyed by visitors. Some of the
slides are very steep
and look dangerous, and the sensa-
tion of rushing down the hill on the
thin strip of basswood is one never
to be forgotten.
How did you like it ?" asked a
Canadian girl of an American
visitor, whom she had steered
down the steepest slide.
" Oh ! I wouldn't have miss-
ed it for a hundred dollars ! "
You'll try it again, won't
you ? "
" Not for a thousand dollars
Perhaps, to some whose breath seems to
be whisked from their bodies, this is the first
reflection, but the fondness grows by practice,
and now we read of these artificial slides in
Boston, at Staten Island, and as far west as
Detroit. Our tobogganing clubs have put a
new spirit into the sport, and made it even
more than ever one in which ladies can join.
In curling matters the Montreal Club,
formed in 1807, leads a long array of en-
thusiastic successors, and the bonspiels attract
hundreds of Scotchmen and their descend-
ants from the principal cities of Canada and
the United States. The associations of the
Canadian branch of the Royal Caledonia
CANADA AS A WINTER RESORT.
52i
Curling Club
of Scotland
mingle the names
of the leading com- If
mercial and professional ' \^BBP^
men of our cities, as well '1JJ1 ■
as the officers of every one v
of Her Majesty's regiments
stationed in Montreal, Quebec,
Halifax, and Kingston, since 1807.
The first time a French-Canadian habitant
saw the game played at Quebec, he thought " I saw to-day a gang of Scotchmen throw-
it was a sport of lunatics, and thus described ing on the ice large iron balls, shaped like
Vol. XXIX.— 51.
i
■ " ' ■
ON A TOBOGGAN
HILL.
it to his friends
522
CANADA AS A WINTER RESORT.
THE HEAD OF A SLIDE.
bomb-shells, after which they yelled Soop !
Soop / laughing like fools, and I really think
they were fools." But no one but a curler
knows the keen delight in this famous Scot-
tish sport.
There may be fleeter skaters than we can
show in Canada, but nowhere in the world
can you see such pictures of life and character
on the ice, such brilliant tableaus, such melody
and merriment, as at the fancy dress carni-
vals in our Victoria and other rinks. We have
too much snow for general outdoor skating,
but this is not neglected. The rinks, however,
are charming resorts ; and one of the most
exquisite parts of the carnival are the even-
ings to be enjoyed there. Then you may see
in the turn-out of the Tandem Club, with
four-in-hand, unicorn or random, tandem,
pairs, and single, and in that of the famed
Montreal Fox Hunt, what Montreal has to
show in the way of line horses. The Ice
Palace, ever beautiful, like a realization of a
fairy-land dream, never palls upon the visitor.
It is a constant and changing wonder of ice ; a
new revelation in crystal ; " a thing of beauty "
that, however, does " pass into nothingness "
with the suns of spring.
But of all winter characteristics of Canada,
snow-shoeing reigns supreme. It is the true
national revel of robust " Canucks," who love
the snow, however deep, and the storm, how-
ever stiff. In the short days and long nights,
when the big log burns and glows on the
broad fireplace, when the music of the wind
whistles through chimney and crevice, and
the snow-flakes are whizzing in mad race, the
manly snow-shoer hungers for the tramp on
snow-shoes as the berserker longed for the
sea. A few years ago I had only to tell of
the existence of the Montreal, the Emerald,
and the St. George's clubs;
but the first, the alma mater
of snow-shoeing, has of late
years given birth to an ex-
tensive family from Halifax
to Souris in Manitoba. From
Mr. Becket's "Record" for
1883-84, 1 find that we have
added " Le Canadien " and
" Le Trappeur," the first
French-Canadian clubs in
Montreal; the Maple Leaf,
the Argyle, the Athletic, the
Custom House Club, the
Wholesale Clothiers, the
Prince of Wales, the Sixty-
third Battalion Club, the St.
Charles, St. Martin's, Wolse-
ley, Alpine, Vandalia, Vic-
toria, etc., etc. ; while To-
ronto, Ottawa, Quebec, St.
Hyacinthe, Winnipeg, Brandon, Souris, and
Portage la Prairie all sent representatives to
the carnival. When our American cousin was
last under my care, as described in " Canadian
Sports " in this magazine for August, 1877, I
escorted him through the vicissitudes of snow-
shoeing with the old " Montreal." " Ever-
green Hughes " helped him out of many a
drift. Alas ! " Evergreen " is dead. Grant's
dog " Monday " is dead, too, but he has
a lively successor named " Keemo." Our
prophet " Vennor " is dead, too; but the
" Tuque Bleue " lives on and thrives, and looks
now upon its numerous progeny with paternal
eye. Let me show you its third-born, — for the
Emerald was its first, — an active colonizing
club, whose members to-day, including its
Manitoba and St. Paul (Minnesota) branches,
constitute the largest club in the Dominion.
I wonder if any of our Canadian saints of
yore ever tramped through the forest on the
Indian snow-shoe. How they would shake in
their shoes could they rise from their graves,
and on some Saturday afternoon meet hun-
dreds of muscular Canadian Christians, ycleped
" Saints of St. George," running wild in
blanket-coat and tuque over the Mount
Royal from whose summit Jacques Cartier
gazed on the St. Lawrence, they intent on no
better mission than the development of their
muscle. And yet to all but the aesthetic hu-
man poodle, who contemns a sport that would
split his stays, are they not worthy of the
guerdon of praise ?
In the Province of Quebec we have nearly
all the saints in the calendar, from St. Adolphe
to St. Zotique, and not a whit the better are
we ; for the old ecclesiastical idea of giving a
village a good name to encourage its morality
is about as successful an experiment as nam-
CANADA AS A WINTER RESORT.
523
ing a babe Hercules to insure
its strength. Many a saint-
christened spot is notorious for
its impiety ; and Hercules, alas !
has he not often died of teeth-
ing, and instead of strangling
even a new-born kitten in his
crib, has he not often succumbed
to convulsions in his nurse's
lap ? But our St. George, though
he had long been immortalized
in Canadian town and bay,
has now descended from his
noble steed to the snow-shoe.
His good horse has gone off to
look for grass, and from fight-
' ing dragons our saint now faces
snow-storms. From patron of
chivalry he has become one of
the tutelary saints of the snow-
shoe. Whether or not George
of Cappadocia was identical
with the saint of the Eastern
Church, whether or not there
was such a person at all, and
the very dragon has to be de-
stroyed along with other illu-
sions, if you come to Montreal
in winter, twice a week you
may join the muster of his
modern knighthood, and, in
lieu of fiery steed and spear,
rig yourself in the Tyrian
purple-and-white of the " St.
George's Snow-shoe Club," and
meet your worst foe in the shape
of a stiff storm or a high rail fence.
In my former article in this magazine,
mentioned above, I gave a description of the
manufacture and uses of the shoe, and the
adventures of an American cousin in our
Canadian sports. The reader will perhaps
remember the pluck of the fellow in the vicissi-
tudes of lacrosse, snow-shoeing, and tobog-
ganing, and how, after parting company with
his toboggan at a tree, he made for home
with sprained hand and blackened eye, yet
fully determined to come back and try his
luck another winter. At that time the St.
George's Club was only in its swaddling
blanket as an offshoot of the time-honored
" Montreal." But, owing likely to the perver-
sity of human nature, which in a province of
so many solemn dead saints insists upon at
least one that is athletic and living, the St.
George has won the heart of young Montreal,
and has strengthened the sport by its manly
rivalry. And if you were to spend a winter with
us and follow the daily life of our athletes, you
would not find it difficult to divine the reason
why they are as a rule our successful business
RACE BETWEEN A WHITE MAN AND AN INDIAN.
and professional men ; for, however much the
winter pastimes may be carried to extremes,
they never tend to enervate or destroy. There
is something in these indigenous Canadian
sports that repels dissipation ; and if it is true
that the morals of a people are influenced by
the character of their pastimes, why should
not philosophers as well as athletes do all they
can to promote those that have proved their
superiority in this respect ?
And why, too, should not our American
cousin organize snow-shoe as well as lacrosse
clubs ? From Maine to California lacrosse
is now flourishing ; and surely there is no
monopoly of snow in Canada to prevent the
existence of American snow-shoe clubs.
Sleigh-riding is a chill rival to it. Every
pore of one's skin enjoys a tramp, while every
524
CANADA AS A WINTER RESORT.
A» BRUSH AT THE HURDLE.
pore shivers in a drive. Will you let me tempt
you to meet us at McGill College gate sharp
at three o'clock, Saturday afternoon ? The
day is cold and clear, and the crisp snow like
fine sand is not too deep. And there, again,
is our cousin from over the border, feeling
perfectly at home on his shoes, and able to
enjoy the memory of his own old mishaps, as
well as the misfortunes of the novice. He has
honorably won his spurs.
We have crossed Mount Royal every Tues-
day night during the season, and startled prim
propriety by the traditional frolic at Cote des
Neiges.
Our Saturday afternoons have found us at
the old and favorite rendezvous of St. Lau-
rent, St. Vincent de Paul, Sault au Recollet,
Bord a Plouffe, Longue Point, etc. ; but La-
chine — our tramp to-day — has long been a
historic spot in the annals of the oar and the
snow-shoe. There it was that Champlain
thought the river above led to China, so he
named the place Lachine. There it was, in
the days of snow-shoeing yore, that the
fathers of the Montreal Club wakened the
villagers with their lusty songs after a long
tramp. It is always a popular walk across
country in the face of the sun. The saints are
out to-day in force. The purple of the club
is worn in stockings and mitts, and joined with
white in the tuque. The white blanket-coat
and capote are trimmed with purple or scarlet;
and a pretty effect is given to the costume by
the scarlet sash. A scarlet cross of St. George
is worn on the left breast. Captain Henshaw,
the president of the club, takes the lead. We
start and fall into any sort of disorder until
we reach the top of the hill of Cote St. An-
toine, whence we have a fine view of the
frozen St. Lawrence, in the far distance, and
CANADA AS A WINTER RESORT.
525
>lllliaii« IIIUIMM I
«_*
THE " WHIPPER-IN " OF THE LADIES' SNOW-SHOE CLUB.
the Green Mountains of Vermont. Where the
cross-roads meet, we strap on our shoes, and
in Indian file follow our leader at a steady,
swinging pace. The " whipper-in " takes the
rear to give the novice or the lazy a lift, but not
even Brother Jonathan needs his help to-day.
The snow covered the fences last year, but
this winter we have about forty to get over
before we reach Lachine, and in some spots
the cabbages stick up their ugly stalks, frozen
stiff, to twist a shoe or stub a toe. " Number
off! " shouts our leader. " No. i," " No. 2,"
and so on until the whipper-in sings out, " No.
50 ! All up ! " The pace increases, and, except-
ing an occasional nip at one's ears, Jack Frost
is soon forgotten as the fellows warm to the
work. Here and there a saint may drop out
of the line to tie a loose strap. A pretty pic-
526
CANADA AS A WINTER RESORT.
SUPPER AT THE CLUB-HOUSE.
ture it is as the snow-shoers turn down into a
gully, some slipping, some recovering from a
threatened upset by a feat of balancing, and
then, still in Indian file, getting over the fence,
every man in his own peculiar way. Some
take it at a leap, others climb it cautiously ;
some roll over sideways in a lump, pitching
feet and snow-shoes before them ; some are too
slowly careful, and, catching a shoe in the top
rail, measure their full length in the snow.
There is no stopping here, for we are far from
road and railroad out in the open country,
with several miles of field before us and
twenty fences in the way. Most of the farmers,
with fellow-feeling, have left a few rails down,
so that there is no obstruction ; but a tramp
is as tame without a tumble as without a fence,
so here goes for your five-feet-ten ! Never
was there charger could take a high fence
like a snow-shoer. St. George himself would
have been unhorsed, and his steed would
have stuck hopelessly at the first leap, or
would have broken his own and his rider's
neck, unless, like Pegasus, he could have
been ridden through the air. The very dragon
would never in the world have wriggled out
of such a drift, but would have been found
in a week, stiff as an icicle, ready for bottling.
But the saints are independent of the deepest
drifts. Neither animal nor engine can follow
them. As an old Montreal Club song goes :
" Men may talk of steam and railroads,
But too well our comrades know
We can beat the fastest engines
In a night tramp on the snow.
They may puff, sir, they may blow, sir,
They may whistle, they may scream, —
Gently dipping, lightly tipping
Snow-shoes leave behind the steam ! "
You can judge a snow-shoer by his grit at
the fences. If he is fat or fagged, he will
crawl between the rails, or coolly take them
down if he can. If he is lusty and in trim, he
puts both hands on the top rail and over he
goes with a vault. Now the fields are level,
and we have got into the swing which comes
with practice, and one feels as if he could
almost fly. Mercury's winged shoes must
have given origin to the snow-shoe. Hilloa !
There as we cross a drift stands the young
wife of a farmer at a well, as if she were some
sort of a Venus in wooden sabots that had just
emerged from the water. " Oh ! mademoi-
selle, je meters de soif/" boldly gasps No. i.
And, of course, they are all as thirsty as No.
i, but he speaks French, and Venus seems
to enjoy it. Evidently he is paying her more
than the ordinary compliments of the season,
for she toddles off in her sabots for home,
while the fellows start off at a run to catch
up to the file ahead, who had no soul for
beauty and no taste for well-water.
We cross the railway track a mile or two
CANADA AS A WINTER RESORT.
527
from our rendezvous. A loco-
motive shoots past us with a
train of cars. We cross a stone
fence and over a long field,
where we meet an habitant
holding his horse's head until
the saints pass; for the. nag,
though used to the engine's
screech, is scared at the yell of
the saints on snow-shoes. The
highway is blocked, and a road
marked with cedar-trees has
been made through the fields.
" Whoa ! whoa ! " shout the
saints, and the more they roar
the more the horse rears; but
the little box-sleigh is too square
to upset, and the habitant has
a tight grip. The saints are
soon out of sight over a bank,
and the farmer goes on his
peaceful way.
And now we are in sight of
Mrs. Hanna's hospitable home
for all the votaries of all sorts
of sport and athletics. The lazy
fellows who have driven out
by the road are there at the
gate to see the " Tally-ho,"
as the leader gives the word,
and a general rush for the
house is made. The icicles
are hanging in pendants from
whisker and mustache, and
even from eyelashes, as from
the eaves of a house; and
from top to toe the saints are
covered with snow. Shoes are
unstrapped or kicked out of
their fastening, icicles pulled or thawed
off snow whisped off stockings and moc-
casins, blanket-coats and tuques pitched
off and piled up with the shoes in corners,
and preparation made for dinner; for ap-
petites are ravenous, and there is no mid-
night terror to be extracted from anything
such stomachs can digest. Add the sweet sauce
of hunger to appetizing hot joints, and you
may fancy how very unlike Carthusian monks
are these unorthodox saints. Here one may
learn, perhaps, how the "jolly old monks of
old " ate, like good muscular Christians, with
cheerful chat and humor. By and by the
tables are cleared, and the " tramps " lie
around in happy disorder on the floor, a few
on the sofa, and some on chairs, while the
pet dogs of the club run around among their
legs. Now the new saint is rushed upon,
seized, and " canonized" or " bounced." This
is done by as many members as can get a
grip of the man from his head to his heels.
A SNOW-SHOE CONCERT.
The Montreal Club elevate their man to
the ceiling, but the St. George's originated a
new sensation, less likely to leave its mark on
the house or the member. The victim is
lifted bodily from the floor, and requested to
"stiffen out." Two ranks of snow-shoers,
facing each other, form down the whole length
of the room, and the new man is held by
about a dozen members at the top of the
files. With a " One, two, three ! " he is
then jerked with full force down the ranks,
and is caught in the arms of the lower files,
who in turn shy him back again. He is then
restored to his perpendicular, qualified to
enter the sacred number of the saints. Visit-
ors are always treated to this mark of club
esteem ; and as it is an excellent tonic and
never hurts anybody, it is, as a rule, taken
more cheerfully than other prescriptions for a
disordered liver.
It is really a picturesque sight to see the saints
in purple jerseys and blanket knickerbockers
528
CANADA AS A WINTER RESORT.
SNOW-SHOEING BY TORCHLIGHT.
lounge about the room, and take their turn in
the impromptu frolic of the evening. " A
song ! " calls some one. A member sits down
at the piano. The singers lean against it in
careless attitude, and in an off-hand, easy way
give us whatever they like, and we all join
vigorously in the chorus. " Jones's song ! "
Jones doesn't feel in the humor, and will not
face the music. He is much too cozy there
on the floor, with his pet pipe in his mouth
and a favorite dog in his arms ; but a couple
of volunteers delicately induce him by taking
him by the back of the neck, or hauling him
out by his heels. " And so he plays his part."
" Brown's song ! " Loud applause as this
broth of a boy steps forward and gives us his
own inimitable " Irish Coterie," accompanied
with a peculiarly amusing dance. No peace
for a popular singer, so he is encored, and
has us all in roars of laughter with his stump
speech spoken with the habitant French ac-
cent, and translated into very broken English.
Two visitors put their heads in at the door.
" Bounce them ! " is the cry, and the saints
rush upon them and put them through the
parallel movement. " A song ! A song ! "
And as one happens to be a pure and un-
adulterated Scotchman, we have a rousing
Highland air, and then he and his Irish
friend join in a dance made up of a High-
land fling and an Irish jig. A strange dog,
not of the Order of St. George, shows his nose,
and our pets resent the intrusion by a united
assault. The saint at the piano strikes up a
quadrille, and the snow-shoer's original is per-
formed by several sets. In fact, the dancing
of all kinds is one of the unique features, and
every one puts his own individuality into it;
some smoking as they dance ; some with their
tuques on their heads.
RAIN IN THE NIGHT.
529
Now and then they come down in a
heap upon the loungers on the floor, and an
unrecognizable tangle of bodies struggle un-
der and over one another in a rough-and-
tumble, which excites nobody but the dogs.
I Robinson's song ! " An undecided look, and
out he comes by the heels, and gives us a
splendid German air and recitation. Then
v the Lachine contingent " have their turn,
and contribute their quota. Then a waltz,
more songs, and finally the saints stand up as
if the weight of the empire were on their
shoulders, and sing the national anthem of
"God Save the Queen"; and Brother Jon-
athan, hat off, joins in the chorus from the
bottom of his heart. The frolic is over;
blanket-coats and shoes are put on again.
With a hearty cheer for Mrs. Hanna, we are
off again, over the same fields and fences.
The moon has risen, and the sky is a
splendid blue. About eleven o'clock home is
reached, the saints pull off their rigs and say
their prayers, and tumble into delicious bed,
feeling that in the afternoon's sport they have
realized in a measure the wish that Endymion
asked of Jupiter — always to be young, and
to sleep as much as he would. For of all spe-
cifics for sleep, commend me to such a tramp
with such good company ; and if there are
busy and bothered brains that feel like the
French financier when he lamented that there
was no slumber to be sold in any market,
let them follow the snow-shoers for one week,
and they can save money and secure sleep.
But think not, O growler, that these weekly
tramps are the chief and only end of the
club. For many a year the old " Montreal "
contributed its musical talent for the benefit
of languishing charities, hospitals, and country
churches. A new departure was made by the
St. George's in the shape of a drama entitled
" A Winter's Night," written by a member of
the club, Mr. F. Colson, and introducing
pictures of life and character on snow-shoes
as well as the club songs. The piece was per-
formed in public for the benefit of the General
Hospital, and was the great success of the
dramatic season.
During the month of St. Valentine, the
saints hold their annual races. The season
of lacrosse was capital training for those who
intended to run on this occasion. The weekly
musters give the members a pretty fair idea
of their own mettle. A Saturday afternoon is
chosen, and the beauty and fashion of the city
rally to encourage the favorite sport. The
Indians generally open the day with a two-
mile race. The best time made by an Indian
was by Karonawie, an Iroquois, who ran the
two miles in eleven minutes and seven seconds
on an eight-ounce pair of racing snow-shoes.
The good average time is twelve minutes.
Half-mile, quarter, flat and hurdle one hundred
yards, half-mile in full club dress, and boys' races
occupy an afternoon. The prizes are present-
ed to the winners at the annual club dinner in
the evening. A dinner is as notable a way of
closing or commemorating any event in Can-
ada as it is in England; and the remark of
Douglas Jerrold, that if the world was con-
vulsed by an earthquake, a number of English-
men would be sure to find a corner to lay a
table-cloth, is as applicable here as across the
ocean. When the few days' slush of early
spring has come, and the green is peeping out
through the thin white covering, the snow-
shoer hangs his shoes in the shape of a St.
Andrew's cross on the wall of his bedroom,
beside his foils and his boxing-gloves and a
quaint collection of old and modern pipes and
pictures, hoping that when next winter arrives
he may be here to see.
IV. George Beers.
■**»■
RAIN IN THE NIGHT.
I sit by myself;
I hear the rain patter;
And down in the embers
The fire-light is dead.
I sit by myself:
I heed not the matter;
My soul but remembers
The tears that are fled.
I sit by myself:
The dream and the sorrow
Together are ended,
Together are dead.
I sit by myself:
I wait for the morrow ;
Where sunlight is blended
With tears that are fled.
Samuel Willoughby Duffield.
Vol. XXIX.— 52.
THE BOSTONIANS.*
BY HENRY JAMES,
Author of " Portrait of a Lady," " Daisy Miller," " Lady Barberina," etc.
I.
" Olive will come down in about ten min-
utes; she told me to tell you that. About
ten ; that is exactly like Olive. Neither five
nor fifteen, and yet not ten exactly, but either
nine or eleven. She didn't tell me to say she
was glad to see you, because she doesn't
know whether she is or not, and she wouldn't
for the world expose herself to telling a fib.
She is very honest, is Olive Chancellor ; she
is full of rectitude. Nobody tells fibs in Bos-
ton; I don't know what to make of them all.
Well, I am very glad to see you, at any rate."
These words were spoken with much volu-
bility by a fair, plump, smiling woman who
entered a narrow drawing-room in which a
visitor, kept waiting for a few moments, was
already absorbed in a book. The gentleman
had not even needed to sit down to become
interested ; apparently he had taken up the
volume from a table as soon as he came in,
and standing there, after a single glance round
the apartment, had lost himself in its pages.
He threw it down at the approach of Mrs.
Luna, laughed, shook hands with her, and
said in answer to her last remark, " You imply
that you do tell fibs. Perhaps that is one."
" Oh, no ; there is nothing wonderful in my
being glad to see you," Mrs. Luna rejoined,
" when I tell you that I have been three long
weeks in this unprevaricating city."
" That has an unflattering sound for me,"
said the young man. " I pretend not to pre-
varicate."
"Dear me, what's the good of being a
Southerner ? " the lady asked. " Olive told
me to tell you she hoped you will stay to
dinner. And if she said it, she does really
hope it. She is willing to risk that."
" Just as I am ? " the visitor inquired, pre-
senting himself with rather a workaday aspect.
Mrs. Luna glanced at him from head to
foot, and gave a little smiling sigh, as if he
had been a long sum in addition. And, indeed,
he was very long, Basil Ransom, and he even
looked a little hard and discouraging, like a
column of figures, in spite of the friendly face
which he bent upon his hostess's deputy, and
which, in its thinness, had a deep dry line, a
sort of premature wrinkle, on either side of
the mouth. He was tall and lean, and dressed
throughout in black ; his shirt-collar was low
and wide, and the triangle of linen, a little
crumpled, exhibited by the opening of his
waistcoat, was adorned by a pin containing a
small red stone. In spite of this decoration
the young man looked poor — as poor as a
young man could look who had such a fine
head and such magnificent eyes. Those of
Basil Ransom were dark, deep, and glowing;
his head had a character of elevation which
fairly added to his stature ; it was a head to
be seen above the level of a crowd, on some
judicial bench or political platform, or even
on a bronze medal. His forehead was high
and broad, and his thick black hair, perfectly
straight and glossy, and without any division,
rolled back from it in a leonine manner.
These things, the eyes especially, with their
smoldering fire, might have indicated that
he was to be a great American statesman ; or,
on the other hand, they might simply have
proved that he came from Carolina or Ala-
bama. He came, in fact, from Mississippi,
and he spoke very perceptibly with the accent
of that country. It is not in my power to
reproduce by any combination of characters
this charming dialect ; but the initiated reader
will have no difficulty in evoking the sound,
which is to be associated in the present in-
stance with nothing vulgar or vain. This
lean, pale, sallow, shabby, striking young
man, with his superior head, his sedentary
shoulders, his expression of bright grimness
and hard enthusiasm, his provincial, distin-
guished appearance, is, as a representative
of his sex, the most important personage in
my narrative; he played a very active part in
the events I have undertaken in some degree
to explain. And yet the reader who likes a
complete image, who desires to read with the
senses as well as with the reason, is entreated
not to forget that he prolonged his consonants
and swallowed his vowels, that he was guilty
of elisions and interpolations which were
equally unexpected, and that his discourse
was pervaded by something sultry and vast,
something almost African in its rich, basking
tone, something that suggested the teeming
Copyright, 1884, by Henry James.
THE BOSTONIANS.
53i
expanse of the cotton-field. Mrs. Luna looked
up at all this, but saw only a part of it ; other-
wise she would not have replied in a banter-
ing manner, in answer to his inquiry : " Are
you ever different from this ? " Mrs. Luna
was familiar — intolerably familiar.
Basil Ransom colored a little. Then he said :
" Oh, yes ■ when I dine out I usually carry a
six-shooter and a bowie-knife." And he took
up his hat vaguely — a soft black hat with a
low crown and an immense straight brim.
Mrs. Luna wanted to know what he was doing.
She made him sit down ; she assured him that
her sister quite expected him, would feel as
sorry as she could ever feel for anything — for
she was a kind of fatalist, anyhow — if he
didn't stay to dinner. It was an immense pity
— she herself was going out ; in Boston you
must jump at invitations. Olive, too, was go-
ing somewhere after dinner, but he mustn't
mind that ; perhaps he would like to go with
her. It wasn't a party — Olive didn't go to
parties; it was one of those weird meetings
that she was so fond of.
" What kind of meetings do you refer to ?
You speak as if it were a rendezvous of witches
on the Brocken."
" Well, so it is ; they are all witches and
wizards, mediums, and spirit-rappers, and
radicals."
Basil Ransom stared; the yellow light in
his brown eyes deepened. " Do you mean to
say your sister's a radical ? "
" A radical ? She's a female Jacobin —
she's a nihilist. Whatever is, is wrong, and
all that sort of thing. If you are going to dine
with her, you had better know it."
" Oh, murder ! " murmured the young man
vaguely, sinking back in his chair with his
arms folded. He looked at Mrs. Luna with
intelligent incredulity. She was sufficiently
pretty. Her hair was in clusters of curls, like
bunches of grapes ; her tight bodice seemed
to crack with her vivacity ; and from beneath
the stiff little plaits of her petticoat a small
fat foot protruded, resting upon a stilted heel.
She was attractive and impertinent, especially
the latter. He seemed to think it was a great
pity, what she had told him; but he lost himself
in this consideration, or, at any rate, said noth-
ing for some time, while his eyes wandered
over Mrs. Luna, and he probably wondered
what body of doctrine she represented, little
as she might partake of the nature of her sis-
ter. Many things were strange to Basil Ran-
som. Boston, especially, was strewn with
surprises, and he was a man who liked to un-
derstand. Mrs. Luna was drawing on her
gloves. Ransom had never seen any that
were so long ; they reminded him of stockings,
and he wondered how she managed without
garters above the elbow. " Well, I suppose I
might have known that," he continued, at last.
" You might have known what? "
" Well, that Miss Chancellor would be all
that you say. She was brought up in the city
of reform."
" Oh, it isn't the city ; it's just Olive Chan-
cellor. She would reform the solar system if
she could get hold of it. She'll reform you if
you don't look out. That's the way I found
her when I returned from Europe."
" Have you been in Europe ? " Ransom
asked.
" Mercy, yes ! Haven't you ? "
" No, I haven't been anywhere. Has your
sister ? "
" Yes ; but she staid only an hour or two.
She hates it ; she would like to abolish it. Didn't
you know I had been to Europe ? " Mrs. Luna
went on, in the slightly aggrieved tone of a
woman who discovers the limits of her repu-
tation.
Ransom reflected he might answer her that
until five minutes ago he didn't even know
she existed ; but he remembered that this was
not the way in which a Southern gentleman
spoke to ladies, and he contented himself with
saying that he must condone his Boeotian ig-
norance (he was fond of an elegant phrase) ;
that he lived in a part of the country where
they didn't think much about Europe, and
that he had always supposed she was domi-
ciled in New York. This last remark he made
at a venture, for he had, naturally, not de-
voted any supposition whatever to Mrs. Luna.
His dishonesty, however, only exposed him
the more.
" If you thought I lived in New York, why
in the world didn't you come and see me ? "
the lady inquired.
" Well, you see, I don't go out much, ex-
cept to the courts."
" Do you mean the law-courts ? Every one
has got some profession over here ! Are you
very ambitious? You look as if you were."
" Yes, very," Basil Ransom replied, with a
smile and the curious feminine softness with
which Southern
adverb.
Mrs. Luna explained that she had been
living in Europe for several years, — ever since
her husband died, — but had come home a
month before, come home with her little boy,
the only thing she had in the world, and was
paying a visit to her sister, who, of course,
was the nearest thing after the child. " But it
isn't the same," she said. " Olive and I dis-
agree so much."
" Whilst you and your little boy don't,"
the young man remarked.
" Oh, no, I never differ from Newton ! "
gentlemen enunciate that
S32
THE BOSTONIANS.
And Mrs. Luna added that now she was back
she didn't know what she should do. That
was the worst of coming back ; it was like be-
ing born again, at one's age — one had to
begin life afresh. One didn't even know what
one had come back for. There were people
that wanted one to spend the winter in Bos-
ton; but she couldn't stand that — she knew,
at least, what she had not come back for.
Perhaps she should take a house in Washing-
ton. Did he ever hear of that little place ?
They had invented it while she was away.
Besides, Olive didn't want her in Boston, and
didn't go through the form of saying so. That
was one comfort with Olive ; she never went
through any forms.
Basil Ransom had got up just as Mrs.
Luna made this last declaration ; for a young
lady had glided into the room, who stopped
short as it fell upon her ears. She stood there
looking, consciously and rather seriously, at
Mr. Ransom ; a smile of exceeding faintness
played about her lips — it was just perceptible
enough to light up the native gravity of her
face. It might have been likened to a thin
ray of moonlight resting upon the wall of a
prison.
" If that were true," she said, " I shouldn't
tell you that I am very sorry to have kept
you waiting."
Her voice was low and agreeable, — a cul-
tivated voice, — and she extended a slender
white hand to her visitor, who remarked with
some solemnity (he felt a certain guilt of par-
ticipation in Mrs. Luna's indiscretion) that
he was intensely happy to make her acquaint-
ance. He observed that Miss Chancellor's
hand was at once cold and limp ; she merely
placed it in his, without exerting the smallest
pressure. Mrs. Luna explained to her sister
that her freedom of speech was caused by his
being a relation — though, indeed, he didn't
seem to know much about them. She didn't
believe he had ever heard of her, Mrs. Luna,
though he pretended, with his Southern chiv-
alry, that he had. She must be off to her din-
ner now, she saw the carriage was there, and
in her absence Olive might give any version
of her she chose.
" I have told him you are a radical, and
you may tell him, if you like, that I am a
painted Jezebel. Try to reform him ; a person
from Mississippi is sure to be all wrong. I
shall be back very late ; we are going to a
theater party ; that's why we dine so early.
Good-bye, Mr. Ransom," Mrs. Luna con-
tinued, gathering up the feathery white shawl
which added to the volume of her fairness.
" I hope you are going to stay a little, so
that you may judge us for yourself. I should
like you to see Newton, too; he is a noble
little nature, and I want some advice about
him. You only stay to-morrow ? Why, what's
the use of that ? Well, mind you come and
see me in New York; I shall be sure to be
part of the winter there. I shall send you a
card; I won't let you off. Don't come out; my
sister has the first claim. Olive, why don't you
take him to your female convention ? " Mrs.
Luna's familiarity extended even to her sister;
she remarked to Miss Chancellor that she
looked as if she were got up for a sea-voyage. "I
am glad I haven't opinions that prevent my
dressing in the evening ! " she declared from
the doorway. " The amount of thought they
give to their clothing, the people who are
afraid of looking frivolous ! "
ii.
Whether much or little consideration had
been directed to the result, Miss Chancellor
certainly would not have incurred this re-
proach. She was habited in a plain dark
dress, without any ornaments, and her smooth,
colorless hair was confined as carefully as that
of her sister was encouraged to stray. She
had instantly seated herself, and while Mrs.
Luna talked she kept her eyes on the ground,
glancing even less toward Basil Ransom than
toward that woman of many words. The
young man was therefore free to look at her; a
contemplation which showed him that she
was agitated and trying to conceal it. He
wondered why she was agitated, not foresee-
ing that he was destined to discover, later,
that her nature was like a skiff in a stormy
sea. Even after her sister had passed out of
the room, she sat there with her eyes turned
away, as if there had been a spell upon her
which forbade her to raise them. Miss Olive
Chancellor, it may be confided to the reader,
to whom in the course of our history I shall be
under the necessity of imparting much occult
information, was subject to fits of tragic shy-
ness, during which she was unable to meet
even her own eyes in the mirror. One of
these fits had suddenly seized her now, with-
out any obvious cause, though, indeed, Mrs.
Luna had made it worse by becoming in-
stantly so personal. There was nothing in the
world so personal as Mrs. Luna; her sister
could have hated her for it if she had not for-
bidden herself this emotion as directed to
individuals. It will be seen that she, at least,
did not wish to be personal. Basil Ransom
was a young man of first-rate intelligence,
but conscious of the narrow range, as yet, of
his experience. He was on his guard against
generalizations which might be hasty ; but he
had arrived at two or three that were of value
to a gentleman lately admitted to the New
THE BOSTONIANS.
533
York bar and looking out for clients. One of
them was to the effect that the simplest divis-
ion it is possible to make of the human race
is into the people who take things hard and
the people who take them easy. He per-
ceived very quickly that Miss Chancellor be-
longed to the former class. This was written
so intensely in her delicate face that he felt
an unformulated pity for her before they had
exchanged twenty words. He himself, by
nature, took things easy; if he had put on
the screw of late, it was after reflection, and
because a great many circumstances pressed
him. But this pale girl, with her light-green
eyes, her pointed features, and nervous man-
ner, was visibly morbid ; it was as plain as
day that she was morbid. Poor Ransom an-
nounced this fact to himself as if he had made
a great discovery; but in reality he had never
been so " Bceotian " as at that moment. It
proved nothing of any importance, with re-
gard to Miss Chancellor, to say that she was
morbid ; any sufficient account of her would
lie very much to the rear of that. Why was
she morbid, and why was her morbidness
typical ? Ransom might have exulted if he
had gone back far enough to explain that
mystery. The women he had hitherto known
had been mainly of his own mild clime, and
it was not often they exhibited the tendency
he detected (and cursorily deplored) in Mrs.
Luna's sister. That was the way he liked
them — not to think too much, not to feel
any responsibility for the government of the
world, such as he was sure Miss Chancellor
felt. If they would only be private and have
no feeling but for that, and leave publicity to
the sex of tougher hide ! Ransom was pleased
with the vision of that remedy; it must be re-
peated that he was very provincial.
These considerations were not present to
him as definitely as I have written them here ;
they were summed up in the vague compas-
sion which his cousin's figure excited in his
mind, and which was yet accompanied with a
sensible reluctance to know her better, obvi-
ous as it was that with such a face as that she
must be remarkable. He was sorry for her,
but he saw in a flash that no one could help
her: that was what made her tragic. He had
not, seeking his fortune, come away from the
blighted South, which weighed upon his heart,
to look out for tragedies ; at least he didn't
want them outside of his office in Pine street.
He broke the silence ensuing upon Mrs.
Luna's departure by one of the courteous
speeches which blighted regions may still pro-
duce, and presently found himself talking com-
fortably enough with his hostess. Though he
had said to himself that no one could help
her, the effect of his tone was to dispel her
shyness; it was her great advantage (for the
career she had proposed to herself) that in
certain conditions she was liable suddenly to
become bold. She was reassured at finding
that her visitor was peculiar; the way he
spoke told her that it was no wonder he had
fought on the Southern side. She had never
yet encountered a personage so exotic, and she
always felt more at her ease in the presence
of anything strange. It was the usual things
of life that filled her with silent rage ; which
was natural enough, inasmuch as, to her vis-
ion, almost everything that was usual was in-
iquitous. She had no difficulty in asking him
now whether he would not stay to dinner —
she hoped Adeline had given him her mes-
sage. It had been when she was upstairs
with Adeline, as his card was brought up, a
sudden and very abnormal inspiration to offer
him this (for her) really ultimate favor ; noth-
ing could be further from her common habit
than to entertain alone, at any repast, a gen-
tleman she had never seen.
It was the same sort of impulse that had
moved her to write to Basil Ransom, in the
spring, after hearing accidentally that he had
come to the North and intended, in New York,
to practice his profession. It was her nature
to look out for duties, to appeal to her con-
science for tasks. This attentive organ,
earnestly consulted, had represented to her
that he was an offshoot of the old slave-hold-
ing oligarchy which, within her own vivid
remembrance, had plunged the country into
blood and tears, and that, as associated with
such abominations, he was not a worthy ob-
ject of patronage for a person whose two
brothers — her only ones — had given up
life for the Northern cause. It reminded
her, however, on the other hand, that he too
had been much bereaved, and, moreover, that
he had fought and offered his own life, even
if it had not been taken. She could not de-
fend herself against a rich admiration — a
kind of tenderness of envy — of any one who
had been so happy as to have that opportu-
nity. The most secret, the most sacred hope
of her nature was that she might some day
have such a chance, that she might be a mar-
tyr and die for something. Basil Ransom had
lived, but she knew he had lived to see bitter
hours. His family was ruined ; they had lost
their slaves, their property, their friends and
relations, their homes; had tasted of all the
cruelty of defeat. He had tried for a while
to carry on the plantation himself, but he had
a millstone of debt round his neck, and he
longed for some work which would transport
him to the haunts of men. The State of Mis-
sissippi seemed to him the state of despair ;
so he surrendered the remnants of his patri-
534
THE BOSTONIANS.
mony to his mother and sisters, and, at nearly
thirty years of age, alighted for the first time
in New York, in the costume of his province,
with fifty dollars in his pocket and a gnawing
hunger in his heart.
That this incident had revealed to the
young man his ignorance of many things, —
only, however, to make him say to himself,
after the first angry blush, that here he would
enter the game and here he would win it, — so
much Olive Chancellor could not know ; what
was sufficient for her was that he had rallied,
as the French say, had accepted the accom-
plished fact, had admitted that North and
South were a single, indivisible political
organism. Their cousinship. — that of Chan-
cellors and Ransoms — was not very close;
it was the kind of thing that one might take
up or leave alone, as one pleased. It was " in
the female line," as Basil Ransom had written,
in answering her letter with a good deal of
form and flourish; he spoke as if they had
been royal houses. Her mother had wished
to take it up ; it was only the fear of seeming
patronizing to people in misfortune that had
prevented her from writing to Mississippi.
If it had been possible to send Mrs. Ransom
money, or even clothes, she would have liked
that ; but she had no means of ascertaining
how such an offering would be taken. By the
time Basil came to the North — making ad-
vances, as it were — Mrs. Chancellor had
passed away; so it was for Olive, left alone in
the little house in Charles street (Adeline be-
ing in Europe), to decide.
She knew what her mother would have done,
and that helped her decision ; for her mother
always chose the positive course. Olive had
a fear of everything, but her greatest fear was
of being afraid. She wished immensely to be
generous, and how could one be generous
unless one ran a risk ? She had erected it into
a sort of rule of conduct, that whenever she
saw a risk she was to take it ; and she had
frequent humiliations at finding herself safe
after all. She was perfectly safe after writing
to Basil Ransom ; and, indeed, it was difficult
to see what he could have done to her except
thank her (he was only exceptionally super-
lative) for her letter, and assure her that he
would come and see her the first time his
business (he was beginning to get a little)
should take him to Boston. He had now
come, in redemption of his grateful vow, and
even this did not make Miss Chancellor feel
that she had courted danger. She saw (when
once she had looked at him) that he would
not put those worldly interpretations on things
which, with her, it was both an impulse and
a principle to defy. He was too simple — too
Mississippian — for that ; she was almost dis-
appointed. She certainly had not hoped that
she might have struck him as making un-
womanly overtures (Miss Chancellor hated
this epithet almost as much as she hated its
opposite) ; but she had a presentiment that
he would be too good-natured, primitive, to
that degree. Of all things in the world con-
tention was most sweet to her (though why
it is hard to imagine, for it always cost her
tears, headaches, a day or two in bed, acute
emotion), and it was very possible Basil Ran-
som wouldn't care to contend. Nothing could
be more displeasing than this indifference
when people didn't agree with you. That he
should agree she did not in the least expect
of him ; how could a Mississippian agree ? If
she had supposed he would agree, she would
not have written to him.
in.
When he had told her that if she would
take him as he was he should be very happy
to dine with her, she excused herself a
moment and went to give an order in the
dining-room. The young man, left alone,
looked about the parlor — the two parlors
which, in their prolonged, adjacent narrow-
ness, formed evidently one apartment — and
wandered to the windows at the back, where
there was a view of the water ; Miss Chan-
cellor having the good fortune to dwell on
that side of Charles street toward which, in
the rear, the afternoon sun slants redly, from
an horizon indented at empty intervals with
wooden spires, the masts of lonely boats, the
chimneys of dirty " works," over a brackish
expanse of anomalous character, which is
too big for a river and too small for a bay.
The view seemed to him very picturesque,
though in the gathered dusk little was left of
it save a cold yellow streak in the west, a
gleam of brown water, and the reflection of
the lights that had begun to show themselves
in a row of houses, impressive to Ransom in
their extreme modernness, that overlooked
the same lagoon from a long embankment
on the left, constructed of roughly piled
stones. He thought this prospect, from a
city house, almost romantic; and he turned
from it back to the interior (illuminated
now by a lamp which the parlor-maid had
placed on a table while he stood at the
window) as to something still more genial and
interesting. The artistic sense in Basil Ran-
som had not been highly cultivated ; neither
(though he had passed his early years as the
son of a rich man) was his conception of
material comfort very definite; it consisted
mainly of the vision of plenty of cigars and
THE BOSTONIANS.
535
brandy and water and newspapers, and a cane-
bottomed arm-chair of the right inclination,
from which he could stretch his legs. Never-
theless, it seemed to him he had never seen
an interior that was so much of an interior as
this queer corridor-shaped drawing-room of
his new-found kinswoman ; he had never felt
himself in the presence of so much organized
privacy or of so many objects that spoke of
habits and tastes. Most of the people he had
hitherto known had no tastes ; they had a
few habits, but these were not of a sort that
required much upholstery. He had not as
yet been in many houses in New York, and
he had never before seen so many accessories.
The general character of the place struck him
as Bostonian ; this was, in fact, very much
what he had supposed Boston to be. He had
always heard Boston was a city of culture,
and now there was culture in Miss Chan-
cellor's tables and sofas, in the books that were
everywhere, on little shelves like brackets (as
if a book were a statuette), in the photographs
and water-colors that covered the walls, in
the curtains that were festooned rather stiffly
in the doorways. He looked at some of the
books, and saw that his cousin read German;
and his impression of the importance of this
(as a symptom of superiority) was not dimin-
ished by the fact that he himself had mastered
the tongue (knowing that it contained a large
literature of jurisprudence) during a long,
empty, deadly summer on the plantation. It
is a curious proof of a certain crude modesty
inherent in Basil Ransom that the main effect
of his observing his cousin's German books
was to give him an idea of the natural energy
of Northerners. He had noticed it often be-
fore; he had already told himself that he
must count with it. It was only after much
experience he made the discovery that Jew
Northerners were, in their secret soul, so
energetic as he. Many other persons had
made it before that. He knew very little
about Miss Chancellor; he had come to see
her only because she wrote to him ; he would
never have thought of looking her up, and
since then there had been no one in New
York he might ask about her. Therefore he
could only guess that she was a rich young
woman; such a house, inhabited in such a
way by a quiet spinster, implied a consider-
able income. How much ? he asked himself;
five thousand, ten thousand, fifteen thousand
a year ? There was richness to our panting
young man in the smallest of these figures.
He was not of a mercenary spirit, but he had
an immense desire for success, and he had
more than once reflected that a moderate
capital was an aid to achievement. He had
seen in his younger years one of the biggest
failures that history commemorates, an im-
mense national fiasco, and it had implanted
in his mind a deep aversion to the ineffec-
tual. It came over him, while he waited for
his hostess to reappear, that she was unmar-
ried as well as rich, that she was sociable (her
letter answered for that) as well as single ;
and he had for a moment a whimsical vision
of becoming a partner in so flourishing a firm.
He ground his teeth a little as he thought of
the contrasts of the human lot; this cushioned
feminine nest made him feel unhoused and
underfed. Such a mood, however, could only
be momentary, for he was conscious at bot-
tom of a bigger stomach than all the " cul-
ture " of Charles street could fill.
Afterward, when his cousin had come back
and they had gone down to dinner together,
where he sat facing her at a little table dec-
orated in the middle with flowers, a position
from which he had another view, through a
window where the curtain remained undrawn
by her direction (she called his attention to
this — it was for his benefit), of the dusky,
empty river, spotted with points of light, — at
this period, I say, it was very easy for him to
remark to himself that nothing would induce
him to make love to such a type as that.
Several months later, in New York, in con-
versation with Mrs. Luna, of whom he was
destined to see a good deal, he alluded by
chance to this repast, to the way her sister had
placed him at table, and to the remark with
which she had pointed out the advantage of
his seat.
" That's what they call in Boston being
very ' thoughtful,' " Mrs. Luna said, " giving
you the Back Bay (don't you hate the name ?)
to look at, and then taking credit for it."
This, however, was in the future; what
Basil Ransom actually perceived was that
Miss Chancellor was a single old maid. That
was her quality, her destiny ; nothing could
be more distinctly written. There are women
who are unmarried by accident, and others
who are unmarried by option; but Olive
Chancellor was unmarried by every implica-
tion of her being. She was a spinster as Shel-
ley was a lyric poet, or as the month of August
is sultry. She was so essentially a celibate
that Ransom found himself thinking of her as
old, though when he came to look at her (as
he said to himself) it was apparent that her
years were fewer than his own. He did not
dislike her, she had been so friendly ; but,
little by little, she gave him an uneasy feeling
— the sense that you could never be safe with
a person who took things so hard. It came
over him that it was because she took things
hard she had sought his acquaintance ; it had
been because she was strenuous, not because
536
THE BOSTONIANS.
she was genial ; she had had in her eye —
and what an extraordinary eye it was ! — not
a pleasure, but a duty. She would expect him
to be strenuous in return ; but he couldn't —
in private life, he couldn't ; privacy for Basil
Ransom consisted entirely in what he called
': laying off." She was not so plain on further
acquaintance as she had seemed to him at
first ; even the young Mississippian had cul-
ture enough to see that she was refined. Her
white skin had a singular look of being drawn
tightly across her face ; but her features, though
sharp and irregular, were delicate in a fashion
that suggested good breeding. Their line was
perverse, but it was not poor. The curious
tint of her eyes was a living color ; when she
turned it upon you, you thought vaguely of
the glitter of green ice. She had absolutely
no figure, and presented a certain appearance
of feeling cold. With all this, there was some-
thing very modern and highly developed in
her aspect ; she had the advantages as well
as the drawbacks of a nervous organization.
She smiled constantly at her guest, but from
the beginning to the end of dinner, though
he made several remarks that he thought
might prove amusing, she never once laughed.
Later, he saw that she was a woman without
laughter ; exhilaration, if it ever visited her,
was dumb. Once only, in the course of his
subsequent acquaintance with her, did it find
a voice ; and then the sound remained in
Ransom's ear as one of the strangest he had
heard.
She asked him a great many questions, and
made no comment on his answers, which only
served to suggest to her fresh inquiries. Her
shyness had quite left her, it did not come
back ; she had confidence enough to wish him
to see that she took a great interest in him.
Why should she ? he wondered. He couldn't
believe he was one of her kind ; he was con-
scious of much Bohemianism- — he drank beer
in New York in cellars, knew no ladies, and
was familiar with a " variety " actress. Cer-
tainly, as she knew him better, she would
disapprove of him, though, of course, he would
never mention the actress, nor even, if neces-
sary, the beer. Ransom's conception of vice
was purely as a series of special cases, of ex-
plicable accidents. Not that he cared; if it
were a part of the Boston character to be in-
quiring, he would be to the last a courteous
Mississippian. He would tell her about Mis-
sissippi as much as she liked ; he didn't care
how much he told her that the old ideas in
the South were played out. She wouldn't
understand him any the better for that ; she
wouldn't know how little his own views could
be gathered from such a limited admission.
What her sister imparted to him about her
mania for " reform " had left in his mouth a
kind of unpleasant after-taste ; he felt, at any
rate, that if she had the religion of humanity,
— Basil Ransom had read Comte, he had
read everything, — she would never under-
stand him. He, too, had a private vision of
reform, but the first principle of it was to re-
form the reformers. As they drew to the close
of a meal which, in spite of all latent incom-
patibilities, had gone off brilliantly, she said
to him that she should have to leave him after
dinner, unless perhaps he should be inclined
to accompany her. She was going to a small
gathering at the house of a friend who had
asked a few people, " interested in new ideas,"
to meet Mrs. Farrinder.
" Oh, thank you," said Basil Ransom. " Is
it a party ? I haven't been to a party since
Mississippi seceded."
" No ; Miss Birdseye doesn't give parties.
She's an ascetic."
" Oh, well, we've had our dinner," Ransom
rejoined, laughing.
His hostess sat silent a moment, with her
eyes on the ground ; she looked at such times
as if she were hesitating greatly between sev-
eral things she might say, all so important
that it was difficult to choose.
" I think it might interest you," she re-
marked presently. " You will hear some dis-
cussion, if you are fond of that. Perhaps you
wouldn't agree," she added, resting her
strange eyes on him.
" Perhaps I shouldn't — I don't agree with
everything," he said, smiling and stroking his
leg.
" Don't you care for human progress ? "
Miss Chancellor went on.
"I don't know — I never saw any. Are
you going to show me some ? "
" I can show you an earnest effort toward
it. That's the most one can be sure of. But
I am not sure you are worthy."
" Is it something very Bostonian ? I should
like to see that," said Basil Ransom.
" There are movements in other cities.
Mrs. Farrinder goes everywhere ; she may
speak to-night."
" Mrs. Farrinder, the celebrated "
" Yes, the celebrated ; the great apostle of
the emancipation of women. She is a great
friend of Miss Birdseye."
And who is Miss Birdseye
" She is one of our celebrities. She is the wo-
man in the world, I suppose, who has labored
most for every wise reform. I think I ought
to tell you," Miss Chancellor went on in a mo-
ment, " she was one of the earliest, one of the
most passionate, of the old Abolitionists."
She had thought, indeed, she ought to tell
him that, and it threw her into a little tremor
THE BOSTONIANS.
537
of excitement to do so. Yet, if she had been
afraid he would show some irritation at this
news, she was disappointed at the geniality
with which he exclaimed:
" Why, poor old lady — she must be quite
mature ! "
It was therefore with some severity that
she rejoined :
" She will never be old. She is the young-
est spirit I know. But if you are not in sym-
pathy, perhaps you had better not come,"
she went on.
" In sympathy with what, dear madam ? "
Basil Ransom asked, failing still, to her per-
ception, to catch the tone of real seriousness.
I If, as you say, there is to be a discussion,
there will be different sides, and of course
one can't sympathize with both."
" Yes, but every one will, in his way, — or
in her way, — plead the cause of the new
truths. If you don't care for them, you won't
go with us."
" I tell you I haven't the least idea what
they are ! I have never yet encountered in
the world any but old truths — as old as the
sun and moon. How can I know ? But do
take me ; it's** such a chance to see Boston."
" It isn't Boston — it's humanity ! " Miss
Chancellor, as she made this remark, rose
from her chair, and her movement seemed to
say that she consented. But before she quitted
her kinsman to get ready, she observed to
him that she was sure he knew what she
meant ; he was only pretending he didn't.
" Well, perhaps, after all, I have a general
idea," he confessed ; " but don't you see how
this little reunion will give me a chance to
fix it ? "
She lingered an instant with her anxious
face. " Mrs. Farrinder will fix you ! " she
said ; and she went to prepare herself.
It was in this poor young lady's nature to
be anxious, to have scruple within scruple, and
to forecast the consequences of things. She
returned in ten minutes in her bonnet, which
she had apparently assumed in recognition
I of Miss Birdseye's asceticism. As she stood
there drawing on her gloves, — her visitor had
fortified himself against Mrs. Farrinder by
another glass of wine, — she declared to him
that she quite repented of having proposed
to him to go ; something told her that he
would be an unfavorable element.
" Why, is it going to be a spiritual seance? "
Basil Ransom asked.
" Well, I have heard at Miss Birdseye's
some inspirational speaking." Olive Chan-
cellor was determined to look him straight in
the face as she said this ; her sense of the
way it might strike him operated as a cogent,
not as a deterrent reason.
" Why, Miss Olive, it's just got up on pur-
pose for me ! " cried the young Mississippian,
radiant, and clasping his hands. She thought
him very handsome as he said this, but re-
flected that unfortunately men didn't care for
the truth, especially the new kinds, in pro-
portion as they were good-looking. She had,
however, a moral resource that she could al-
ways fall back upon ; it had already been a
comfort to her, on occasions of acute feeling,
that she hated men, as a class, anyway. " And
I want so much to see an old Abolitionist ; I
have never laid eyes on one," Basil Ransom
added.
" Of course you couldn't see one in the
South; you were too afraid of them to let
them come there ! " She was now trying to
think of something she might say that would
be sufficiently disagreeable to make him cease
to insist on accompanying her ; for, strange to
record, — if anything in a person of that in-
tense sensibility be stranger than any other,
— her second thought with regard to having
asked him had deepened with the elapsing
moments into an unreasoned terror of the
effect of his presence. " Perhaps Miss Birds-
eye won't like you," she went on, as they
waited for the carriage.
" I don't know ; I guess she will," said
Basil Ransom, good-humoredly. He evi-
dently had no intention of giving up his op-
portunity.
From the window of the dining-room, at
that moment, they heard the carriage drive
up. Miss Birdseye lived at the South End ;
the distance was considerable, and Miss Chan-
cellor had ordered a hackney-coach, it being
one of the advantages of living in Charles
street that stables were near. The logic of
her conduct was none of the clearest ; for if
she had been alone she would have proceeded
to her destination by the aid of the street-car;
not from economy (for she had the good for-
tune not to be obliged to consult it to that
degree), and not from any love of wandering
about Boston at night (a kind of exposure
she greatly disliked), but by reason of a theory
she devotedly nursed, a theory which bade
her put off invidious differences and mingle
in the common life. She would have gone on
foot to Boylston street, and there she would
have taken the public conveyance (in her
heart she loathed it) to the South End. Bos-
ton was full of poor girls who had to walk
about at night and to squeeze into horse-cars
in which every sense was displeased ; and
why should she hold herself superior to these ?
Olive Chancellor regulated her conduct on
lofty principles, and this is why, having to-
night the advantage of a gentleman's protec-
tion, she sent for a carriage to obliterate that
53»
THE BOSTONIANS.
patronage. If they had gone together in the
common way, she would have seemed to owe
it to him that she should be so daring, and
he belonged to a sex to which she wished to be
under no obligations. Months before, when
she wrote to him, it had been with the sense,
rather, of putting him in debt. As they rolled
toward the South End, side by side, in a good
deal of silence, bouncing and bumping over
the railway-tracks very little less, after all,
than if their wheels had been fitted to them,
and looking out on either side at rows of red
houses, dusky in the lamp-light, with protu-
berant fronts, approached by ladders of stone;
as they proceeded, with these contemplative
undulations, Miss Chancellor said to her com-
panion, with a concentrated desire to defy
him, as a punishment for having thrown her
(she couldn't tell why) into such a tremor :
" Don't you believe, then, in the coming
of a better day — in its being possible to do
something for the human race ? "
Poor Ransom perceived the defiance, and
he felt rather bewildered ; he wondered what
type, after all, he had got hold of, and what
game was being played with him. Why had
she made advances, if she wanted to pinch
him in this way ? However, he was good for
any game, — that one as well as another, —
and he saw that he was " in " for something
of which he had long desired to have a nearer
view. " Well, Miss Olive," he answered, put-
ting on again his big hat, which he had been
holding in his lap, " what strikes me most is
that the human race has got to bear its
troubles."
" That's what men say to women, to make
them patient in the position they have made
for them."
" Oh, the position of women ! " Basil Ran-
som exclaimed. "The position of women is to
make fools of men. I would change my posi-
tion for yours any day," he went on. " That's
what I said to myself as I sat there in your
elegant home."
He could not see, in the dimness of the car-
riage, that she had flushed quickly, and he
did not know that she disliked to be reminded
of certain things which, for her, were mitiga-
tions of the hard feminine lot. But the pas-
sionate quaver with which, a moment later,
she answered him sufficiently assured him
that he had touched her at a tender point.
" Do you make it a reproach to me that I
happen to have a little money ? The dearest
wish of my heart is to do something with it
for others — for the miserable."
Basil Ransom might have greeted this last
declaration with the sympathy it deserved,
might have commended the noble aspirations
of his kinswoman. But what struck him,
rather, was the oddity of so sudden a sharp-
ness of pitch in an intercourse which, an hour
or two before, had begun in perfect amity,
and he burst once more into an irrepressible
laugh. This made his companion feel, with
intensity, how little she was joking. " I don't
know why I should care what you think," she
said.
" Don't care — don't care. What does it
matter ? It is not of the slightest importance."
He might say that, but it was not true ; she
felt that there were reasons why she should
care. She had brought him into her life, and
she should have to pay for it. But she wished
to know the worst at once. " Are you against
our emancipation ? " she asked, turning a
white face on him in the momentary radiance
of a street-lamp.
" Do you mean your voting and preaching
and all that sort of thing ? " He made this in-
quiry, but seeing how seriously she would take
his answer, he was almost frightened, and hung
fire. " I will tell you when I have heard Mrs.
Farrinder."
They had arrived at the address given by
Miss Chancellor to the coachman, and their
vehicle stopped with a lurch. Basil Ransom
got out; he stood at the door with an ex-
tended hand to assist the young lady. But
she seemed to hesitate ; she sat there with her
spectral face. " You hate it ! " she exclaimed,
in a low tone.
" Miss Birdseye will convert me," said Ran-
som, with intention; for he had grown very
curious, and he was afraid that now, at the
last, Miss Chancellor would prevent his en-
tering the house. She alighted without his
help, and behind her he ascended the high
steps of Miss Birdseye's residence. He had
grown very curious, I say, and among the
things he wanted to know was why in the
world this ticklish spinster had written to him.
IV.
She had told him before they started that
they should be early ; she wished to see Miss
Birdseye alone before the arrival of any one
else. This was just for the pleasure of seeing
her — it was an opportunity ; she was always
so taken up with others. She received Miss
Chancellor in the hall of her mansion, which
had a salient front, an enormous and very high
number — 756 — painted in gilt on the glass
light above the door, a tin sign bearing the
name of a doctress (Mary J. Prance) sus-
pended from one of the windows of the base-
ment, and a peculiar look of being both new
and faded — a kind of modern fatigue — like
certain articles of commerce which are sold
THE BOSTONIANS.
539
at a reduction as shop- worn. The hall was
very narrow. A considerable part of it was
occupied by a large hat- tree, from which sev-
eral coats and shawls already depended. The
rest offered space for certain lateral demon-
strations on Miss Birdseye's part. She sidled
about her visitors, and at last went round to
open for them a door of further admission,
which happened to be locked inside. She was
a little old lady, with an enormous head ; that
was the first thing Ransom noticed — the
vast, fair, protuberant, candid, ungarnished
brow, surmounting a pair of weak, kind, tired-
looking eyes, and ineffectually balanced in the
rear by a cap which had the air of falling back-
ward, and which Miss Birdseye suddenly felt
for while she talked, with unsuccessful, irrel-
evant movements. She had a sad, soft, pale
face, which (and it was the effect of her
whole head) looked as if it had been soaked,
blurred, and made vague by exposure to some
slow dissolvent. "The long practice of philan-
thropy had not given accent to her features.
It had rubbed out their transitions, their mean-
ings. The waves of sympathy, of enthusiasm,
had wrought upon them in the same way in
which the waves of time finally modify the
surface of old marble busts, gradually wash-
ing away their sharpness, their details. In
her large countenance her dim little smile
scarcely showed. It was a mere sketch of a
smile, a kind of installment, or payment on ac-
count ; it seemed to say that she would smile
more if she had time, but that you could see,
without this, that she was gentle and easy to
beguile.
She always dressed in the same way; she
wore a loose black jacket, with deep pockets,
which were stuffed with papers, memoranda
of a voluminous correspondence; and from
beneath her jacket depended a short stuff
dress. The brevity of this simple garment
was the one device by which Miss Birdseye
managed to suggest that she was a woman
of business, that she wished to be free for
action. She belonged to the Short-Skirts
League, as a matter of course ; for she be-
longed to any and every league that had been
founded for almost any purpose whatever.
This did not prevent her being a confused,
entangled, inconsequent, discursive old woman,
whose charity began at home and ended no-
where, whose credulity kept pace with it, and
who knew less about her fellow-creatures, if
possible, after fifty years of humanitary zeal,
than on the day she had gone into the field
to testify against the iniquity of most arrange-
ments. Basil Ransom knew very little about
such a life as hers, but she seemed to him a
revelation of a class, and a multitude of social-
istic figures, of names and episodes, that he
had heard of grouped themselves behind her.
She looked as if she had spent her life on
platforms, in audiences, in conventions, in
phalansteries, in seances; in her faded face
there was a kind of reflection of ugly lecture-
lamps ; with its habit of an upward angle, it
seemed turned toward a public speaker, with
an effort of respiration in the thick air in which
social reforms are usually discussed. She
talked continually, in a voice of which the
spring seemed broken, like that of an over-
worked bell-wire ; and when Miss Chancellor
explained that she had brought Mr. Ransom
because he was so anxious to meet Mrs. Far-
rinder, she gave the young man a delicate,
dirty, democratic little hand, looking at him
kindly, as she could not help doing, but with-
out the smallest discrimination as against
others who might not have the good fortune
(which involved, possibly, an injustice) to be
present on such an interesting occasion. She
struck him as very poor, but it was only after-
ward that he learned she had never had a
penny in her life. No one had an idea how
she lived; whenever money was given her,
she gave it away to a negro or a refugee. No
woman could be less invidious, but on the
whole she preferred these two classes of the
human race. Since the Civil War much of
her occupation was gone ; for before that her
best hours had been spent in fancying that
she was helping some Southern slave to es-
cape. It would have been a nice question
whether, in her heart of hearts, for the sake
of this excitement, she did not sometimes
wish the blacks back in bondage. She had
suffered in the same way by the relaxation of
many European despotisms, for in former
years much of the romance of her life had
been in smoothing the pillow of exile for ban-
ished conspirators. Her refugees had been
very precious to her; she was always trying
to raise money for some cadaverous Pole, to
obtain lessons for some shirtless Italian. There
was a legend that a Hungarian had once
possessed himself of her affections, and had
disappeared after robbing her of everything
she possessed. This, however, was very apoc-
ryphal, for she had never possessed any-
thing, and it was open to grave doubt that
she could have entertained a sentiment so
personal. She was in love, even in those days,
only with causes, and she languished only
for emancipations. But they had been the
happiest days, for when causes were embodied
in foreigners (what else were the Africans ?),
they were certainly more appealing.
She had just come down to see Doctor
Prance — to see whether she wouldn't like to
come up. But she wasn't in her room, and
Miss Birdseye guessed she had gone out to
54-o
THE BOSTONIANS.
her supper; she got her supper at a boarding-
table about two blocks off. Miss Birdseye
expressed the hope that Miss Chancellor had
had hers; she would have had plenty of
time to take it, for no one had come in yet ;
she didn't know what made them all so late.
Ransom perceived that the garments sus-
pended to the hat-rack were not a sign that
Miss Birdseye's friends had assembled ; if he
had gone a little farther still, he would have
recognized the house as one of those in which
mysterious articles of clothing are always
hooked to something in the hall. Miss Birds-
eye's visitors, those of Doctor Prance, and of
other tenants — for Number 756 was the com-
mon residence of several persons, among
whom there prevailed much vagueness of
boundary — used to leave things to be called
for; many of them went about with satchels
and reticules, for which they were always
looking for places of deposit. What completed
the character of this interior was Miss Birds-
eye's own apartment', into which her guests
presently made their way, and where they
were joined by various other members of the
good lady's circle. Indeed, it completed Miss
Birdseye herself, if anything could be said to
render that office to this essentially formless
old woman, who had no more outline than a
bundle of hay. But the bareness of her long,
loose, empty parlor (it was shaped exactly
like Miss Chancellor's) told that she had never
had any needs but moral needs, and that all
her history had been that of her sympathies.
The place was lighted by a small hot glare
of gas, which made it look white and feature-
less. It struck even Basil Ransom with its
flatness, and he said to himself that his cousin
must have a very big bee in her bonnet to
make her like such a house. He didn't know
then, and he never knew, that she mortally
disliked it, and that in a career in which she
was constantly exposing herself to offense and
laceration, her most poignant suffering came
from the injury of her taste. She had tried to
kill that nerve, to persuade herself that taste
was only frivolity in the disguise of knowledge;
but her susceptibility was constantly bloom-
ing afresh and making her wonder whether
an absence of nice arrangements were a nec-
essary part of the enthusiasm of humanity.
Miss Birdseye was always trying to obtain
employment, lessons in drawing, orders for
portraits, for poor foreign artists, as to the
greatness of whose talent she pledged herself
without reserve ; but in point of fact she had
not the faintest sense of the scenic side of life.
Toward nine o'clock the light of her hissing
burners smote the majestic person of Mrs.
Farrinder, who might have contributed to
answer that question of Miss Chancellor's in
the negative. She was a copious, handsome
woman, in whom angularity had been cor-
rected by the air of success ; she had a rus-
tling dress (it was evident what she thought
about taste), abundant hair of a glossy
blackness, a pair of folded arms, the expression
of which seemed to say that rest in such a
career as hers was as sweet as it was brief,
and a terrible regularity of feature. I apply
that adjective to her fine placid mask because
she seemed to face you with a question of
which the answer was preordained, to ask
you how a countenance could fail to be noble
of which the measurements were so correct.
You could contest neither the measurements
nor the nobleness, and had to feel that Mrs.
Farrinder imposed herself. There was a litho-
graphic smoothness about her, and a mixture
of the American matron and the public char-
acter. There was something public in her
eye, which was large, cold, and quiet; it had
acquired a sort of exposed reticence from the
habit of looking down from a lecture-desk
over a sea of heads, while its distinguished
owner was eulogized by a leading citizen.
Mrs. Farrinder, at almost any time, had the
air of being introduced by a few remarks. She
talked with great slowness and distinctness,
and evidently a high sense of responsibility;
she pronounced every syllable of every word
and insisted on being explicit. If, in conversa-
tion with her, you attempted to take anything
for granted, or to jump two or three steps at
a time, she paused, looking at you with a
cold patience, as if she knew that trick, and
then went on at her own measured pace. She
lectured on temperance and the rights of
women ; the ends she labored for were to
give the ballot to every woman in the country
and to take the flowing bowl from every man.
She was held to have a very fine manner, and
to embody the domestic virtues and the graces
of the drawing-room ; to be a shining proof,
in short, that the forum, for ladies, is not nec-
essarily hostile to the fireside. She had a
husband, and his name was Amariah.
Doctor Prance had come back from supper
and made her appearance in response to an
invitation that Miss Birdseye's relaxed voice
had tinkled down to her from the hall, over
the banisters, with much repetition, to secure
attention. She was a plain, spare young
woman, with short hair and an eye-glass; she
looked about her with a kind of near-sighted
depreciation, and seemed to hope that she
should not be expected to generalize in any
way, or supposed to have come up for any
purpose more social than to see what Miss
Birdseye wanted this time. By nine o'clock
twenty other persons had arrived, and had
placed themselves in the chairs that were
THE BOSTONIANS.
54i
ranged along the sides of the long, bald room,
in which they ended by producing the simili-
tude of an enormous street-car. The apart-
ment contained little else but these chairs,
many of which had a borrowed aspect, an
implication of bare bedrooms in the upper
regions; a table or two with a discolored
marble top, a few books, and a collection of
newspapers piled up in corners. Ransom
could see for himself that the occasion was
not crudely festive ; there was a want of con-
vivial movement, and, among most of the
visitors, even of mutual recognition. They
sat there as if they were waiting for some-
thing; they looked obliquely and silently at
Mrs. Farrinder, and were plainly under the
impression that, fortunately, they were not
there to amuse themselves. The ladies, who
were much the more numerous, wore their
bonnets like Miss Chancellor; the men were
in the garb of toil, many of them in weary
looking overcoats. Two or three had retained
their overshoes, and as you approached them
the odor of the India-rubber was perceptible.
It was not, however, that Miss Birdseye ever
noticed anything of that sort; she neither
knew what she smelled nor tasted what she
ate. Most of her friends had an anxious, hag-
gard look, though there were sundry excep-
tions— half a dozen placid, florid faces.
Basil Ransom wondered who they all were ;
he had a general idea they were mediums,
communists, vegetarians. It was not, either,
that Miss Birdseye failed to wander about
among them with repetitions of inquiry and
friendly absences of attention ; she sat down
near most of them in turn, saying " Yes, yes,"
vaguely and kindly, to remarks they made to
her, feeling for the papers in the pockets of
her loosened bodice, recovering her cap and
sacrificing her spectacles, wondering most of
all what had been her idea in convoking these
people. Then she remembered that it had
been connected in some way with Mrs. Far-
rinder; that this eloquent woman had prom-
ised to favor the company with a few reminis-
cences of her last campaign ; to sketch even,
perhaps, the lines in which she intended to
operate during the coming winter. This was
what Olive Chancellor had come to hear;
this would be the attraction for the dark-eyed
young man (he looked like a genius) she had
brought with her. Miss Birdseye made her
way back to the great lecturess, who was
bending an indulgent attention on Miss
Chancellor; the latter compressed into a small
space, to be near her, and sitting with clasped
hands and a concentration of inquiry which
by contrast made Mrs. Farrinder's manner
seem large and free. In her transit, however,
the hostess was checked by the arrival of
fresh pilgrims ; she had no idea she had men-
tioned the occasion to so many people, — she
only remembered, as it were, those she had
forgotten, — and it was certainly a proof of the
interest felt in Mrs. Farrinder's work. The
people who had just come in were Doctor
and Mrs. Tarrant and their daughter Verena;
he was a mesmeric healer, and she was of old
Abolitionist stock. Miss Birdseye rested her
dim, dry smile upon the daughter, who was
new to her, and it floated before her that she
would probably be remarkable as a genius ;
her parentage was an implication of that.
There was a genius for Miss Birdseye in every
bush. Selah Tarrant had effected wonderful
cures ; she knew so many people — if they
would only try him. His wife was a daughter
of Abraham Greenstreet ; she had kept a run-
away slave in her house for thirty days. That
was years before, when this girl must have
been a child ; but hadn't it thrown a kind of
rainbow over her cradle, and wouldn't she
naturally have some gift ? The girl was very
pretty, though she had red hair.
v.
Mrs. Farrinder, meanwhile, was not eager
to address the assembly. She confessed as much
to Olive Chancellor, with a smile which asked
that a temporary lapse of promptness might not
be too harshly judged. She had addressed so
many assemblies, and she wanted to hear what
other people had to say. Miss Chancellor her-
self had thought so much on the vital subject ;
would not she make a few remarks and give
them some of her experiences? How did the
ladies on Beacon street feel about the ballot ?
Perhaps she could speak for them more than
for some others. That was a branch of the
question on which, it might be, the leaders
had not information enough ; but they wanted
to take in everything, and why shouldn't Miss
Chancellor just make that field her own ? Mrs.
Farrinder spoke in the tone of one who took
views so wide that they might easily, at first,
before you could see how she worked round,
look almost meretricious ; she was conscious
of a scope that exceeded the first flight of your
imagination. She urged upon her companion
the idea of laboring in the world of fashion,
appeared to attribute to her familiar rela-
tions with that mysterious realm, and wanted
to know why she shouldn't stir up some of
her friends down there on the Mill-dam ?
Olive Chancellor received this appeal with
peculiar feelings. With her immense sympa-
thy for reform, she found herself so often wish-
ing that reformers were a little different. There
was something grand about Mrs. Farrinder.
542
THE BOSTONIANS.
It lifted one up to be with her. But there was
a false note when she spoke to her young
friend about the ladies in Beacon street. Olive
hated to hear that fine avenue talked about
as if it were such a remarkable place, and to
live there were a proof of worldly glory. All
sorts of inferior people lived there, and so brill-
iant a woman as Mrs. Farrinder, who lived
at Roxbury, ought not to mix things up. It
was, of course, very wretched to be irritated
by such mistakes ; but this was not the first
time Miss Chancellor had observed that the
possession of nerves was not by itself a reason
for embracing the new truths. She knew her
place in the Boston hierarchy, and it wasn't
what Mrs. Farrinder supposed ; so that there
was a want of perspective in talking to her as
if she had been a representative of the aris-
tocracy. Nothing could be weaker, she knew
very well, than (in the United States) to apply
that term too literally ; nevertheless, it would
represent a reality if one were to say that,
by distinction, the Chancellors belonged to
the bourgeoisie — the oldest and best. They
might care for such a position or not (as it
happened, they were very proud of it), but
there they were, and it made Mrs. Farrinder
seem provincial (there was something provin-
cial, after all, in the way she did her hair
too) not to understand. When Miss Birdseye
spoke as if one were a " leader of society,"
Olive could forgive her even that odious ex-
pression, because, of course, one never pre-
tended that she, poor dear, had the smallest
sense of the real. She was heroic, she was
sublime, the whole moral history of Boston
was reflected in her displaced spectacles ; but
it was a part of her originality, as it were, that
she was deliciously provincial. Olive Chan-
cellor seemed to herself to have privileges
enough without being affiliated to the exclu-
sive set and having invitations to the smaller
parties, which were the real test; it was a
mercy for her that she had not that added
immorality on her conscience. The ladies
Mrs. Farrinder meant (it was to be supposed
she meant some particular ones) might speak
for themselves. She wished to work in an-
other field ; she had long been preoccupied
with the romance of the People. She had an
immense desire to know intimately some very
poor girl. This might seem one of the most
accessible of pleasures ; but, in point of fact,
she had not found it so. There were two or
three pale shop-maidens whose acquaintance
she had sought ; but they had seemed afraid
of her, and the attempt had come to nothing.
She took them more tragically than they took
themselves ; they couldn't make out what she
wanted them to do, and they always ended by
being odiously mixed up with Charlie. Charlie
was a young man in a white overcoat and a
paper collar ; it was for him, in the last analy-
sis, that they cared much the most. They
cared far more about Charlie than about the
ballot. Olive Chancellor wondered how Mrs.
Farrinder would treat that branch of the ques-
tion. In her researches among her young
townswomen she had always found this obtru-
sive swain planted in her path, and she grew
at last to dislike him extremely. It filled her
with exasperation to think that he should be
necessary to the happiness of his victims (she
had learned that whatever they might talk
about with her, it was of him and him only
that they discoursed among themselves), and
one of the main recommendations of the even-
ing club for her fatigued, underpaid sisters,
which it had long been her dream to establish,
was that it would in some degree undermine
his position — distinct as her prevision might
be that he would be in waiting at the door.
She hardly knew what to say to Mrs. Far-
rinder when this momentarily misdirected
woman, still preoccupied with the Mill-dam,
returned to the charge.
" We want laborers in that field, though I
know two or three lovely women — sweet
home tvomen — moving in circles that are for
the most part closed to every new voice, who
are doing their best to help on the fight. I
have several names that might surprise you,
names well known on State street. But we
can't have too many recruits, especially among
those whose refinement is generally acknowl-
edged. If it be necessary, we are prepared to
take certain steps to conciliate the refined.
Our movement is for all — it appeals to
the most delicate ladies. Raise the standard
among them, and bring me a thousand names.
I know several that I should like to have. I
look after the details as well as the big currents,"
Mrs. Farrinder added, in a tone as explanatory
as could be expected of such a woman, and
with a smile of which the sweetness was thrill-
ing to her listener.
" I can't talk to those people, I can't ! "
said Olive Chancellor, with a face which
seemed to plead for a remission of responsi-
bility. " I want to give myself up to others.
I want to know everything that lies beneath
and out of sight, don't you know ? I want to
enter into the lives of women who are lonely,
who are piteous. I want to be near to them —
to help them. I want to do something — oh,
I should like so to speak ! "
" We should be glad to have you make a
few remarks at present," Mrs. Farrinder de-
clared, with a punctuality which revealed the
habit of presiding.
" Oh, dear, no, I can't speak ; I have none of
that sort of talent. I have no self-possession,
THE BOSTONIANS.
543
no eloquence; I can't put three words to-
gether. But I do want to contribute."
" What have you got ? " Mrs. Farrinder in-
quired, looking at her interlocutress, up and
down, with the eye of business, in which there
was a certain chill. " Have you got money ? "
Olive was so agitated for the moment with
the hope that this great woman would approve
of her on the financial side that she took no
time to reflect that some other qualities might,
in courtesy, have been suggested. But she
confessed to possessing a certain capital, and
the tone seemed rich and deep in which Mrs.
Farrinder said to her, " Then contribute
that ! " She was so good as to develop this
idea, and her picture of the part Miss Chan-
cellor might play by making liberal donations
to a fund for tj^e diffusion among the women
of America of a more adequate conception of
their public and private rights, — a fund her
adviser had herself lately inaugurated, — this
bold, rapid sketch had the vividness which
characterized the speaker's most successful
public efforts. It placed Olive under the
spell; it made her feel almost inspired. If
her life struck others in that way, — especially
a woman like Mrs. Farrinder, whose horizon
was so full, — then there must be something
for her to do. It was one thing to choose for
herself, but now the great representative of
the enfranchisement of their sex (from every
form of bondage) had chosen for her.
The barren, gas-lighted room grew richer
and richer to her earnest eyes ; it seemed to
expand, to open itself to the great life of
humanity. The serious, tired people, in their
bonnets and overcoats, began to glow like a
company of heroes. Yes, she would do some-
thing, Olive Chancellor said to herself; she
would do something to brighten the darkness
of that dreadful image that was always before
her, and against which it seemed to her at
times that she had been born to lead a crusade
— the image of the unhappiness of women.
The unhappiness of women ! The voice of
their silent suffering was always in her ears,
the ocean of tears that they had shed from
the beginning of time seemed to pour through
her own eyes. Ages of oppression had rolled
over them ; uncounted millions had lived only
to be tortured, to be crucified. They were her
sisters, they were her own, and the day of
their delivery had dawned. This was the
only sacred cause; this was the great, the
just revolution. It must triumph, it must
sweep everything before it ; it must exact from
the other, the brutal, blood-stained, ravening
race, the last particle of expiation ! It would
be the greatest change the world had seen ; it
would be a new era for the human family, and
the names of those who had helped to show
the way and lead the squadrons would be the
brightest in the tables of fame. They would
be names of women, weak, insulted, persecuted,
but devoted in every pulse of their being to
the cause, and asking no better fate than to
die for it. It was not clear to this interesting
girl in what manner such a sacrifice (as this
last) would be required of her, but she saw
the matter through a kind of sunrise-mist of
emotion which made danger as rosy as suc-
cess. When Miss Birdseye approached, it
transfigured her familiar, her comical shape,
and made the poor little humanitary hack
seem already a martyr. Olive Chancellor
looked at her with love, remembered that she
had never, in her long, unrewarded, weary
life, had a thought or an impulse for herself.
She had been consumed by the passion of
sympathy ; it had crumpled her into as many
creases as an old glazed, distended glove. She
had been laughed at, but she never knew it ;
she was treated as a bore, but she never cared.
She had nothing in the world but the clothes
on her back, and when she should go down
into the grave she would leave nothing behind
her but her grotesque, undistinguished, pathetic
little name. And yet people said that women
were vain, that they were personal, that they
were interested! While Miss Birdseye stood
there, asking Mrs. Farrinder if she wouldn't
say something, Olive Chancellor tenderly fast-
ened a small battered brooch which confined
her collar and which had half detached itself.
(To be continued.)
Henry James.
Copyright, 1884, by Samuel L. Clemens. AH rights reserved.
ROYALTY ON THE MISSISSIPPI:
AS CHRONICLED BY HUCKLEBERRY FINN.*
BY MARK TWAIN.
Soon as it was night, out we shoved ; when
we got her out to about the middle, we let
her alone, and let her float wherever the cur-
rent wanted her to. Then we lit the pipes,
and dangled our legs in the water and talked
about all kinds of things.
Sometimes we'd have that whole river all to
ourselves for the longest time. Yonder was
the banks and the islands, across the water;
and may be a spark, — which was a candle in a
cabin window, — and sometimes on the water
you could see a spark or two, on a raft or a
scow, you know ; and may be you could hear
a fiddle or a song coming over from one of
them crafts. It's lovely to live on a raft. We
had the sky up there all speckled with stars,
and we used to lay on our backs and look up
"and dogs a-coming."
at them, and discuss about whether they was
made, or only just happened. Jim he allowed
they was made, but I allowed they happened.
I judged it would have took too long to make
so many. Jim said the moon could 'a' laid
them ; well, that looked kind of reasonable,
so I didn't say nothing against it, because
I've seen a frog lay most as many, so of course
it could be done.
Once or twice of a night we would see a
steamboat slipping along in the dark, and
now and then she would belch a whole world
of sparks up out of her chimbleys, and they
would rain down in the river and look awful
pretty; then she would turn a corner, and
her lights would wink out and her pow-wow
shut off and leave the river still again ; and
by and by her waves would get to us, a long
time after she was gone, and joggle the raft a
bit, and after that you wouldn't hear nothing
for you couldn't tell how long, except may be
frogs or something.
After midnight the people on shore
went to bed, and then for two or three
hours the shores was black — no more
sparks in the cabin windows. These
sparks was our clock — the first one that
showed again meant morning was com-
ing, so we hunted a place to hide and
tie up right away.
One morning, about daybreak, I
found a canoe and crossed over a chute
to the main shore, — it was only two
hundred yards, — and paddled about a
mile up a crick amongst the cypress
woods to see if I couldn't get some
berries. Just as I was passing a place
where a kind of a cow-path crossed the
crick, here comes a couple of men tear-
I ing up the path as tight as they could
foot it. I thought I was a goner, for
whenever anybody was after anybody I
^\ judged it was me — or may be Jim. I
was about to dig out from there in a
hurry, but they was pretty close to me
then, and sung out and begged me to
save their lives ; said they hadn't been
doing nothing, and was being chased
for it ; said there was men and dogs
a-coming. They wanted to jump right
in, but I says :
" Don't you do it. I don't hear the dogs
and horses yet. You've got time to crowd
through the brush and get up the crick a lit-
* See The Century for December and January. The negro Jim is escaping on a raft from slavery in
Missouri, and Huck Finn is running away from a drunken and cruel father. — Ed.
ROYALTY ON THE MISSISSIPPI.
545
tie ways ; then you take to the water and
wade down to me and get in — tnat'll throw
the dogs off the scent."
They done it, and soon as they was aboard
I lit out for our tow-head, and in about five
or ten minutes we heard the dogs and the
men away off, shouting. We heard them come
along towards the crick, but couldn't see them ;
they seemed to stop and fool around awhile.
Then, as we got further and further away all
the time, we couldn't hardly hear them at
all. By the time we had left a mile of woods
behind us and struck the river, everything was
quiet, and we paddled over to the tow-head
and hid in the cottonwoods and was safe.
One of the§e fellows was about seventy,
or upward, and had a bald head and very
gray whiskers. He had an old battered-up
slouch hat on, and a greasy blue woolen shirt,
and ragged old blue jeans britches stuffed into
his boot-tops, and home-knit galluses — no,
he only had one. He had an old long-tailed
blue jeans coat with slick brass buttons flung
over his arm, and both of them had big fat
ratty-looking carpet-bags.
The other fellow was about thirty and
dressed about as ornery. After breakfast we
all laid off and talked, and the first thing that
come out was that these chaps didn't know
one another.
" What got you into trouble ? " says the
baldhead to t'other chap.
" Well, I'd been selling an article to take
the tartar off the teeth — and it does take it
off, too, and generly the enamel along with
it ; but I staid about one night longer than
I ought to, and was just in the act of sliding
out when I ran across you on the trail this
side of town, and you told me they were
coming, and begged me to help you to get
off. So I told you I was expecting trouble
myself and would scatter out with you. That's
the whole yarn — what's yourn ? "
" Well, I'd ben a-runnin' a little temperance
revival thar, 'bout a week, and was the pet
of the women-folks, big and little, for I was
makin' it mighty warm for the rummies, I tell
you, and takin' as much as five or six dollars
a night — ten cents a head, children and
niggers free — and business a-growin' all the
time ; when somehow or another a little re-
port got around, last night, that I had a way
of puttin' in my time with a private jug, on
the sly. A nigger rousted me out this mornin',
and told me the people was getherin' on the
quiet, with their dogs and horses, and they'd
be along pretty soon and give me 'bout half
an hour's start, and then run me down if they
could; and if they got me they'd tar and
feather me and ride me on a rail, sure. I didn't
wait for no breakfast — I warn't hungry."
Vol. XXIX.— 53.
" Old man," says the young one, " I reckon
we might double-team it together; what do
you think ? "
" I ain't undisposed. What's your line —
mainly ? "
" Jour printer by trade ; do a little in patent
medicines; theater-actor — tragedy, you know;
take a turn at mesmerism and phrenology
when there's a chance ; teach singing-geog-
raphy school for a change; sling a lecture
sometimes. Oh, I do lots of things — most
anything that comes handy, so it ain't work.
What's your lay ? "
"I've done considerble in the doctoring way
in my time. Layin' on o' hands is my best holt
— for cancer, and paralysis, and sich things;
and I k'n tell a fortune pretty good, when
I've got somebody along to find out the facts
for me. Preachin's my line, too ; and workin'
camp-meetin's ; and missionaryin' around."
Nobody never said anything for a while;
then the young man hove a sigh and says :
" Alas ! "
" What're you alassin' about?" says the
baldhead.
" To think I should have lived to be lead-
ing such a life, and be degraded down into
such company." And he begun to wipe the
corner of his eye with a rag.
" Ain't the company good enough for you ? "
says the baldhead, pretty pert and uppish.
" Yes, it is good enough for me ; it's as good
as I deserve; for who fetched me so low,
when I was so high ? / did myself. 1 don't
blame you, gentlemen — far from it ; I don't
blame anybody. I deserve it all. Let the cold
world do its worst ; one thing I know — there's
a grave somewhere for me. The world may
go on just as it's always done, and take every-
thing from me — loved ones, property, every-
thing— but it can't take that. Some day I'll lie
down in it and forget it all, and my poor broken
heart will be at rest." He went on a- wiping.
" Drot your pore broken heart," says the bald-
head; " what are you heaving your pore broken
heart at us f 'r ? We hain't done nothing."
" No, I know you haven't. I ain't blaming
you, gentlemen. I brought myself down —
yes, I did it myself. It's right I should suffer
— perfectly right — I don't make any moan."
" Brought you down from whar ? Whar
was you brought down from ? "
"Ah, you would not believe me; the world
never believes — let it pass — 'tis no matter.
The secret of my birth "
" The secret of your birth ? Do you mean
to say "
" Gentlemen," says the young man, very sol-
emn, " I will reveal it to you, for I feel I may
have confidence in you. By rights I am a duke ! "
Jim's eyes bugged out when he heard that,
546
ROYALTY ON THE MISSISSIPPI.
and I reckon mine did, too. Then the bald-
head says : " No ! you can't mean it ? "
" Yes. My great-grandfather, eldest son
of the Duke of Bridgewater, fled to this coun-
try about the end of the last century, to breathe
the pure air of freedom • married here, and
died, leaving a son, his own father dying about
the same time. The second son of the late
duke seized the title and estates — the infant
real duke was ignored. I am the lineal de-
"l AM THE RIGHTFUL DUKE OF BRIDGEWATER."
scendant of that infant — I am the rightful
Duke of Bridgewater ; and here am I, forlorn,
torn from my high estate, hunted of men, de-
spised by the cold world, ragged, worn, heart-
broken, and degraded to the companionship
of felons on a raft ! "
Jim pitied him ever so much, and so did I.
We tried to comfort him, but he said it warn't
much use, he couldn't be much comforted ;
said if we was a mind to acknowledge him,
that would do him more good than most
anything else ; so we said we would, if he
would tell us how. He said we ought to bow
when we spoke to him, and say, " Your
Grace," or "My Lord," or "Your Lordship,"
— and he wouldn't mind it if we called him
plain " Bridgewater," which he said was a
title, anyway, and not a name; and one of us
ought to wait on him at dinner, and do any
little thing for him he wanted done.
Well, that was all easy, so we done it. All
through dinner Jim stood around and waited
on him, and says, " Will yo' Grace have some
o' dis, or some o' dat ? " and so on, and a
body could* see it was mighty pleasing to him.
But the old man got pretty silent by and
by — didn't have much to say, and didn't look
pretty comfortable over all that petting that
was going on around that duke. He seemed
to have something on his mind. So, along in
the afternoon, he says :
" Looky here, Bilgewater," he says, " I'm
'nation sorry for you, but you ain't the only
person that's had troubles like that."
"No?"
" No, you ain't. You ain't the only person
that's ben snaked down wrongfully out'n a
high place."
" Alas ! "
" No, you ain't the only person that's had a
secret of his birth."
And he begins to cry.
" Hold ! What do you mean ? "
" Bilgewater, kin I trust you ? " says the
old man, still sort of sobbing.
" To the bitter death ! " He took the old
man by the hand and squeezed it, and says :
" The secret of your being : speak ! "
" Bilgewater, I am the late Dauphin ! "
You bet you Jim and me stared this time.
Then the duke says :
" You are what ? "
" Yes, my friend, it is too true — your eyes
is lookin' at this very moment on the pore
disappeared Dauphin, Looy the Seventeen,
son of Looy the Sixteen and Marry Antonette."
" You ! At your age ! No ! You mean
you're the late Charlemagne; you must be six
or seven hundred years old, at the very least."
" Trouble has done it, Bilgewater, trouble
has done it ; trouble has brung these gray
hairs and this premature balditude. Yes,
gentlemen, you see before you, in blue jeans
and misery, the wanderin', exiled, trampled-
on, and sufferin' rightful King of France."
Well, he cried and took on so that me and
Jim didn't know hardly what to do, we was
so sorry — and so glad and proud we'd got
him with us, too. So we set in, like we done
before with the duke, and tried to comfort
him. But he said it warn't no use, nothing
but to be dead and done with it all could do
him any good ; though he said it often made
him feel easier and better for a while if people
treated him according to his rights, and got
down on one knee to speak to him, and al-
ways called him " Your Majesty," and waited
on him first at meals, and didn't set down in
his presence till he asked them. So Jim and
me set to majestying him, and doing this and
that and t'other for him, and standing up till
he told us we might set down. This done
him heaps of good, and so he got cheerful
and comfortable But the duke kind of soured
ROYALTY ON THE MISSISSIPPI.
547
on him, and didn't look a bit satisfied with
the way things was going ; still, the king acted
real friendly toward him, and said the duke's
great-grandfather and all the other Dukes of
Bilgewater was a good deal thought of by his
father, and was allowed to come to the palace
considerable ; but the duke staid huffy a good
while, till by and by the king says :
" Like as not we got to be together a blamed
long time, on this h-yer raft, Bilgewater, and
so what's the use o' your beinr sour? It'll
only make things oncomfortable. It ain't my
fault I warn't born a duke, it ain't your fault
you warn't bo^n a king — so what's the use
to worry ? Make the best o' things the way
you find 'em, says I — that's my motto. This
ain't no bad thing that we've struck here —
"I AM THE LATE DAUPHIN ! "
plenty grub and an easy life. Come, give us
your hand, Duke, and less all be friends."
The duke done it, and Jim and me was
pretty glad to see it.
It didn't take me long to make up my mind
that these liars warn't no kings nor dukes at
all, but just low-down humbugs and frauds.
But I never said nothing, never let on ; kept
it to myself; it's the best way ; then you don't
have no quarrels, and don't get into no trouble.
If they wanted us to call them kings and
dukes, I hadn't no objections, 'long as it would
keep peace in the family ; and it warn't no use
to tell Jim, so I didn't tell him.
They asked us considerable many ques-
tions; wanted to know what we covered up
the raft that way for, and laid by in the day-
time instead of running — was Jim a runaway
nigger ? Says I :
" Goodness sakes, would a runaway nigger
run south ?"
No, they allowed he wouldn't. I had to
account for things some way, so I says :
" My folks was living in Pike County, in
Missouri, where I was born, and they all died
off but me and pa and my brother Ike. Pa,
he 'lowed he'd break up and go down and
live with Uncle Ben, who's got a little one-
horse place on the river, forty-four mile below
Orleans. Pa was pretty poor, and had some
debts ; so when he'd squared up there warn't
nothing left but sixteen dollars and our nigger,
Jim. That warn't enough to take us fourteen
hundred mile, deck passage nor no other
way. Well, when the river rose, pa had a
streak of luck one day ; he ketched this piece
of a raft ; so we reckoned we'd go down to
Orleans on it. Pa's luck didn't hold out ; a
steamboat run over the forward corner of the
raft one night, and we all went overboard
and dove under the wheel; Jim and me come
up all right, but pa was drunk, and Ike was
only four years old, so they never come up
no more. Well, foi the next day or two we
had considerable trouble, because people was
always coming out in skiffs and trying to take
Jim away from me, saying they believed he
was a runaway nigger. We don't run daytimes
no more now; nights they don't bother us."
The duke says :
" Leave me alone to cipher out a way so we
can run in the daytime if we want to. I'll think
the thing over — I'll invent a plan that'll
fix it. We'll let it alone for to-day, because
of course we don't want to go by that town
yonder in daylight — it mightn't be healthy."
Towards night it begun to darken up and
look like rain ; the heat lightning was squirt-
ing around, low down in the sky, and the
leaves was beginning to shiver; it was going
to be pretty ugly, it was easy to see that. So
the duke and the king went to overhauling
our wigwam, to see What the beds was like.
My bed was a straw tick — 'better than Jim's,
which was a corn-shuck tick; there's always
cobs around about in a shuck tick, and they poke
into you and hurt ; and when you roll over,
the dry shucks sound like you was rolling
over in a pile of dead leaves; it makes such
a rustling that you wake up. Well, the duke
allowed he would take my bed; but the king
allowed he wouldn't. He says :
" I should 'a' reckoned the difference in
rank would 'a' sejested to you that a corn-
shuck bed warn't just fitten for me to sleep on.
Your Grace'll take the shuck bed yourself."
Jim and me was afraid there was going to
;48
ROYALTY ON THE MISSISSIPPI.
be some more trouble amongst them ; so we
was pretty glad when the duke says :
" 'Tis my fate to be always ground into the
mire under the iron heel of oppression. Mis-
fortune has broken my once haughty spirit;
I yield, I submit; 'tis my fate. I am alone
in the world — let me suffer; I can bear it."
We got away as soon as it was good and
dark. The king told us to stand well out to-
wards the middle of the river, and not show a
light till we got a long ways below the town.
We come in sight of the little bunch of lights
by and by — that was the town, you know —
and slid by, about a half a mile out, all
right. When we was three-quarters of a mile
below, we hoisted up our signal lantern ; and
about ten o'clock it come on to rain and blow
and thunder and lighten like everything; so
the king told us to both stay on watch till the
weather got better ; then him and the duke
crawled into the wigwam and turned in for
the night. It was my watch below till twelve,
but I wouldn't 'a' turned in, anyway, if I'd had
a bed ; because a body don't see such a storm
as that every day in the week, not by a long
sight. My souls, how the wind did scream
along! And every second or two there'd
come a glare that lit up the white-caps for
a half a mile around, and you'd see the
islands looking dusty through the rain, and the
trees thrashing around in the wind ; then comes
2.h-wack! — bum! bum! bumble-umble-um-
bum-bum-bum-bum — and the thunder would
go rumbling and grumbling away, and quit;
and then rip comes another flash and another
sockdolager. The waves most washed me off
the raft, sometimes, but I hadn't any clothes
on, and didn't mind. We didn't have no
trouble about snags ; the lightning was glar-
ing and flittering around so constant that we
could see them plenty soon enough to throw
her head this way or that and miss them.
By and by the storm let up for good and
all; and the first cabin-light that showed, I
rousted Jim out and we slid the raft into hid-
ing-quarters for the day.
The king got out an old ratty deck of cards
after breakfast, and him and the duke played
seven-up awhile, five cents a game. Then
they got tired of it, and allowed they would
" lay out a campaign," as they called it. The
duke went down into his carpet-bag and
fetched up a lot of little printed bills, and read
them out loud. One bill said, " The celebrated
Dr. Armand de Montalban, of Paris," would
" lecture on the Science of Phrenology " at
such and such a place, on the blank day of
blank, at ten cents admission, and " furnish
charts of character at twenty-five cents apiece."
The duke said that was him. In another bill
he was the " world-renowned Shaksperean
tragedian, Garrick the Younger, of Drury
Lane, London." In other bills he had a lot
of other names and done other wonderful
things, like finding water and gold with a " di-
vining-rod," " dissipating witch-spells," and
so on. By and by he says :
" But the histrionic muse is the darling.
Have you ever trod the boards, Royalty ? "
" No," says the king.
THE RAFT.
" You shall, then, before you're three days
older, Fallen Grandeur," says the duke. " The
first good town we come to, we'll hire a hall
and do the sword-fight in ' Richard III.' and
the balcony scene in ' Romeo and Juliet.' How
does that strike you ? "
" I'm in, up to the hub, for anything that
will pay,Bilgewater; but you see I don't know
nothing about play-act'n', and hain't ever seen
much of it. I was too small when pap used
to have 'em at the palace. Do you reckon
you can learn me ? "
" Easy ! "
" All right. I'm jist a-freez'n' for something
fresh, anyway. Less commence, right away."
So the duke he told him all about who Romeo
was, and who Juliet was, and said he was used
to being Romeo, so the king could be Juliet.
" But if Juliet's such a young gal, Duke,
my peeled head and my white whiskers is
goin' to look oncommon odd on her, may be."
" No, don't you worry ; these country
ROYALTY ON THE MISSISSIPPI.
549
jakes won't ever think of that. Besides, you
know, you'll be in costume, and that makes
all the difference in the world. Juliet's in a
balcony enjoying the moonlight before she
goes to bed, and she's got on her night-gown
and her ruffled night-cap. Here are the cos-
tumes for the part's."
He got out two or three curtain-calico
suits, which he said was meedyevil armor for
Richard III. and t'other chap, and a long
white cotton night-shirt and a ruffled night-
cap to match. The king was satisfied ; so the
duke got out*1' his book and read the parts
over in the most splendid spread-eagle way,
prancing around and acting at the same time,
to show how it had got to be done ; then he
give the book to the king and told him to get
his part by heart.
There was a little one-horse town about
three mile down the bend, and after dinner
the duke said he had ciphered out his idea
about how to run in daylight without it being
dangersome for Jim ; so he allowed he would
go down to the town and fix that thing. The
king allowed he would go, too, and see if he
couldn't strike something. We was out of
coffee, so Jim said I better go along with
them in the canoe and get some.
When we got there, there warn't nobody
stirring; streets empty, and perfectly dead
and still, like Sunday. We found a sick nig-
ger sunning himself in a back yard, and he
said everybody that warn't too young, or too
sick, or too old, was gone to camp-meeting,
about two mile back in the woods. The king
got the directions, and allowed he'd go and
work that camp-meeting for all it was worth,
and I might go, too.
The duke said what he was after was a
printing-office. We found it — a little bit of
a concern up over a carpenter shop — ^car-
penters and printers all gone to the meeting,
and no doors locked. The duke shed his
coat and said he was all right now. So me
and the king lit out for the camp-meeting.
We got there in about a half an hour, fairly
dripping, for it was a most awful hot day.
There was as much as a thousand people
there, from twenty mile around. The woods
was full of teams and wagons, hitched every -
wheres, feeding out of the wagon troughs
and stomping to keep off the flies. There
was sheds made out of poles and roofed over
with branches, where they had lemonade and
gingerbread to sell, and piles of water-melons
and green corn and such-like truck.
The preaching was going on under the same
kinds of sheds, only they was bigger and held
crowds of people. The benches was made
out of outside slabs of logs, with holes bored
in the round side to drive sticks into for legs.
They didn't have no backs. The preachers
had high platforms to stand on at one end of
the sheds. The women had on sun-bonnets ;
and some had linsey-woolsey frocks, some
gingham ones, and a few of the young ones
had on calico. Some of the young men was
barefooted, and some of the children didn't
have on any clothes but just a tow-linen shirt.
Some of the old women was knitting, and
some of the young folks was courting on the sly.
The first shed we come to, the preacher
was lining out a hymn. He lined out two
lines, everybody sung it, and it was kind of
grand to hear it, there was so many of them
and they done it in such a rousing way ; then
he lined out two more for them to sing — and
so on. The people woke up more and more,
and sung louder and louder; and towards the
end some begun to groan, and some begun
to shout. Then the preacher begun to preach,
and begun in earnest, too ; and went weaving
first to one side of the platform and then the
other, and then a-leaning down over the
front of it, with his arms and his body going-
all the time, and shouting his words out with
all his might. You couldn't make out what
the preacher said, any more, on account of
the shouting and crying. Folks got up,
everywheres in the crowd, and worked their
way, just by main strength, to the mourners'
bench, with the tears running down their
faces ; and when all the mourners had got up
there to the front benches in a crowd, they
sung, and shouted, and flung themselves
down on the straw, just crazy and wild.
Well, the first I knowed, the king got
a-going ; and you could hear him over every-
body; and next he went a-charging up on to
the platform, and the preacher he begged him
to speak to the people, and he done it. He
told them he was a pirate — been a pirate for
thirty years, out in the Indian Ocean, and his
crew was thinned out considerable, last spring,
in a fight, and he was home now, to take out
some fresh men ; and thanks to goodness he'd
been robbed last night, and put ashore off of
a steamboat without a cent, and he was glad
of it, it was the blessedest thing that ever
happened to him, because he was a changed
man now, and happy for the first time in his
life; and poor as he was, he was going to
start right off and work his way back to the
Indian Ocean and put in the rest of his life
trying to turn the pirates into the true path ;
for he could do it better than anybody else,
being acquainted with all the pirate crews in
that ocean ; and though it would take him a
long time to get there without money, he
would get there anyway, and every time he con-
vinced a pirate he would say to him, " Don't
you thank me, don't you give me no credit;
55°
ROYALTY ON THE MISSISSIPPI.
it all belongs to them dear people in Pokeville
camp-meeting, natural brothers and benefac-
tors of the race — and that dear preacher
there, the truest friend a pirate ever had! "
And then he busted into tears, and so did
everybody. Then somebody sings out, " Take
up a collection for him, take up a collec-
tion ! " Well, a half a dozen made a jump to
do it, but somebody sings out, " Let him pass
the hat around ! " Then everybody said it,
the preacher, too.
So the king went all through the crowd
with his hat, swabbing his eyes, and blessing
the people and praising them and thanking
them for being so good to the poor pirates
away off there ; and he was invited to stay a
week ; and everybody wanted him to live in
their houses, and said they'd think it was an
honor ; but he said as this was the last day of
the camp-meeting he couldn't do no good, and
besides he was in a sweat to get to the Indian
Ocean right off and go to work on the pirates.
When we got back to the raft and he come
to count up, he found he had collected eighty-
seven dollars and seventy-five cents. And
then he had fetched away a three- gallon jug
of whisky, too, that he found under a wagon
when we was starting home through the
woods. The king said, take it all around, it
laid over any day he'd ever put in in the mis-
sionarying line. He said it warn't no use talk-
ing, heathens don't amount to shucks, along-
side of pirates, to work a camp-meeting with.
The duke was thinking hed been doing
pretty well, till the king come to show up, but
after that he didn't think so so much. He
had set up and printed off two little jobs for
farmers in that printing-office — horse bills —
and took the money, four dollars. And he
had got in ten dollars' worth of advertise-
ments for the paper, which he said he would
put in for four dollars if they would pay in
advance — so they done it. The price of the
paper was two dollars a year, but he took in
three subscriptions for half a dollar apiece on
condition of them paying him in advance;
they were going to pay in cord-wood and
onions, as usual, but he said he had just
bought the concern and knocked down the
price as low as he could afford it, and was
going to run it for cash. He set up a little
piece of poetry, which he made himself out of
his own head — three verses — kind of sweet
and saddish — the name of it was, " Yes,
crush, cold world, this breaking heart " — and
he left that all set up and ready to print in
the paper, and didn't charge nothing for it.
Well, he took in nine dollars and a half, and
said he'd done a pretty square day's work for it.
Then he showed us another little job he'd
printed and hadn't charged for, because it
THE SWORD-FIGHT FROM RICHARD III.
was for us. It had a picture of a runaway
nigger, with a bundle on a stick, over his
shoulder, and " $200 reward " under it. The
reading was all about Jim, and just described
him to a dot. It said he run away from St.
Jacques' plantation, forty mile below New
Orleans, last winter, and likely went north,
and whoever would catch him and send him
back, he could have the reward and expenses.
" Now," says the duke, " after to-night we
can run in the daytime if we want to. When-
ever we see anybody coming, we can tie Jim
hand and foot with a rope, and lay him in the
wigwam and show this hand-bill and say we cap-
tured him up the river, and were too poor to trav-
el on a steamboat, so we got this little raft on
credit from our friends and are going down to
get the reward. Handcuffs and chains would
look still better on Jim, but it wouldn't go well
with the story of us being so poor. Too much like
jewelry. Ropes are the correct thing— we must
preserve the unities, as we say on the boards."
We all said the duke was pretty smart, and
there couldn't be no trouble about running
daytimes. We judged we could make miles
enough that night to get out of the reach of
the pow-wow we reckoned the duke's work in
the printing-office was going to make in that
little town — then we could boom right along.
We laid low and kept still, and never
shoved out till nearly ten o'clock ; then we
slid by, pretty wide away from the town, and
didn't hoist our lantern till we was clear out
of sight of it.
ROYALTY ON THE MISSISSIPPI.
55*
When Jim called me to take the watch at
four in the morning, he says :
" Huck, does you reck'n we gwyne to run
acrost any mo' kings on dis trip ? "
" No," I says, " I reckon not."
"Well," says he, "dat's all right, den. I
doan' mine one er two kings, but dat's enough.
Dis one's powerful drunk, en de duke ain't
much better."
It was after sun-up now, but we went right
on, and didn't tie-up. The king and the duke
turned out by and by, looking pretty rusty;
but after they'd jumped overboard and took a
swim, it chippered them up a good deal. After
breakfast the king he took a seat on a corner
of the raft, and pulled off his boots and
rolled up his britches,, and let his legs dangle
in the water, so as to be comfortable, and lit
his pipe, and went to getting his " Romeo and
Juliet " by heart. When he had got it pretty
good, him and the duke begun to practice it.
The duke made him sigh, and put his hand on
his heart, and after a while he said he done it
pretty well; "only," he says, "you mustn't
bellow out Romeo! that way, like a bull — you
must say it soft, and sick, and languishy, so
— R-o-o-meo ! that is the idea ; for Juliet's
a dear sweet mere child of a girl, you know,
and she don't bray like a jackass."
Well, next they got out a couple of long
swords that the duke made out of oak laths,
and begun to practice the sword-fight — the
duke called himself Richard III.; and the
way they laid on and pranced around the
raft was grand to see. But by and by the
king tripped and fell overboard, and after
that they took a rest.
The first chance we got, the duke he had
some show-bills printed; and after that, for
two or three days, as we floated along, the
raft was a most uncommon lively place, for
there warn't nothing but sword-fighting and
rehearsing — as the duke called it — going on
all the time. One morning, when we was
pretty well down the State of Arkansaw, we
come in sight of a little one-horse town in a
big bend ; so we tied up about three-quarters
of a mile above it, in the mouth of a crick
which was shut in like a tunnel by the cypress-
trees, and all of us but Jim took the canoe
and went down there to see if there was any
chance in that place for our show.
We struck it mighty lucky ; there was going
to be a circus there that afternoon, and the
country people was already beginning to
come in, in all kinds of old shackly wagons
and on horses. The circus would leave before
night, so our show would have a pretty good
chance. The duke he hired the court-house,
and we went around and stuck up our bills.
They read like this :
Shaksperean Revival ! ! !
Wonderful Attraction !
For One Night Only !
The world-renowned tragedians,
David Garrick the Younger, of Drury Lane Theater,
London, and
Edmund Kean the Elder, of the Royal Haymarket
Theater, Whitechapel, Pudding Lane, Piccadilly,
London, and the Royal Continental
Theaters, in their sublime
Shaksperean Spectacle,
entitled
The Balcony Scene
in
Romeo and Juliet ! ! !
Romeo Mr. Garrick.
Juliet Mr. Kean.
Assisted by the whole strength of the company !
New costumes, new scenery, new appointments !
Also :
The thrilling, masterly, and blood-curdling
Broad-sword conflict
In Richard III. ! ! !
Richard III Mr. Garrick.
Richmond Mr. Kean.
Also
(by special request) :
Hamlet's Immortal Soliloquy ! !
By the Illustrious Kean !
Done by him "300 consecutive nights in Paris !
For One Night Only,
On account of imperative European engagements !
Admission 25 cents; children and servants, 10 cents.
Then we went loafing around the town.
The stores and houses was most all old shackly,
dried-up frame concerns that hadn't ever been
painted ; they was set up three or four foot
above ground on stilts, so as to be out of reach
of the water when the river was overflowed.
All the stores was along one street. They
had white domestic awnings in front, and the
country people hitched their horses to the awn-
ing-posts. There was empty dry-goods boxes
under the awnings, and loafers roosting on them
all day long, whittling them with their Barlow
knives, and chawing tobacco, and gaping and
yawning and stretching — a mighty ornery lot.
On the river front some of the houses was
sticking out over the , bank, and they was
bowed and bent, and about ready to tumble
in. The people had moved out of them. The
bank was caved away under one corner of
some others, and that corner was hanging
over. People lived in them yet, but it was
dangersome, because sometimes a strip of
land as wide as a house caves in at a time.
Such a town as that has to be always mov-
ing back, and back, and back, because the
river's always gnawing at it.
The nearer it got to noon that day, the
S52
ROYALTY ON THE MISSISSIPPI.
thicker and thicker was the wagons and
horses in the streets, and more coming all the
time. Families fetched their dinners with
them from the country, and eat them in the
wagons. There was considerable whisky-
drinking going on, and I seen three fights.
Well, that night we had our show; but
there warn't only about twelve people there —
just enough to pay expenses. And they
laughed all the time, and that made the duke
mad ; and everybody left, anyway, before the
show was over, but one boy which was asleep.
So the duke said these Arkansaw lunkheads
couldn't come up to Shakspere ; what they
wanted was low comedy — and may be some-
thing ruther worse than low comedy, he reck-
oned. He said he could size their style. So
next morning he got some big sheets of wrap-
ping-paper and some black paint, and drawed
off some hand-bills and stuck them up all over
the village. The bills said :
"AT THE COURT-HOUSE!
FOR THREE NIGHTS ONLY !
The IVorld-Penotuned Tragedians,
DAVID GARRICK THE YOUNGER!
AND
EDMUND KEAN THE ELDER!
Of the London a?id Continental Theaters,
In their Thrilling Tragedy of
THE KING'S CAMELOPARD;
OR,
THE ROYAL NONESUCH!!!
Admission 50 cents."
Well, all day him and the king was hard at
it, rigging up a stage, and a curtain, and a
row of candles for foot-lights ; and that night
the house was jam full of men in no time.
When the place couldn't hold no more, the
duke he quit tending door, and went around
the back way and come onto the stage and
stood up before the curtain, and made a little
speech, and praised up this tragedy, and said
it was the most thrillingest one that ever was;
and so he went on a-bragging about the
tragedy and about Edmund Kean the Elder,
which was to play the main principal part in
it ; and at last when he'd got everybody's ex-
pectations up high enough, he rolled up the
curtain, and the next minute the king come
a-prancing out on all fours ; and he was
painted all over, ring-streaked and striped,
all sorts of colors, as splendid as a rainbow.
The people most killed themselves laughing;
and when the king got done capering, and
capered off behind the scenes, they roared
and clapped and stormed and hawhawed till
he come back and done it over again ; and
after that, they made him do it another time.
Well, it would 'a' made a cow laugh to see the
shines that old idiot cut.
Then the duke he lets the curtain down,
and bows to the people, and says the great
tragedy will be performed only two nights
more, on accounts of pressing London en-
gagements, where the seats is all sold aready
for it in Drury Lane ; and then he makes them
another bow, and says if he has succeeded in
pleasing them and instructing them, he will be
deeply obleeged if they will mention it to their
friends and get them to come and see it.
Twenty people sings out :
" What, is it over ? Is that all ? "
The duke says yes. Then there was a fine
time. Everybody sings out " Sold ! " and rose
up mad, and was a-going for that stage and
them tragedians. But a big, fine-looking man
jumps up on a bench, and shouts :
" Hold on ! Just a word, gentlemen."
They stopped to listen. " We are sold —
mighty badly sold. But we don't want to be
the laughing-stock of this whole town, I
reckon, and never hear the last of this thing
as long as we live. No. What we want is
to go out of here quiet, and talk this show
up, and sell the rest of the town ! Then we'll
all be in the same boat. Ain't that sensible ? "
(" You bet it is ! — the jedge is right ! " every-
body sings out.) "All right, then — not a word
about any sell. Go along home, and advise
everybody to come and see the tragedy.".
Next day you couldn't hear nothing around
that town but how splendid that show was.
House was jammed again that night, and we
sold this crowd the same way. When me and
the king and the duke got home to the raft, we all
had a supper ; and by and by, about midnight,
they made Jim and me back her out and float
her down the middle of the river, and fetch her
in and hide her about two mile below town.
The third night the house was crammed
again — and they warn't new-comers this
time, but people that was at the show the
other two nights. I stood by the duke at the
door, and I see that every man that went in
had his pockets bulging, or something muffled
up under his coat — and I see it warn't no
perfumery neither, not by a long sight. I
smelt sickly eggs by the barrel, and rotten cab-
bages, and such things. Well, when the place
couldn't hold no more people, the duke he give
a fellow a quarter and told him to tend door for
him a minute, and then he started around for
the stage door, I after him ; but the minute we
turned the corner and was in the dark, he says:
" Walk fast, now, till you get away from
the houses, and then shin for the raft like the
dickens was after you ! "
ROYALTY ON THE MISSISSIPPI.
553
I done it, and he done the same. We
struck the raft at the same time, and in less
than two seconds we was gliding down
stream, all dark and still, and edging towards
the middle of the river, nobody saying a
word. I reckoned the poor king was in for a
gaudy time of it with the audience ; but
nothing of the sort ; pretty soon he crawls
out from under the wigwam, and says :
" Well, how'd the old thing pan out this
time, Duke ? "
He hadn't been up town at all.
We never showed flight till we was about
ten mile below that village. Then we lit up
and had a supper; and the king and the duke
fairly laughed their bones loose over the way
they'd served them people. The duke says :
" Greenhorns, flatheads ! / knew the first
house would keep mum and let the rest of
the town get roped in; and I knew they'd
lay for us the third night, and consider it was
their turn now. Well, it is their turn, and I'd
give something to know how much they'd
take for it. I would just like to know how
they're putting in their opportunity."
Them rapscallions took in four hundred
and sixty-five dollars in that three nights. I
never see money hauled in by the wagon-
load like that before.
By and by, when they was asleep and snor-
ing, Jim says :
" Don't it 'sprise you, de way dem kings
carries on, Huck ? "
"No," I says, "it don't."
" Why don't it, Huck ? "
" Well, it don't, because it's in the breed.
I reckon they're all alike."
" But, Huck, dese kings o' ourn is reglar
rapscallions ; dat's jist what dey is ; dey's reg-
lar rapscallions."
" Well, that's what I'm a-saying ; all kings is
mostly rapscallions, as fur as I can make out."
" Is dat so ? "
" You read about them once — you'll see.
Look at Henry the Eight ; this'n's a Sunday-
school superintendent to him. And look at
Charles Second, and Louis Fourteen, and
Louis Fifteen, and James Second, and Ed-
ward Second, and Richard Third, and forty
more ; besides all them Saxon heptarchies that
used to rip around so in old times and raise
Cain.^ My, you ought to seen old Henry the
Eight when he was in bloom. He was a
blossom. He used to marry a new wife every
day and chop off her head next morning.
And he would do it just as indifferent as if
he was ordering up eggs. ' Fetch up Nell
Gwynn,' he says. They fetch her up. Next
morning, < Chop off her head ! ' And they
chop it off. ' Fetch up Jane Shore,' he says ;
and up she comes. Next morning, « Chop
off her head ' — and they chop it off. ' Ring
up Fair Rosamun.' Fair Rosamun answers
the bell. Next morning, ' Chop off her head.' "
What was the use to tell Jim these warn't
real kings and dukes ? It wouldn't 'a' done
no good ; and besides, it was just as I said ;
you couldn't tell them from the real kind.
Next day, towards night, we laid up under
a little willow tow-head out in the middle,
where there was a village on each side of the
river, and the duke and the king begun to lay
out a plan for working them towns. Jim he
spoke to the duke, and said he hoped it
wouldn't take but a few hours, because it got
mighty heavy and tiresome to him when he
had to lay all day in the wigwam tied with
K^wUe. •
HARMLESS.
the rope. You see, when we left him all
alone we had to tie him, because if anybody
happened on him all by himself and not tied,
it wouldn't look much like he was a runaway
nigger, you know. So the duke said it was
kind of hard to have to lay roped all day,
and he'd cipher out some way to get around it.
He was uncommon bright, the duke was,
and he soon struck it. He dressed Jim up in
King Lear's outfit — it was a long curtain-
calico gown, and a white horse-hair wig and
whiskers ; and then he took his theater-paint
and painted Jim's face and hands and ears
and neck all over a dead dull solid blue, like
a man that's been drownded nine days.
Blamed if he warn't the horriblest-looking
554
ROYALTY ON THE MISSISSIPPI.
outrage I ever see. Then the duke took and
wrote out a sign on a shingle so:
Sick Arab — but harmless when not out of his
head.
And he nailed that shingle to a lath, and
stood the lath up four or five foot in front of
the wigwam. Jim was satisfied. He said it
was a sight better than laying tied a couple
of years every day and trembling all over
every time there was a sound. The duke told
him to make himself free and easy, and if
anybody ever come meddling around, he
must hop out of the wigwam, and carry on a
little, and fetch a howl or two like a wild
beast, and he reckoned they would light out
and leave him alone. Which was sound
enough judgment; but you take the average
man, and he wouldn't wait for him to howl.
These rapscallions wanted to try the None-
such again, because there was so much money
in it, but they judged it wouldn't be safe, be-
cause may be the news might 'a' worked along
down by this time. They couldn't hit no pro-
ject that suited, exactly ; so at last the duke
said he reckoned he'd lay off and work his
brains an hour or two and see if he couldn't
put up something on the Arkansaw village ;
and the king he allowed he would drop over
to t'other village, without any plan, but just
trust in Providence to lead him the profitable
way — meaning the devil, I reckon. We had
all bought store clothes where we stopped
last ; and now the king put his'n on, and he
told me to put mine on. I done it, of course.
The king's duds was all black, and he did
look real swell and starchy. I never knowed
how clothes could change a body before.
Why, before, he looked like the orneriest old
rip that ever was ; but now, when he'd take
off his new white beaver and make a bow
and do a smile, he looked that grand and
good and pious that you'd say he had walked
right out of the ark, and may be was old
Leviticus himself. Jim cleaned up the canoe,
and I got my paddle ready. There was a big
steamboat laying at the shore away up under
the point, about three mile above town —
been there a couple of hours, taking on
freight. Says the king :
" Seem' how I'm dressed, I reckon may be
I better arrive down from St. Louis or Cin-
cinnati, or some other big place. Go for the
steamboat, Huckleberry; we'll come down
to the village on her."
I didn't have to be ordered twice, to go
and take a steamboat ride. I fetched the
shore a half-mile above the village, and then
went scooting along the bluff bank in the
easy water. Pretty soon we come to a nice
innocent-looking young country jake setting
on a log swabbing the sweat off his face, for
it was powerful warm weather ; and he had a
couple of big carpet-bags by him.
" Run her nose in shore," says the king. I
done it. " Wher' you bound for, young man ? "
" For the steamboat; going to Orleans."
"Git aboard," says the king. " Hold on a
minute, my servant'll he'p you with them
bags. Jump out and he'p the gentleman,
Adolphus " — meaning me, I see.
I done so, and then we all three started on
again. The young chap was mighty thank-
ful ; said it was tough* work toting his bag-
gage such weather. He asked the king where
he was going, and the king told him he'd
come down the river and landed at the other
village this morning, and now he was going
up a few mile to see an old friend on a farm
up there. The young fellow says :
"When I first see you, I says to myself,
' It's Mr. Wilks, sure, and he come mighty
near getting here in time.' But then I says
again, •' No, I reckon it ain't him, or else he
wouldn't be paddling up the river.' You airCt
him, are you ? "
"No, my name's Blodgett — Elexander
Blodgett — Peverend Elexander Blodgett, I
s'pose I must say, as I'm one o' the Lord's
poor servants. But still I'm jist as able to be
sorry for Mr. Wilks for not arriving in time,
all the same, if he's missed anything by it —
which I hope he hasn't."
" Well, he don't miss any property by it,
because he'll get that all right; but he's
missed seeing his brother Peter die — which
he mayn't mind, nobody can tell as to that
— but his brother would 'a' give anything
in this world to see him before he died;
never talked about nothing else all these
three weeks ; hadn't seen him since they was
boys together — and hadn't ever seen his
brother William at all — that's the deef and
dumb one — William ain't more than thirty
or thirty-five. Peter and George was the only
ones that come out here; George was the
married brother; -him and his wife both died
last year. Harvey and William's the only
ones that's left now ; and, as I was saying,
they haven't got here in time."
" Did anybody send 'em word ? "
" Oh, yes — a month or two ago, when
Peter was first took ; because Peter said then
f m i
that he sorter felt like he warn't going to get
well this time. You see, he was pretty old,
and George's g'yirls was too young to be
much company for him, except Mary Jane,
the red-headed one; and so he was kinder
lonesome after George and his wife died, and
didn't seem to care much to live. He most
desperately wanted to see Harvey — and
William, too, for that matter — because he
ROYALTY ON THE MISSISSIPPI.
555
was one of them kind that can't bear to make
a will. He left a letter behind for Harvey, and
said he'd told in it where his money was hid, and
how he wanted the rest of the property divided
up so George's g'yirls would be all right — for
George didn't leave nothing. And that letter
was all they could get him to put a pen to."
" Why do you reckon Harvey don't come ?
Wher' does he live ? "
"Oh, he lives in England — Sheffield —
preaches there — hasn't ever been in this
country. He hasn't had any too much time
— and besides he mightn't 'a' got the letter at
all, you know."
" Too bad, too bad he couldn't 'a' lived to
see his brothers, poor soul ! You going to
Orleans, you say ? "
" Yes, but that ain't only a part of it. I'm
going in a ship, next Wednesday, for Ryo
Janeero, where my uncle lives."
" It's a pretty long journey. But it'll be
lovely ; I wisht I was a-going. Is Mary Jane
the oldest ? How old is the others ? "
" Mary Jane's nineteen, Susan's fifteen, and
Joanna's about fourteen — that's the one that
gives herself to good works and has a hare-lip."
" Poor things ! to be left alone in the cold
world so."
" Well, they could be worse off. Old Peter
had friends, and they ain't going to let them
come to no harm. There's Hobson, the Bab-
tis' preacher ; and Deacon Lot Hovey, and
Ben Rucker, and Abner Shackleford, and
Levi Bell, the lawyer, and Dr. Robinson, and
their wives, and the widow Bartley, and — well,
there's a lot of them ; but these are the ones
that Peter was thickest with, and used to
write about sometimes, when he wrote home;
so Harvey'll know where to look for friends
when he gets here."
Well, the old man he went on asking ques-
tions till he just fairly emptied that young
fellow. Blamed if he didn't inquire about
everybody and everything in that blessed
town, and all about all the Wilkses; and
about Peter's business — which was a tanner;
and about George's — which was a carpenter;
and about Harvey's — which was a dissenter-
ing minister ; and so on. Then he says :
" What did you want to walk all the way
up to the steamboat for ? "
" Because she's a b*ig Orleans boat, and I
was afeard she mightn't stop there. When
they're deep they won't stop for a hail. A Cin-
cinnati boat will, but this is a St. Louis one."
" Was Peter Wilks well off? "
" Oh, yes, pretty well off. He had houses
and land, and it's reckoned he left three or
four thousand in cash hid up som'ers."
" When did you say he died ? "
" I didn't say, but it was last night."
" Funeral to-morrow, likely ? "
" Yes, 'bout the middle of the day."
" Well, it's all terrible sad ; but we've all got
to go, one time or another. So what we want
to do is to be prepared ; then we're all right."
" Yes, sir, it's the best way. Ma used to
always say that."
When we struck the boat, she was about
done loading, and pretty soon she got off.
The king never said nothing about going
aboard, so I lost my ride, after all. When the
boat was gone, the king made me paddle up
another mile to a lonesome place, and then
he got ashore, and says :
" Now hustle back, right off, and fetch the
duke up here, and the new carpet-bags. And
if he's gone over to t'other side, go over there
and git him. And tell him to git himself up
regardless. Shove along, now."
I see what he was up to ; but I never said
nothing, of course. When I got back with
the duke, we hid the canoe and then they set
down on a log, and the king told him every-
thing, just like the young fellow had said it
— every last word of it. And all the time he
was a-doing it, he tried to talk like an English-
man ; and he done it pretty well, too, for a
slouch. I can't imitate him, and so I ain't
a-going to try to ; but he really done it pretty
good. Then he says :
" How are you on the deef and dumb,
Bilgewater ? "
The duke said, leave him alone for that;
said he had played a deef and dumb person
on the histrionic boards. So then they waited
for a steamboat.
About the middle of the afternoon a couple
of little boats come along, but they didn't
come from high enough up the river; but at
last there was a big one, and they hailed her.
She sent out her yawl, and we went aboard,
and she was from Cincinnati ; and when they
found we only wanted to go four or five mile,
they was booming mad, and give us a cussing,
and said they wouldn't land us. But the king
was ca'm. He says :
" If gentlemen kin afford to pay a dollar a
mile apiece, to be took on and put off in a yawl,
a steamboat kin afford to carry 'em, can't it ? "
So they softened down and said it was all
right; and when we got to the village, they
yawled us ashore. About two dozen men
flocked down, when they see the yawl a-com-
ing ; and when the king says : " Kin any of
you gentlemen tell me wher' Mr. Peter Wilks
lives ? " they give a glance at one another,
and nodded their heads, as much as to say,
" What d' I tell you ? " Then one of them
says, kind of soft and gentle :
" I'm sorry, sir, but the best we can do is to
tell you where he did live yesterday evening."
556
ROYALTY ON THE MISSISSIPPI.
Sudden as winking, the ornery old cretur
went all to smash, and fell up against the man,
and put his chin on his shoulder, and cried
down his back, and says :
" Alas, alas, our poor brother — gone, and
we never got to see him; oh, it's too, too hard!"
Then he turns around, blubbering, and
makes a lot of idiotic signs to the duke on
his hands, and blamed if he didn't drop a
carpet-bag and bust out a-crying. If they
warn't the beaten est lot, them two frauds,
that ever I struck.
Well, the men gethered around, and sym-
pathized with them, and said all sorts of kind
things to them, and carried their carpet-bags up
the hill for them, and let them lean on them and
cry, and told the king all about his brother's
last moments, and the king he told it all over
again on his hands to the duke. It was enough
to make a body ashamed of the human race.
The news was all over town in two minutes,
and you could see the people tearing down on
the run, from every which way, some of them
putting on their coats as they come. Pretty
soon we was in the middle of a crowd, and the
noise of the tramping was like a soldier march.
The windows and door-yards was full; and ev-
ery minute somebody would say, over a fence:
" Is it them ? "
And somebody trotting along with the gang
would answer back and say :
" You bet it is."
When we got to the house, the street in
front of it was packed, and the three girls was
standing in the door. Mary Jane was red-
headed, but that don't make no difference,
she was most awful beautiful, and her face
and her eyes was all lit up like glory, she was
so glad her uncles was come. The king he
spread his arms, and Mary Jane she jumped
for them, and the hare-lip jumped for the
duke, and there they had it ! Everybody most,
leastways women, cried for joy to see them
meet again at last and have such good times.
Then the king he hunched the duke, pri-
vate— I see him do it — and then he looked
around and see the coffin, over in the corner
on two chairs ; so then, him and the duke,
with a hand across each other's shoulder, and
t'other hand to their eyes, walked slow and
solemn over there, everybody dropping back
to give them room, and all the talk and noise
stopping, people saying " Sh ! " and all the
men taking their hats off and drooping their
heads, so you could 'a' heard a pin fall. And
when they got there, they bent over and
looked in the coffin, and took one sight, and
then they bust out a-crying so you could 'a'
heard them to Orleans, most; and then they
put their arms around each other's necks, and
hung their chins over each other's shoulders ;
and then for three minutes, or may be four,
I never see two men leak the way they done.
And mind you, everybody was doing the
same; and the place was that damp I never
see anything like it. Then one of them got
on one side of the coffin, and t'other on t'other
side, and they kneeled down and rested their
foreheads on the coffin, and let on to pray all
to theirselves. Well, when it come to that,
it worked the crowd like you never see any-
thing like it, and so everybody broke down
and went to sobbing right out loud — the poor
girls, too; and every woman, nearly, went up
to the girls, without saying a word, and kissed
them, solemn, on the forehead, and then put
" ALAS, OUR POOR BROTHER !
their hand on their head, and looked up
toward the sky, with the tears running down,
and then busted out and went off sobbing and
swabbing, and give the next woman a show.
Well, by and by the king he gets up and
comes forward a little, and works himself up
and slobbers out a speech, all full of tears and
flapdoodle about its being a sore trial for him
and his poor brother to lose the diseased, and
to miss seeing diseased alive, after the long
journey of four thousand mile, but it's a trial
that's sweetened and sanctified to us by this
dear sympathy and these holy tears; and so
he thanks them out of his heart and out of
his brother's heart, because out of their
mouths they can't, words being too weak and
cold, and all that kind of slush, till it was
just sickening ; and then he blubbers out a
pious goody-goody Amen, and turns himself
loose and goes to crying fit to bust.
ROYALTY ON THE MISSISSIPPI.
557
And the minute the words was out of his
mouth somebody over in the crowd struck up
the doxolojer, and everybody joined in with
all their might, and it just warmed you up
and made you feel as good as church letting
out. Music is a good thing ; and after all that
soul-butter, I never see it freshen up things
so and sound so honest and bully.
Then the king begins to work his jaw again,
and says how him and his nieces would be
glad if a few of the main principal friends of
the family would take supper here with them
this evening and help set up with the ashes
of the diseased ; and says if his poor brother
laying yonder could speak, he knows who he
would name, for they was names that was
very dear to him, and mentioned often in
his letters ; and so he will name the same, to
wit, as follows, vizz. : Rev. Mr. Hobson, and
Deacon Lot Hovey, and Mr. Ben Rucker, and
AbnerShackleford,and Levi Bell, and Dr. Rob-
inson, and their wives, and the widow Bartley.
Rev. Hobson and Dr. Robinson was down
to the end of the town, a-hunting together;
that is, I mean the doctor was shipping a
sick man to t'other world, and the preacher
was p'inting him right. Lawyer Bell was away
up to Louisville on some business. But the rest
was on hand, and so they all come and shook
hands with the king and thanked him and
talked to him ; and then they shook hands with
the duke, and didn't say nothing, but just kept
a-smiling and bobbing their heads like a passel
of sapheads whilst he made all sorts of signs
with his hands, and said," Goo-goo — goo-goo-
goo," all the time, like a baby that can't talk.
So the king heblatted along, and managed
to inquire about pretty much everybody and
dog in town by his name, and mentioned all
sorts of little things that happened one time
or another in the town, or to George's family,
or to Peter ; and he always let on that Peter
wrote him the things, but that was a lie. He got
every blessed one of them out of that young
flathead that we canoed up to the steamboat.
Then Mary Jane she fetched the letter her
father left behind, and the king he read it out
loud and cried over it. It give the dwelling-
house and three thousand dollars, gold, to
the girls; and it give the tan-yard (which
was doing a good business), along with some
other houses and land (worth about seven
thousand) and three thousand dollars in gold
to Harvey and William, and told where the
six thousand cash was hid down cellar. So
these two frauds said they'd go and fetch it
up, and have everything square and above-
board, and told me to come with a candle. We
shut the cellar door behind us, and when they
found the bag they spilt it out on the floor, and
it was a lovely sight, all them yaller-boys. My,
the way the king's eyes did shine ! He slaps
the duke on the shoulder, and says :
" Oh, this ain't bully, nor noth'n ! Oh, no,
I reckon not ! Why, Biljy, it beats the None-
such, don't it ! "
The duke allowed it did. They pawed the
yaller-boys, and sifted them through their
fingers and let them jingle down on the floor ;
and the king says :
" It ain't no use talkin' ; bein' brothers to a
rich dead man, and representatives of furrin
heirs that's got left, is the line for you and
me, Bilge."
Most everybody would 'a' been satisfied
with the pile, and took it on trust ; but no,
they must count it. So they counts it, and it
comes out four hundred and fifteen dollars
short. Says the king:
" Dern him ! I wonder what he done with
that four hundred and fifteen dollars ? "
They worried over that awhile, and ran-
sacked all around for it. Then the duke says :
" Well, he was a pretty sick man, and
likely he made a mistake — I reckon that's
the way of it. The best way's to let it go, and
keep still about it. We can spare it."
" Oh, shucks, yes, we can spare it. I don't
k'yer noth'n 'bout that — it's the count I'm
thinking about. We want to be awful square
and open and above-board, here, you know.
We want to lug this h-yer money upstairs
and count it before everybody — then ther'
ain't noth'n suspicious. But when the dead
man says ther's six thous'n dollars, you know,
we don't want to "
" Hold on," says the duke. " Less make
up the deffisit " — and he begun to haul out
yaller-boys out of his pocket.
" It's a most amaz'n' good idea, duke —
you have got a rattlin' clever head on you,"
says the king. " Blest if the old Nonesuch
ain't a heppen' us out agin" — and he begun
to haul out yaller-jackets and stack them up.
It most busted them, but they made up
the six thousand clean and clear.
" Say," says the duke, " I got another idea.
Le's go upstairs and count this money, and
then take and give it to the girls."
" Good land, duke, lemme hug you ! It's
the most dazzling idea 'at ever a man struck.
You have cert'nly got the most astonishin' head
I ever see. Oh, this is the boss dodge, ther'
ain't no mistake 'bout it. Let 'em fetch along
their suspicions now, if they want to — this'll
lay 'em out."
When we got upstairs, everybody gethered
around the table, and the king he counted it
and stacked it up, three hundred dollars in a
pile — twenty elegant little piles. Everybody
looked hungry at it, and licked their chops.
Then they raked it into the bag again, and I
558
ROYALTY ON THE MISSISSIPPI.
see the king begin to swell himself up for
another speech. He says :
" Friends all, my poor brother that lays yon-
der has done generous by them that's left be-
hind in the vale of sorrers. He has done gen-
erous by these yer poor little lambs that he
loved and sheltered, and that's left fatherless
and motherless. Yes, and we that knowed him,
knows that he would 'a' done more generous
by 'em if he hadn't ben afeard o' woundin'
his dear William and me. Now, wouldn't he ?
Ther' ain't no question 'bout it in my mind.
Well, then, what kind o' brothers would it
be that'd stand in his way at sech a time ?
And what kind o' uncles would it be that'd
rob — yes, rob — sech poor sweet lambs as
these 'at he loved so, at sech a time ? If I
know William — and I think I do — he —
well, I'll jest ask him." He turns around and
begins to make a lot of signs to the duke with
his hands; and the duke he looks at him
stupid and leather-headed awhile, then all of
a sudden he seems to catch his meaning, and
jumps for the king, goo-gooing with all his
might for joy, and hugs him about fifteen
times before he lets up. Then the king says :
"I knowed it; I reckon thafW convince
anybody the way he feels about it. Here,
Mary Jane, Susan, Joanner, take the money
— take it all. It's the gift of him that lays
yonder, cold but joyful."
Mary Jane she went for him, Susan and the
hare-lip went for the duke, and then such
another hugging and kissing I never see yet.
And everybody crowded up with the tears in
their eyes, and most shook the hands off of
them frauds, saying all the time :
"You dear good souls! — how lovely! —
how could you ! "
Well, then, pretty soon all hands got to
talking about the diseased again, and how
good he was, and what a loss he was, and all
that; and before long a big iron-jawed man
worked himself in there from outside, and
stood a-listening and looking, and not saying
anything; and nobody saying anything to
him either, because the king was talking and
they was all busy listening. The king was
saying-; — in the middle of something he'd
started in on :
" — they bein' partickler friends o' the
diseased. That's why they're invited here this
evenin' ; but to-morrow we want all to come
— everybody; for he respected everybody, he
liked everybody, and so it's fitten that his
funeral orgies sh'd be public."
And so he went a-mooning on and on, lik-
ing to hear himself talk, and every little while
he fetched in his funeral orgies again, till the
duke he couldn't stand it no more ; so he
writes on a little scrap of paper, u Obsequies,
you old fool," and folds it up and goes to
goo-gooing and reaching it over people's
heads to him. The king he reads it, and puts
it in his pocket, and says :
" Poor William, afflicted as he is, bis heart1 s
aluz right. Asks me to invite everybody to
come to the funeral — wants me to make 'em
all welcome. But he needn't 'a' worried — it
was jest what I was at."
Then he weaves along again, perfectly ca'm,
and goes to dropping in his funeral orgies again
every now and then, just like he done before.
And when he done it the third time, he says :
" I say orgies, not because it's the common
term, because it ain't — obsequies bein' the
common term — but because orgies is the
right term. Obsequies ain't used in England
no more now — it's gone out. We say orgies
now in England. Orgies is better, because it
means the thing you're after, more exact. It's
a word that's made up out'n the Greek orgo,
outside, open, abroad; and the Hebrew jeesum,
to plant, cover up ; hence mter. So, you see,
funeral orgies is an open er public funeral."
He was the worst I ever struck. Well, the
iron-jawed man he laughed right in his face.
Everybody was shocked. Everybody says,
" Why, doctor/ " and Abner Shackleford says:
" Why, Robinson, hain't you heard the
news? This is Harvey Wilks."
The king he smiled eager, and shoved out
his flapper, and says :
" Is it my poor brother's dear good friend
and physician ? I "
" Keep your hands off of me ! " says the
doctor. " You talk like an Englishman —
don't you ? It's the worst imitation I ever
heard. You Peter Wilks's brother ! You're a
fraud, that's what you are ! "
Well, how they all took on ! They crowded
around the doctor, and tried to quiet him
down, and tried to explain to him, and tell
how Harvey'd showed in forty ways that he
was Harvey, and knowed everybody by name,
and the names of the very dogs, and begged
and begged him not to hurt Harvey's feelings
and the poor girls' feelings, and all that; but
it warn't no use, he stormed right along, and
said any man that pretended to be an Eng-
lishman and couldn't imitate the lingo no
better than what he did, was a fraud and a
liar. The poor girls was hanging to the king
and crying ; and all of a sudden the doctor
ups and turns on them. He says :
" I was your father's friend, and I'm your
friend ; and I warn you as a friend, and an
honest one, that wants to protect you and
keep you out of harm and trouble, to turn
your backs on that scoundrel, and have noth-
ing to do with him, the ignorant tramp, with
his idiotic Greek and Hebrew as he calls it.
ROYALTY ON THE MISSISSIPPI.
559
He is the thinnest kind of an impostor — has
come here with a lot of empty names and
facts which he has picked up somewheres,
and you take them for proofs^ and are helped
to fool yourselves by these foolish friends here,
who ought to know better. Mary Jane Wilks,
you know me for your friend, and for your un-
selfish friend, too. Now listen to me : turn this
pitiful rascal out — I begyou to do it. Will you ? "
Mary Jane straightened herself up, and my,
but she was handsome ! She says :
" Here is my answer." She hove up the bag
of money and put it in the king's hands, and
says : " Take this six thousand dollars, and
invest for me and my sisters any way you
want to, and don't give us no receipt for it."
Then she put her arm around the king on
one side, and Susan and the hare-lip done the
same on the other. Everybody clapped their
hands and stomped on the floor like a perfect
storm, whilst the king held up his head and
smiled proud. The doctor says:
" All right, I wash my hands of the matter.
But I warn you all that a time's coming when
you're going to feel sick whenever you think
of this day " — and away he went.
"All right, doctor," says the king, kinder
mocking him, " we'll try and get 'em to send
for you " — which made them all laugh, and
they said it was a prime good hit.
Well, when they was all gone, the king he
asks Mary Jane how they was off for spare
rooms, and she said she had one spare room,
which would do for Uncle William, and she'd
give her own room to Uncle Harvey, which
was a little bigger, and she would turn into
the room with her sisters and sleep on a cot ;
and up garret was a little cubby, with a pallet
in it. The king said the cubby would do for
his valley — meaning me.
So Mary Jane took us up, and she showed
them their rooms, which was plain but nice.
She said she'd have her frocks and a lot of
other traps took out of her room if they was
in Uncle Harvey's way, but he said they
warn't. The frocks was hung along the wall,
and before them was a curtain made out of
calico that hung down to the floor. There
was an old hair trunk in one corner, and a
guitar-box in another, and all sorts of little
knickknacks and jimcracks around, like girls
brisken up a room with. The king said it was
all the more homely and more pleasanter for
these fixings, and so don't disturb them.
That night they had a big supper, and all
them men and women was there, and I stood
behind the king and the duke's chairs and
waited on them, and the niggers waited on
the rest. Mary Jane she set at the head of
the table, with Susan alongside of her, and
said how bad the biscuits was, and how mean
" YOU TALK LIKE AN ENGLISHMAN ! "
the preserves was, and how ornery and tough
the fried chickens was — the way women
always do for to force out compliments ; and
the people all knowed everything was tip-top,
and said so — said " How do you get bis-
cuits to brown so nice ? " and " Where, for
the land's sake, did you get these amaz'n
pickles ? " and all that kind of humbug talky-
talk, just the way people always does at a
supper, you know.
And when it was all done, me and the hare-
lip had supper in the kitchen off of the leav-
ings, whilst the others was helping the niggers
clean up the things.
When I got by myself, I went to thinking
the thing over. I says to myself, Shall I go
to that doctor, private, and blow on these
frauds ? No — that won't do. He might tell
who told him ; then the king and the duke
would make it warm for me. Shall I go,
private, and tell Mary Jane ? No — I dasn't
do it. Her face would give them a hint,
sure ; they've got the money, and they'd slide
right out and get away with it. If she was to
fetch in help, I'd get mixed up in the busi-
ness before it was done with, I judge. No,
there ain't no good way but one. I got to
steal that money somehow ; and I got to
steal it some way that they won't suspicion
that I done it. I'll steal it, and hide it ; and by
and by, when I'm away down the river, I'll
write a letter and tell Mary Jane where it's
hid. But I better hive it to-night, if I can,
because the doctor may be hasn't let up a.s
56°
ROYALTY ON THE MISSISSIPPI.
much as he lets on he has; he might scare
them out of here yet.
So, thinks I, I'll go and search them rooms.
Upstairs the hall was dark, but I found the
duke's room, and started to paw around it
with my hands ; but I recollected it wouldn't
be much like the king to let anybody else take
care of that money but his own self; so then
I went to his room and begun to paw around
there. But I see I couldn't do nothing with-
out a candle, and I dasn't light one, of course.
So I judged I'd got to do the other thing —
lay for them, and eavesdrop. About that
time I hears their footsteps coming, and was
going to skip under the bed ; I reached for
it, but it wasn't where I thought it would be ;
but I touched the curtain that hid Mary
Jane's frocks, so I jumped in behind that and
snuggled in amongst the gowns.
They come in and shut the door; and the
first thing the duke done was to get down and
look under the bed. They sets down then,
and the king says:
" Well, what is it ? and cut it middlin' short,
because it's better for us to be down there a
whoopin' up the mournin', than up here givin'
'em a chance to talk us over."
" Well, this is it, Capet. I ain't easy ; I ain't
comfortable. That doctor lays on my mind.
I wanted to know your plans. I've got a
notion, and I think it's a sound one."
" What is it, duke ? "
" That we better glide out of this before
three in the morning, and clip it down the river
with what we've got. Specially, seeing we
got it so easy — given back to us, flung at our
heads, as you may say, when of course we
allowed to have to steal it back. I'm for
knocking off and lighting out."
" What ! and not sell out the rest o' the
property ? March off like a passel o' fools and
leave eight or nine thous'n' dollars' worth o'
property lay in' around jest sufferin' to be
scooped in ? — and all good salable stuff, too."
The duke he grumbled; said the bag of
gold was enough, and he didn't want to go no
deeper — didn't want to rob a lot of orphans
of everything they had.
" Why, how you talk ! " says the king. " We
sha'n't rob 'em of nothing at all but jest this
money. The people that buys the property is
the suff'rers; because as soon'sit's found out 'at
we didn't own it — which won't be long after
we've slid — the sale won't be valid, and it'll
all go back to the estate. These yer orphans '11
git their house back agin, and that's enough
for them; they're young and spry, and k'n
easy earn a livin'. They ain't a-going to suffer.
Why, jest think — there's thous'n's and thou-
s'n's that ain't nigh so well off. Bless you, they
ain't got noth'n to complain of."
Well, the king he talked him blind ; so at
last he give in, and said all right, but said he be-
lieved it was blame foolishness to stay, and that
doctor hanging over them. But the king says :
" Cuss the doctor ! What do we k'yer for
him ? Hain't we got all the fools in town on
our side ? and ain't that a big enough major-
ity in any town ? "
So they got ready to go down-stairs again.
The duke says :
" I don't think we put that money in a good
place."
That cheered me up. I'd begun to think I
warn't going to get a hint of no kind to help
me. The king says :
" Why ? "
" Because Mary Jane'll be in mourning from
this out; and first you know the nigger that
does up the rooms will get an order to box
these duds up and put 'em away ; and do you
reckon a nigger can run across money and
not borrow some of it ? "
" Your head's level agin, duke," says the
king ; and he come a fumbling under the cur-
tain two or three foot from where I was. I
stuck tight to the wall, and kept mighty still,
though quivery ; and I wondered what them
fellows would say to me if they catched me ;
and I tried to think what I'd better do if
they did catch me. But the king he got the bag
before I could think more than about a half a
thought, and he never suspicioned I was
around. They took and shoved the bag
through a rip in the straw tick that was under
the feather bed, and crammed it in a foot or
two amongst the straw, and said it was all right
now, because a nigger only makes up the feath-
er bed, and don't turn over the straw tick only
about twice a year. I had it out of there
before they was half-way down-stairs. I groped
along up to my cubby, and hid it there till I
could get a chance to do better. I judged I
better hide it outside of the house somewheres,
because if they missed it they would give the
house a good ransacking. I knowed that very
well. Then I turned in, with my clothes all
on ; but I couldn't 'a' gone to sleep, if I'd 'a'
wanted to, I was in such a hurry to get
through with the business. By and by I heard
the king and the duke come up ; so I rolled
off of my pallet and laid with my chin at the
top of my ladder and waited to see if any-
thing was going to happen. But nothing did.
So I held on till all the late sounds had
quit and the early ones hadn't begun yet;
and then I slipped down the ladder.
I crept to their doors and listened ; they
was snoring, so I tiptoed along, and got
down-stairs all right. There warn't a sound
anywheres. I peeped through a crack of the
dining-room door, and see the men that was
ROYALTY ON THE MISSISSIPPI.
56i
watching the corpse all sound asleep on their the people filed around slow in single rank ;
chairs. The door was open into the parlor,
where the corpse was laying, and there was
a candle in both rooms. I passed along, and
the parlor door was open, but I see there
warn't nobody in there but the remainders of
Peter ; so I shoved on by ; but the front door
was locked, and the key wasn't there. Just then
I heard somebody coming down the stairs,
back behind me. I run in the parlor, and took
a swift look around, and the only place I see
to hide the bag was in the coffin. I tucked the
money-bag in under the lid, and then I run
back across the room and in behind the door.
The person coming was Mary Jane. She
went to the coffin, very soft, and kneeled down
and looked in ; then she put up her handker-
chief, and I see she begun to cry, though I
couldn't hear her, and her back was to me.
I slid out, and as I passed the dining-room I
thought I'd make sure them watchers hadn't
seen me ; so I looked through the crack, and
and it was all very still and solemn, only the
girls and the beats holding handkerchiefs to
their eyes and keeping their heads bent and
sobbing a little.
They had borrowed a melodeum — a sick
one ; and when everything was ready, a young
woman set down and worked it; and it was
pretty skreeky and colicky, and everybody
joined in and sung. Then the Reverend
Hobson opened up, slow and solemn, and
begun to talk; and straight off the most out-
rageous row busted out in the cellar a body ever
heard; it was only one dog, but he made
a most powerful racket, and he kept it up
right along. The parson he had to stand there
and wait; you couldn't hear yourself think.
It was right down awkward, and nobody
didn't seem to know what to do. But pretty
soon they see the long-legged undertaker
make a sign to the preacher as much as to say,
Don'tyou worry — just depend on me." Then
everything was all right ; they hadn't stirred, he stooped down and begun to glide along
I slipped up to bed, feeling ruther blue,
on accounts of the thing playing out that
way after I had took so much trouble and run
so much resk about it. Says I, if it could stay
where it is, all right ; because when we get
down the river a hundred mile or two I could
write back to Mary Jane, and she could dig
him up again and get it ; but that ain't the
thing that's going to happen. The thing that's
going to happen is, the money '11 be found
when they come to screw on the lid. Then the
king'll get it again, and it'll be a long day be-
fore he gives anybody another chance to
smouch it from him. Of course I wanted to slide
the wall, just his shoulders showing over the
people's heads. So he glided along, and the
powwow and racket getting more and moie
outrageous all the time ; and at last, when he
had gone around two sides of the room, he
disappears down cellar. Then, in about two
seconds we heard a whack, and the dog he
finished up with a most amazing howl or two.
and then everything was dead still, and the
parson begun his solemn talk where he left
off. In a minute or two here comes this un-
dertaker's back and shoulders gliding along
the wall again ; and so he glided, and glided,
around three sides of the room, and then rose
down and get it out of there, but I dasn't try it. up, and shaded his mouth with his hands, and
When I got down-stairs in the morning stretched his neck out towards the preacher,
the parlor was shut up and the watchers was over the people's heads, and says, in a kind
gone. There warn't nobody around but "the of a coarse whisper, "He had a rat!" Then
family and the widow Bartley and
our tribe. I watched their faces to
see if anything had been happening,
but I couldn't tell.
Towards the middle of the day
the undertaker came with his man,
and they set the coffin in the mid-
dle of the room on a couple of
chairs, and then set all our chairs
in rows, and borrowed more from
the neighbors, till the hall, and the
parlor, and the dining-room was
full. I see the coffin-lid was the
way it was before, but I dasn't go
to look in under it with folks
around.
Then the people begun to flock
in, and the beats and the girls took
seats in the front row at the head
of the coffin, and for half an hour
Vol. XXIX.— 54.
Kevitit;
HE HAD A RAT!:
562
ROYALTY ON THE MISSISSIPPI.
he drooped down and glided along the wall
again to his place. You could see it was a
great satisfaction to the people, because natur-
ally they wanted to know. A little thing like
that don't cost nothing, and it's just the little
things that makes a man to be looked up to
and liked. There warn't no more popular man
in town than what that undertaker was.
Well, the funeral sermon was very good,
but pison long and tiresome ; and then the
king he shoved in and got off some of his
usual rubbage; and at last the job was
through, and the undertaker began to sneak
up on the coffin with his screw-driver. I was
in a sweat then, and watched him pretty keen.
But he never meddled at all; just slid the lid
along, and screwed it down tight and fast.
So there I was ! I didn't know whether the
money was in there or not. So, says I, s'pose
somebody has hogged that bag on the sly ?
— now how do I know whether to write to
Mary Jane or not ? S'pose she dug him up
and didn't find nothing — what would she
think of me ? Blame it, I says, I might get
hunted up and jailed ; I'd better lay low and
keep dark, and not write at all ; the thing's
awful mixed, now; trying to better it, I've
worsened it a hundred times.
They buried him, and we come back home,
and I went to watching faces again — I
couldn't help it, and I couldn't rest easy. But
nothing come of it ; the faces didn't tell me
nothing.
The king he visited around in the evening,
and sweetened everybody up, and made him-
self ever so friendly ; and he give out the
idea that his congregation over in England
would be worrying about him, so he must
hurry and settle up the estate right away, and
leave for home. He was very sorry he was
so pushed, and so was everybody ; they
wished he could stay longer, but they said
they could see it couldn't be done. And he
said of course him and William would take
the girls home with them ; and that pleased
everybody, too, because then the girls would
be well fixed, and amongst their own rela-
tions ; and it pleased the girls, too — tickled
them so they clean forgot they ever had a
trouble in the world, and told him to sell out
as quick as he wanted to, they would be
ready. Them poor things was that glad and
happy it made my heart ache to see them
getting fooled and lied to so, but I didn't see
no safe way for me to chip in and change the
general tune
Well, blamed if the king didn't bill the
house and the niggers and all the property
for auction straight off — sale two days after
the funeral ; but anybody could buy private
beforehand if they wanted to.
So the next day after the funeral, along
about noon-time, the girls' joy got the first
jolt; a couple of nigger-traders come along,
and the king sold them the niggers reason-
able, for three-day drafts as they called it, and
away they went, the two sons up the river to
Memphis, and their mother down the river
to Orleans. I thought them poor girls and
them niggers would break their hearts for
grief; they cried around each other, and took
on so it most made me down sick to see it.
The girls said they hadn't ever dreamed of
seeing the family separated or sold away
from the town. I can't ever get it out of my
memory, the sight of them poor miserable
girls and niggers hanging around each other's
necks and crying ; and I reckon I couldn't 'a'
stood it all, but would 'a' had to bust out and
tell on our gang, if I hadn't knowed the sale
warn't no account and the niggers would be
back home in a week or two.
The thing made a big stir in the town,
too, and a good many come out flat-footed
and said it was scandalous to separate the
mother and the children that way. It injured
the frauds some ; but the old fool he bulled
right along, spite of all the duke could say or do,
and I tell you the duke was powerful uneasy.
Next day was auction day. About broad
day in the morning, the king and the duke
come up in the garret and woke me up, and
I see by their look that there was trouble.
The king says :
" Was you in my room night before last ? "
" No, Your Majesty" — which was the way
I always called him when nobody but our
gang warn't around.
" Was you in there yisterday er last night ? "
" No, Your Majesty."
" Honor bright, now — no lies."
" Honor bright, Your Majesty; I'm telling
you the truth. I hain't been anear your room
since Miss Mary Jane took you and the duke
and showed it to you."
The duke says :
" Have you seen anybody else go in there?"
" No, Your Grace, not as I remember, I
believe."
" Stop and think."
I studied awhile, and see my chance ; then
I says :
" Well, I see the niggers go in there several
times."
Both of them give a little jump, and looked
like they hadn't ever expected it, and then
like they had. Then the duke says :
" What, all of them ? "
" No — leastways not all at once. That is,
I don't think I ever see them all come out
at once but just one time."
" When was that ? "
ROYALTY ON THE MISSISSIPPI.
563
" It was the day we had the funeral. In
the morning. It warn't early, because I over-
slept. I was just starting down the ladder,
and I see them."
" Well, go on, go on. What did they do ?
How'd they act ? "
" They didn't do nothing. And they didn't
act anyway, much, as fur as I see. They
tiptoed away ; so I seen, easy enough, that
they'd shoved in there to do up Your Majes-
ty's room, or something, s'posing you was up,
and found you warn't up, and so they was
hoping to slide out of the way of trouble
without waking you up."
" Great guns, this is a go ! " says the king ;
and both of them looked pretty sick, and
tolerable silly. They stood there a-thinking
and scratching their heads a minute, and
then the duke he bust into a kind of a little
raspy chuckle, and says :
" It does beat all, how neat the niggers
played their hand. They let on to be sorry
they was going out of this region ! and I
believed they was sorry. And so did you, and
so did everybody. Don't ever tell me any
more that a nigger ain't got any histrionic
talent. Why, the way they played that thing,
it would fool anybody. In my opinion there's
a fortune in 'em. If I had capital and a
theater, I wouldn't want a better lay-out than
that. And here we've gone and sold 'em
for a song — yes, and ain't privileged to sing
the song yet. Say, where is that song — that
draft?"
" In the bank for to be collected. Where
would it be ? "
" Well, that's all right, then, thank
goodness."
Says I, kind of timid-like :
" Is something gone wrong ? "
The king whirls on me and rips
out:
" None o' your business! You keep
your head shet, and mind y'r own
affairs — if you got any. Long as
you're in this town, don't you forgit
that — you hear?" Then he says to
j the duke, " We got to jest swaller it,
• and say noth'n : mum's the word for
; us."
As they wras starting down the
ladder, the duke he chuckles again,
i and says :
" Quick sales and small profits! It's a good
business — yes."
The king snarls around on him, and says :
" I was trying to do for the best in sellin'
'm out so quick. If the profits has turned
out to be none, lackin' considable, and none
to carry, is it my fault any more'n it's
yourn ? "
" Well, they'd be in this house yet, and we
wouldn't, if I could 'a' got my advice listened
to."
The king sassed back, as much as was safe
for him, and then swapped around and lit
into me again. He give me down the banks
for not coming and telling him I see the nig-
gers come out of his room acting that way —
said any fool would 'a' knowed something was
up. And then waltzed in and cussed himself
awhile ; and said it all come of him not lay-
ing late and taking his natural rest that morn-
ing, and he'd be blamed if he'd ever do it
again. So they went off a-jawing.
By and by it was getting-up time; so I
come down the ladder and started for down-
stairs, but as I come to the girls' room the
door was open, and I see Mary Jane setting
by her old hair trunk, which was open and
she'd been packing things in it — getting
ready to go to England. But she had stopped
now, with a folded gown in her lap, and had
her face in her hands, crying. I went in
there, and says :
" Miss Mary Jane, you can't abear to see
people in trouble, and I can't — most always.
Tell em about it."
So she done it. And it was the niggers —
I just expected it. She said the beautiful trip
to England was most about spoiled for her.
" Oh, dear, dear ! to think they ain't ever
going to see each other any more ! "
" But they will — and inside of two weeks
— and I know it ! " says I.
Laws, it was out before I could think ! —
and before I could budge, she throws her
A COOLNESS BETWEEN FRIENDS.
arms around my neck, and told me to say it
again, say it again, say it again /
I see I had spoke too sudden, and said too
much, and was in a close place. I asked her
to let me think a minute ; and she set there,
very impatient and excited and handsome,
but looking kind of happy and eased-up, like
a person that's had a tooth pulled out. So I
went to studying it out. I says to myself, I
564
ROYALTY ON THE MISSISSIPPI.
reckon a body that ups and tells the truth
when he is in a tight place, is taking consid-
erable many resks, though I ain't had no
experience, and can't say for certain ; but it
looks so to me, anyway; and yet here's a
case where I'm blest if it don't look to me
like the truth is better, and actully safer, than
a lie. I must lay it by in my mind, and think
it over some time or other, it's so kind of
strange and unregular. I never see nothing
like it. Well, I says to myself at last, I'm
a-going to chance it ; I'll up and tell the truth
this time, though it does seem most like set-
ting down on a kag of powder and touching
it off just to see where you'll go to. Then I
says:
" Miss Mary Jane, is there any place out
of town a little ways, where you could go and
stay three or four days ? "
« Yes — Mr. Lothrop's. Why ? "
" Never mind why, yet. If I'll tell you
how I know the niggers will see each other
again — inside of two weeks — here in this
house — and prove how I know it — will you
go to Mr. Lothrop's and stay four days ? "
"Four days!" she says; "I'll stay a
year ! "
" All right," I says ; " I don't want nothing
more out of you than just your word — I
druther have it than another man's kiss-
the-Bible." She smiled, and reddened up
very sweet, and I says, "If you don't mind
it, I'll shut the door — and bolt it."
Then I come back and set down again,
and says:
" Don't you holler. Just set still, and take
it like a man. I got to tell the truth, and
you want to brace up, Miss Mary, because
it's a bad kind, and going to be hard to take,
but there ain't no help for it. These uncles of
yourn ain't no uncles at all ; they're a couple
of frauds — regular dead-beats. There, now
we're over the worst of it — you can stand the
rest middling easy."
It jolted her up like everything, of course;
but I was over the shoal water now, so I went
right along, her eyes a-blazing higher and
higher all the time, and told her every blame
thing.from where we first struck that young fool
going up to the steamboat, clear through to
where she flung herself onto the king's breast
at the front door and he kissed her sixteen
or seventeen times. And then up she jumps,
with her face afire like sunset, and says :
"The brute! Come — don't waste a
minute — not a second — we'll have them
tarred and feathered, and flung in the river ! "
Says I :
" Cert'nly. But do you mean before you
go to Mr. Lothrop's, or "
" Oh," she says, " what am I thinking
about ! " she says, and set right down again.
"Don't mind what I said — please don't —
you won't, now, will you?" — laying her
silky hand on mine in that kind of a way that
I said I would die first. " I never thought, I
was so stirred up," she says. " Now go on,
and I won't do so any more. You tell me
what to do, and whatever you say, I'll do it."
" Well," I says, " it's a rough gang, them
two frauds, and I'm fixed so I got to travel
with them awhile longer, whether I want to
or not — I druther not tell you why — and if
you was to blow on them this town would get
me out of their claws, and /'d be all right ;
but there'd be another person that you don't
know about who'd be in big trouble. Well,
we got to save him, hain't we ? Of course.
Well, then, we won't blow on them."
Saying them words put a good idea in my
head. I see how may be I could get me and
Jim rid of the frauds; get them jailed here,
and then leave. But I didn't want to run the
raft in daytime, without anybody aboard to
answer questions but me ; so I didn't want
the plan to begin working till pretty late to-
night. I says :
" Miss Mary Jane, I'll tell you what we'll
do — and you won't have to stay at Mr.
Lothrop's so long, nuther. How fur is it ? "
" A little short of four miles — right out in
the country, back here."
" Well, that'll answer. Now you go along
out there, and lay low till nine or half-past
to-night, and then get them to fetch you
home again — tell them you've thought of
something. If you get here before eleven,
put a candle in this window, and if I don't
turn up, wait till eleven ; and then if I don't
turn up, it means I'm gone, and out of the
way, and safe. Then you come out and spread
the news around, and get these beats jailed."
" Good," she says. " I'll do it."
" And if it just happens so that I don't get
away, but get took up along with them, you
must up and say I told you the whole thing
beforehand, and you must stand by me all
you can."
" Stand by you! indeed I will. They sha'n't
touch a hair of your head! " she says.
" If I get away, I sha'n't be here," I says,
" to prove these rapscallions ain't your uncles,
and I couldn't do it if I was here. I could
swear they was beats and bummers, that's
all; though that's worth something. Well,
there's others can do that better than what I
can — and they're people that ain't going to
be doubted as quick as I'd be. I'll tell you
how to find them. Gimme a pencil and a
piece of paper. There — ' Royal Nonesuch,
Bricksville? Put it away, and don't lose it.
When the court wants to find out something
ROYALTY ON THE MISSISSIPPI.
56S
about these two, let them send up to Bricks-
ville and say they've got the men that played
the ' Royal Nonesuch/ and ask for some wit-
nesses. Why, you'll have that entire town
down here before you can hardly wink, Miss
Mary ; and they'll come a-biling, too."
I judged we had got everything fixed about
right now ; so I says :
" Just let the auction go right along, and
don't worry. Nobody don't have to pay for
INDIGNATION.
the things they buy till a whole day after the
auction, on accounts of the short notice, and
they ain't going out of this till they get that
money ; and the way we've fixed it, the sale
ain't going to count, and they ain't going Xo
get no money. It's just like the way it was
with the niggers — it warn't no sale, and the
niggers will be back before long. Why, they
can't collect the money for the niggers yet —
they're in the worst kind of a fix, Miss Mary."
" Well," she says, " I'll run down to break-
fast now, and then I'll start straight for Mr.
Lothrop's."
" 'Deed, that ain't the ticket, Miss Mary
Jane," I says, " by no manner of means ; go
before breakfast. Do you reckon you can go
and face your uncles, when they come to kiss
you good-morning, and never "
" There, there, don't ! Yes, I'll go before
breakfast — I'll be glad to. And leave my
sisters with them ? "
" Yes — never mind about them. They've
got to stand it yet awhile. They might sus-
picion something if all of you was to go. I
don't want you to see them, nor your sisters,
nor nobody in this town. If a neighbor was
to ask how is your uncles this morning, your
face would tell something. No ; you go right
along, Miss Mary Jane, and I'll fix it with all
of them. I'll tell Miss Susan to give your love
to your uncles and say you've went away for
a few hours for to get a little rest and change,
or to see a friend, and you'll be back to-night
or early in the morning."
" Gone to see a friend is all right, but I
won't have my love given to them."
"' Well, then, it sha'n't be." It was well
enough to tell her so . Then I says : " There's
one more thing — that bag of money."
" Well, they've got that ; and it makes me
feel pretty silly to think how they got it."
" No, you're out there. They hain't got it."
" Why, who's got it ? "
" I wish I knowed, but I don't. I had it,
because 1 stole it from them; and I stole it to
give to you ; and I know where I hid it, but
I'm afraid it ain't there no more. I'm awful
sorry, Miss Mary Jane, I'm just as sorry as I
can be ; but I done the best I could ; I did,
honest. I come nigh getting caught, and I
had to shove it into the first place I come to,
and run — and it warn't a good place."
" Oh, stop blaming yourself — it's too bad
to do it, and I won't allow it; you couldn't
help it — it wasn't your fault. Where did you
hide it ? "
I didn't want to set her to thinking about
her troubles again ; so for a minute I didn't
say nothing — then I says :
" I'd ruther not tell you where I put it,
Miss Mary Jane, if you don't mind letting me
off; but I'll write it for you on a piece of
paper, and you can read it along the road to
Mr. Lothrop's, if you want to. Do you reckon
that'll do ? "
" Oh, yes."
So I wrote : " I put it in the coffin. It
was in there when you was crying there, away
in the night. I was behind the door, and I
was mighty sorry for you, Miss Mary Jane."
It made my eyes water a little to remember
her crying there all by herself in the night,
and them devils laying there right under her
own roof, shaming her and robbing her ; and
when I folded it up and give it to her, I see
the water come into her eyes, too ; and she
shook me by the hand, hard, and says :
" Good-hy. I'm going to do everything
just as you've told me ; and if I don't ever
see you again, I sha'n't ever forget you, and
I'll think of you a many and a many a time, and
I'll pray for you, too ! " — and she was gone.
Pray for me ! I reckoned if she knowed
me she'd take a job that was more nearer her
size. But I bet she done it, just the same —
she was just that kind. She had the grit to
566
ROYALTY ON THE MISSISSIPPI.
pray for Judas, if she took the notion
— there warn't no back-down to her.
I judge. You may say what you want
to, but in my opinion she had more
sand in her than any girl I ever see ;
in my opinion she was just full of
sand. It sounds like flattery, but it
ain't no flattery. And when it comes to
beauty — and goodness, too — she lays
over them all. I hain't ever seen her
since that time that I see her go out
of that door ; no, I hain't ever seen
her since, but I reckon I've thought
of her a many and a many a million
times, and of her saying she would
pray for me ; and if ever I'd thought
it would do any good for me to pray
for her, blamed if I wouldn't 'a' done
it or bust.
Well, Mary Jane she lit out the
back way, I reckon; because nobody
see her go. When I struck Susan and
the hare-lip, I says :
" What's the name of them people
over on t'other side of the river that
you all goes to see sometimes ? "
They says :
" There's several ; but it's the
Proctors mainly."
" That's the name," I says ; " I
most forgot it. Well, Miss Mary Jane she
told me to tell you she's gone over there in
a dreadful hurry — one of them's sick."
" Which one ? "
" I don't know ; leastways I kinder forget ;
but I think it's "
" Sakes alive, I hope it ain't Planner ? "
"I'm sorry to say it." I says, "but Han-
ner's the very one."
" My goodness — and she so well only last
week ! Is she took bad ? "
" It ain't no name for it. They set up with
her all night, Miss Mary Jane said, and they
don't think she'll last many hours."
" Only think of that, now ! What's the
matter with her ? "
I couldn't think of anything reasonable,
right off that way, so I says :
" Mumps."
" Mumps your granny ! They don't set up
with people that's got the mumps."
" They don't, don't they ? You better bet
they do with these mumps. These mumps is
different. It's a new kind, Miss Mary Jane
said."
" How's it a new kind ? "
" Because it's mixed up with other things."
" What other things ? "
" Well, measles, and whooping-cough, and
erysiplas, and consumption, and yaller janders,
and brain fever, and I don't know what all."
THE AUCTION.
" My land ! And they call it the mumps? "
" That's what Miss Mary Jane said."
" Well, what in the nation do they call it
the mumps for ? "
" Why, because it is the mumps. That's
what it starts with."
" Well, ther' ain't no sense in it. A body
might stump his toe, and take pison, and fall
down the well, and break his neck, and bust
his brains out, and somebody come along and
ask what killed him, and some numskull up
and say, ' Why, he stumped his toe.1 Would
ther' be any sense in that? No. And ther'
ain't no sense in this, nuther. Is it ketching ? "
" Is it ketching? Why, how you talk. Is a
harrow ketching ? — in the dark ? "
" Well, it's awful, / think," says the hare-
lip. "I'll go to Uncle Harvey and "
" Oh, yes," I says, " I would. Of course I
would. I wouldn't lose no time."
" Well, why wouldn't you ? "
" Just look at it a minute, and may be you
can see. Hain't your uncles obleeged to get
along home to England as fast as they can ?
And do you reckon they'd be mean enough
to go off and leave you to go all that journey
by yourselves ? You know they'll wait for you.
So fur, so good. Your uncle Harvey's a
preacher, ain't he ? Very well, then ; is a
preacher going to deceive a steamboat clerk —
is he going to deceive a ship clerk — so
ROYALTY ON THE MISSISSIPPI.
567
as to get them to let Miss Mary Jane go
aboard? Now you know he ain't. What will
he do, then ? Why, he'll say, ' It's a great
pity, but my church matters has got to get
along the best way they can ; for my niece
has been exposed to the dreadful pluribus-
unum. mumps, and so it's my bounden duty
to set down here and wait the three months
it takes to show on her if she's got it.' But
never mind, if you think it's best to tell your
uncle Harvey "
" Shucks, and stay fooling around here,when
we could all be having good times in Eng-
land, whilst we was waiting to find out
whether Mary Jane's got it or not ? Why,
you talk like a muggins."
" Well, anyway, may be you better tell some
of the neighbors."
" Listen at that, now. You do beat all for
natural stupidness. Can't you see that they'd
go and tell ? Ther' ain't no way but just to
not tell anybody at all"
"Well, may be you're right — yes, I judge
you are right."
" But I reckon we ought to tell Uncle
Harvey she's gone out awhile, anyway, so
he won't be uneasy about her ? "
" Yes, Miss Mary Jane she wanted you to
do that. She says, 'Tell them to give Uncle
Harvey and William my love and a kiss, and
say I've run over the river to see Mr. — Mr.
— what is the name of that rich family your
uncle Peter used to think so much of ? — I
mean the one that "
" Why, you must mean the Apthorps, ain't
it ? "
" Of course. Bother them kind of names ! a
body can't ever seem to remember them, half
the time, somehow. Yes, she said, say she
has run over for to ask the Apthorps to be
sure and come to the auction and buy- this
house, because she allowed her uncle Peter
would ruther they had it than anybody else ;
and she's going to stick to them till they say
they'll come, and then, if she ain't too tired,
she's coming home ; and if she is, she'll be
home in the morning, anyway. She said, don't
say nothing about the Proctors, but only about
the Apthorps — which'll be perfectly true,
because she is going there to speak about their
buying the house ; I know it, because she
told me so herself."
" All right," they said, and cleared out to
lay for their uncles, and give them the love
and the kisses, and tell them the message.
Everything was all right now. The girls
wouldn't say nothing because they wanted to
go to England ; and the king and the duke
would ruther Mary Jane was off working for
the auction than around in reach of Dr. Rob-
inson. I felt very good. I judged I had done
it pretty neat; I reckoned Tom Sawyer
couldn't 'a' done it no neater himself. Of
course he would 'a' throwed more style into
it ; but I can't do that very handy, not being
brung up to it.
Well, they held the auction in the public
square, along towards the end of the after-
noon, and it strung along, and strung along ;
and the old man he was on hand and looking
his level pisonest, up there alongside of the
auctioneer, and chipping in a little Scripture
now and then, or a little goody-goody saying
of some kind ; and the duke he was around
goo-gooing for sympathy all he knowed how,
and just spreading himself generly.
But by and by the thing dragged through,
and everything was sold — everything but a
little old trifling lot in the graveyard ; so
they'd got to work that off. I never see such
a girafft as the king was for wanting to swal-
low everything. Well, whilst they was at it, a
steamboat landed, and in about two minutes
up comes a crowd a-whooping and yelling
and laughing and carrying on.
THE TRUE BROTHERS.
They was fetching a very nice-looking old
gentleman along, and a nice-looking younger
one, with his right arm in a sling. And my
souls, how the people yelled, and laughed,
and kept it up !
Mark Twain.
THE KNIGHT OF THE BLACK FOREST.*
BY GRACE DENIO LITCHFIELD,
Author of " Only an Incident," " One Chapter," etc.
CHAPTER X.
Two weeks passed, and there were no more
complaints from Betty about the monotony
and dreariness of life in Rippolds Au. Some
subtle change was coming over this light-
hearted butterfly maiden. Her merry moods
alternated with freaks of most unusual quiet.
She would stand still at the window and
look out for ten minutes without speaking,
not seeing anything outside, but positively
thinking. What in the world could gay
Betty ever be thinking about ? She grew
prettier every day, yet somehow it was
not the same little thoughtless face it had
been. Sunny and bright it was still, with its
pretty dimples and its clear, laughing eyes;
but there was something besides laughter and
sparkle in it now. It was hard to tell just
what, yet there the inscrutable Something
was.
Lois was changing, too, all as subtly. She
was uneasy and restless and changeable, she
who had never been known to have moods
before, and there was a troubled look in her
eyes so often now that it seemed as if it must
be taking root in her heart. Prentiss watched
her with anxious tenderness, though he said
nothing. He was perfectly at home now in
Rippolds Au. He had walked over all the
surrounding country near and far, enjoy-
ing the exhilaration of the exercise and the
purity and crispness of the air, even if the
beauty of the scenery was lost upon him ;
and he had driven with the rest to many of
the pretty little neighboring villages, till
Klosterle, Wolfach, Freudenstadt, Petersthal
were become as household names to him.
He had scrambled to the top of the Kniebis
for the view, and could not, for the life of
him, be made to see any view when he
got there ; it was just hills and woods and
valleys all over again, he said. And he had
been taken to Kastelstein, and had laughed
over it till the woods rang. It was noth-
ing in the world but a tolerable-sized rock,
he pronounced, with little rocks on top of
it, like snails on a bigger snail's back. Ha,
ha, ha ! What a climb it was, to be sure, just
to see a slimy old rock, that looked as if it
had been set up on a shelf to drain off and dry!
There was many a farm-house around that
he was familiar with, too, by this time, as well
as with its inmates, all of whom had the
brightest of greetings for him as he passed.
He knew all about them, what they did and
how they lived, getting at their confidence in
some simple fashion of his own that seemed
to interpret their jargon for him and render
his own bad German equally intelligible to
them ; and he quite bought out the toy de-
partment in the Verkaufshalle in behalf of
the peasant children. Among the guests of
Rippolds Au he was a general favorite. He
knew them all, too, and seemed to divine at
once which ones of those who spoke English
Aunt Sarah would find most congenial, and
in a short time had them chatting familiarly
together, as if friends of a lifetime. Poor old
Aunt Sarah blossomed out as a rose during
his stay. He did not, to be sure, listen to her
in the alarmingly deferential manner of the
Count, which generally frightened back her
thought before she got it safely uttered ; and
indeed he often made absolute fun of her,
and would insist upon calling her Aunt Sarah,
when he was not any manner of relation to her,
and made her call him Ned, which she felt
shy of doing ; but it was all in such a cheery,
affectionate way that she could not have re-
sented it if she had wished, which she did not
in the least. What a stiff, unsocial time they
had had before he came ! Now they lived in
a little whirl of pleasant, harmless excitement.
The people who had seemed so dreadful at
table were each possessed of some individ-
ual good quality that either developed spon-
taneously under Prentiss's genial influence, or
that, lying latent before, then first came to the
front. It was surprising how many really nice
and interesting people there were in Rippolds
Au, after all. No one, to be sure, could cre-
ate young men out of old ones for Miss Betty
to flirt with, but Prentiss seemed so person-
ally grateful whenever she made herself
agreeable to any of his old fogies, that she
came to do it frequently, just to please him.
And one evening when there was dancing in
Copyright, 1884, by Grace Denio Litchfield. All rights reserved.
THE KNIGHT OF THE BLACK FOREST.
5^9
the large dining-hall, cleared out and waxed
for the purpose, she laughingly insisted that
the very oldest and shakiest of them all,
who had ensconced himself comfortably in a
corner to look on, should get up and dance
a polka with her, which he finally did with
huge enjoyment, and a vim that nearly shook
his ancient bones to pieces. Prentiss did not
dance himself, being sure he should step on
all the toes in the room at once if he tried it ;
but he stood looking on in a cordial way
that seemed to insure the evening's success.
Lois danced a great deal, always with the
Count, who would dance with no one but
her and Betty; but he only smiled at her
as at the rest, without an apparent ray of
jealousy.
The Count made always one of their party
now, as regularly as the day dawned, improv-
ing to the uttermost the time that remained
to him before his departure. He expected his
friends in a day or two, and then — as he
informed Betty and Lois severally — the day
would be as night to him, the sun would
darken, and earth, which had been as heaven
for a few short weeks, would become again a
dreary desert. Only a few days more, thought
Betty; surely he will say something before
he goes. Surely it has grown to be some-
thing besides flirting to him now, as, as —
But she never finished the sentence even to
herself. She always went to the daisies to
find out; and something had gotten into the
daisies ; they all said either un fieu or pas du
tout, and she was provoked with them for being
so stupid.
Prentiss's time for leaving was also drawing
near. Only two days more, and he was to
bid good-bye to friendly Rippolds Au, and
return with freshened energy to his work.
" I see not how you endure such a life,"
said the Count, as the two walked leisurely
up and down the promenade together late in
the evening after the dancing; "for me, busi-
ness would kill me."
" I presume it would," answered Prentiss,
tilting his hat comfortably back on his head
and stepping the other side of Yon Linden-
fels to avoid the smoke of his cigar ; it was
one of his oddities that he never could abide
tobacco. " But you and I are different. You
were born to possessions. I must create
them."
" Ach, mein Gott, ja" said the Count. " I
was born to a title, that is so. But with the
possessions, that is something other. It was
forgotten to have me born to them also."
" But you are the eldest son, I believe,"
said Prentiss, less from curiosity than for
something to say. " You are the heir."
" Ja wohl" said the Count again. " I get
what there is, freilich. Were it not so, I would
have shot myself. But that is not much, not
enough. In America you have big fortunes,
very much money always, is it not so ? "
Prentiss cast a quick glance toward him;
" Sometimes," he answered, laconically.
" So am I told," continued the Count. " I
was talking with that admirable scoundrel,
that most clever old cheat, — you know him,
ja? — that inestimable Kreuzner, who travels
with all the Americans, and he says they do
have so much money they know not what to
do with, that it is a sin not to help them to
spend it. Oh, if one would know anything,
one must ask Kreuzner. This party he is
with now, he says they are very nice to travel
with, oh, very nice indeed, but they come not
from the great cities; they live not in New
York, or Philadelphia, or San Francisco.
Troy, — it is but a very little town, is if not?
Where is Troy ? "
" It is where I live," said Prentiss, shortly.
" So have I understood," pursued the Count,
calmly. " And you are a good friend of them.
You know them long. You desire to marry
Miss Lois, as you call her. Nicht? "
Prentiss flushed a deep red.
" I do not see that my wishes need enter
into our conversation at all, nor the ladies
either."
" Very good, very good," said the Count,
lighting another cigar. " I will with pleasure
leave your wishes one side. But the ladies,
they never like that one puts them to one
side. And these two demoiselles, this Hebe
and this Psyche, they are so spirituelle, so
charming, it makes my heart to rejoice if I
but think of them."
" Then I will leave you to think of them,"
said Prentiss bluntly, turning away and barely
lifting his hat. " I am going in. Good-night."
" Kreuzner is the one for me," said the
Count tranquilly to himself, pursuing his
walk with an untroubled conscience. u He
at least says as much as he knows, while this
other one, he knows all, but will say not
anything. One more friedrich d'or to my
friend Kreuzner, and I secure all the facts.
But bah! they spend all their money here.
They have nothing left when they go home
from Europe. It is the way, Kreuzner says,
with Americans who live in the little towns.
Sc/iade, schade. They should be heiresses.
That would make it quite worth while. As it
is, — na, — perhaps it is as well we leave things
as they are."
And flinging away his half-burnt cigar, the
Count, with a glance up at a certain row of
windows, where, however, he failed to see a
slender figure kneeling behind the shielding
blinds, went in, too, for the night.
57°
THE KNIGHT OF THE BLACK FOREST.
CHAPTER XI.
" Miss Lois," said Prentiss abruptly, the
afternoon before his intended departure, as
they were all out walking together, and were
making one of their customary halts, " you
are not tired, are you ? Won't you walk on
with me a little way ? There is something I
want to say to you."
" Won't another time do as well ? " she
asked. " Count von Lindenfels is just going
to read us some of Heine's poems, and he
reads so beautifully."
" That will amuse them very well, then,
while we are gone. They won't miss you.
Please come. This may be my last chance to
see you alone, for to-morrow we are all going
on that drive to Wildsee, you know. Do please
come."
" But I don't want to," she replied, flushing.
" I am tired."
" That is not your reason. That is only an
excuse. I must ask you to come, please."
He took her hand and drew it through his
arm. The Count looked up quickly with a
meaning glance at her, which made her cheeks
burn and her head droop, but Prentiss would
not let her go.
" We are going on a little farther," he said
simply. " You need not wait for us."
And he marched her off before them all,
followed by a low, rather impertinent little
laugh from the Count, and a curious look
from Betty, who was, however, in no wise
averse to the arrangement which left her vir-
tually alone with Von Lindenfels, Aunt Sarah
never counting for much of a restraint, es-
pecially as any particularly telling speeches
between them were carefully interlarded in
German, which the good old lady had thought-
fully neglected to learn.
Prentiss did not speak till the winding path
had carried them some distance, quite beyond
sight or hearing of the rest. Then he dropped
her arm and turned toward her.
" Miss Lois, of course you know what I
have to say to you, and I am afraid that I
know, too, what you will have to answer me.
Yet I must say it."
" Don't, don't ! " she interrupted him, clasp-
ing her hands pleadingly. " Oh, please don't
say it. I would rather not."
" I must say it," he answered firmly, but
very gently. " You know of course why I
came here. It can be no secret to you that I
love you. But you have a right to expect
that I should tell you in so many words before
I go that I came to ask you if some day you
could consent to become my wife."
She looked at him with eyes full of tears
and shook her head. She could not speak.
" I knew you would not give me any hope,"
he said. " I loved you too well not to know
that you did not love me. But I could not
leave you honorably without telling you how
I feel toward you, and what my hopes have
been. Lois, I love you more than all else
in the world."
" Oh, I know it, I know it," she whispered,
and hid her face in her hands.
" I do not know how to plead my cause,"
he went on, a little unsteadily, " because your
happiness is so much more to me than my
own, that I want you to be happy only in
what is the best way for you, not for me. We
are as different, I know, as the day is from
the night. Don't think that my unlikeness to
you prevents my seeing it. I know how I
must grate upon you sometimes, with your
delicate, high-strung feelings. I am like a bit
of ordinary, every-day prose beside you. But,
Lois, if truth and honesty, and a will so to
use my life as to be one of the real workers
and helpers in the world, — a wish to be manly
and upright, strong of heart and clean of con-
science before God and man, — if these can
atone for lack of what you call grace and cul-
ture and refinement, — if these have any weight
with you, Lois, in choosing whom you will take
to yourself for better, for worse, not for a day
or a year only, but for all your life to come, —
then think a little before you send me quite
away. I will not add think, too, of my love;
for mine will not be the only love in the world
for you, as yours is the only love for me. There
will be plenty besides me to love you, but I
will not believe that any can love you better
than I do, or few as truly."
She hesitated for one instant as he spoke.
He was so good, so true, so safe. Could she ?
Would it be possible ? She lifted her face
from her hands and looked up at him. He
was not very much taller than she. It was not
far. But, as she looked, another face came in
between them, — a handsomer face ; a face
with more poetry, more romance, more pas-
sion. Prentiss saw her hesitation, her strange,
doubting look ; it seemed almost to him that
he read her thoughts.
" Lois," he said, " do you love me ? "
" No," she faltered. " Not as you love me.
Not as you deserve to be loved. Not as I
ought to love you if I became your wife."
" Do you think you could ever come to
love me so ? " he asked. " I would not take
less than your whole heart, all that you have
it in you ever to give; but I would wait pa-
tiently, I would wait years, if you thought I
might win such love at last. Can you ever
come to love me so, Lois ? "
Again she hesitated. He stood so quietly be-
fore her, she did not guess how wildly the hope
THE KNIGHT OF THE BLACK FOREST.
57i
leaped up in his heart that perhaps after all
he might still succeed. He did not speak, but
watched her almost breathlessly.
" No," she said at last, with great tears
rolling slowly over her cheeks, and a look of
such trouble on her face that for the instant
he forgot the pain she was giving him, in sor-
row at the distress he was causing her. " No."
And then, as the other face, with all its beauty
and its ideality, seemed to stand out more dis-
tinctly before her, she again covered her face
with her hands, and whispered, " Oh, not
ever ! "
There was a moment of utter silence be-
tween them, though, all around, the woods were
full of happy sounds : of birds singing to each
other; of leaves rustling in soft whispers; of
a brook babbling merrily across the mossy
spaces. Prentiss spoke first.
" Will you say good-bye, Lois ? "
" You are going away ? now ? "
" No, not till to-morrow, you know. But
this is my real good-bye to you, my real good-
bye to all that I came here for, all that I most
want in life. Will you not give me your hand
in good-bye ? And would you mind calling
me Ned just this once ? I should so like to
hear you say it once."
" O Ned, Ned ! " she cried, giving him both
hands, with a burst of tears. " Forgive me ! "
He took her hands gently and folded them
closely together in his, looking down at her.
" Forgive you ? " he said. " I have nothing
to forgive. You did not try to make me love
you. You could not help it that I did. You
were not to blame. Good-bye, dear."
He let go her hands and drew a long
breath, moving away from her a little. Then
le came quietly back and offered her his arm.
" We will go back now," he said, quite in
his usual voice. ' " That was all I wanted
10 say to you."
And she took his arm and went silently
home with him, down through the beautiful
Black Forest.
CHAPTER XII.
Yes, Betty was not at all sorry when Lois
and Prentiss disappeared around the bend of
the road. She remarked that it was a pity
Lois should lose Heine, but she was never-
theless fully prepared for the Count's ready
answer, " If you listen, is not that enough for
Heine and for me ? "
Betty smiled back at him brightly, and then
she jumped up to see if Aunt Sarah was quite
comfortable on the seat they had arranged for
her, and whether she had her book and had
not lost out the mark ; for she was reading
"John Inglesant," and never could find the
place when that hard- worked guide was miss-
ing. And the Count came, too, in extreme
of politeness, to arrange a parasol over her
head, and did it so cleverly that when Betty
and he returned to where she had thrown her
shawl on the moss as a rug, all that could be
seen of good Aunt Sarah was a huge black
silk dome, covering her like a mushroom.
" Now for Heine," said Betty; and threw
herself down, half-lying, with both round arms
raised and clasped above her head, and her
big hat tossed carelessly down beside her:
she did not need it in this shady spot, where
the bank rose up arbor-like behind them.
And so the Count read to her; not in his
usual dramatic, vivacious way, but in a low,
slow, melodious, almost monotonous voice,
though his eloquent glance ever and anon
toward the charming little semi-recumbent
figure beyond gave all the needed point to
the words. It was just the voice and just the
place to invite one to slumber, and before
long there was no more rustle of turning pages
from Aunt Sarah's sheltered nook, and pres-
ently, slowly, slowly down came the book,
slipping and sliding from her lap to the ground.
The Count paused and looked up. Betty
knelt forward and peeped in under the um-
brella, turning back with a soft laugh, and
her finger on her pretty lips.
" She is fast asleep, poor old auntie ! "
" Then Ave must speak low not to waken
her," said Von Lindenfels, considerately. "It
was a long walk. A good sleep will refresh
the dear lady. Sit here, — no, not so far, —
sit more near, that we may read from the book
together."
Betty obeyed almost timidly, giving him a
shy little glance.
" So," said he, opening the volume and
placing it in her lap. " Will youread? Or" —
and he leaned forward and closed it — " is it
not better that we talk instead that we read,
when I so soon go away, and we may talk no
more ? "
" Yes," answered Betty in a low voice. He
looked down at her as she sat there by his
side, so young and sweet, her child head
drooping, and a new curve to her mouth that
was more winsome than any smile. How
pretty she was !
" Roslein" he said (he always called her
so now when they were alone, and she thought
how much nicer it sounded than prim Ma-
demoiselle !), — "Roslein, tell me, have you yet
learned what my song means ? my
" ' Roslein, Roslein, Roslein roth,
Roslein auf der Haiden ' ? "
A quick red dyed Betty's soft cheeks. She
looked at him appealingly, and did not an-
572
THE KNIGHT OF THE BLACK FOREST
swer. Ah, poor little Betty ! She was not flirt-
ing any more. The play had all ceased to be
play with her.
" Ac/i^ said the Count. " You have learned
it, too ; is it not so, my little flower ? Your
heart has taught you its meaning, has it not,
feines Liebche?i ? "
His tone was very low and caressing, and
he stooped closer and took one of her little
passive hands. She trembled, but did not
draw it away.
" But you speak not," he continued, re-
proachfully. "Do you fear ? We will speak
so low, — there, I will come more near, so
that we wake not the excellent aunt. Roslein,
tell me that it will grieve you that I go away.
Tell me that you will miss me."
He was very near her now, so near that she
felt his breath lightly stirring the silky curls
on her forehead as he bent over her. The
poor child looked up at him helplessly. " You
know it," she said simply, all her heart shin-
ing out at him undisguisedly in her eyes. Ah,
poor, poor little Betty ! The pretending had
all turned to earnest long since ; the mockery
had grown to reality, and she could not play
any more ; she had suddenly forgotten how
to be anything but very real. A light shot
into the Count's eyes. Was it love, or merely
triumph ? Was it joy at knowledge of an-
swering love, or only a pleased sense of vic-
tory over another yielding heart — a cruel
sense of mastery over another weak woman-
heart, struggling vainly to free itself from his
power?
" Then you will miss me when I go ? " he
murmured. " Say it only, Roslein / "
But, for all answer, two big tears welled
over in her eyes and fell on the soft pink of
her cheeks.
" You weep ? " he said. " Ach, lieber Golf,
you weep ? Is it for me ? "
And suddenly he put his arm around her,
and drew her close to him.
" Liebchen" he whispered, " ' Weil ich denn
scheiden muss, so gieb mir einen Kuss/'" And
with the words he bent his handsome face to
hers, and kissed her once, twice, three times,
in quick, passionate succession.
Startled as she was, she did not cry out or
even struggle, but the color all fled from her
face, leaving her ashen white.
" Tell me, tell me," she whispered brokenly,
as he lifted his head and looked at her, still
smiling and holding her fast, " do you mean
that you — that you — O Ruprecht, surely
you cannot dare to kiss me unless you mean
— only unless you mean "
The stammering words failed her; she could
not read what the smile on his face might
intend. She trembled violently, and, breaking
from him, hid her face in her hands and burst
into a storm of tears. He was by her side in
a moment, and would have taken her in his
arms again, and soothed her as one soothes
a child; but she would not let him touch
her.
" You frighten me, you frighten me ! " she
sobbed. " You had no right to kiss me, un-
less — unless — " And the hot blood crim-
soned brow and cheeks and neck.
" Roslein" he said softly, and his voice
seemed sheer music, " weep not, Roslein. Was
it wrong ? May I, too, not kiss my flower
good-bye ? Liebchen, willst du nicht mehr
hore?i ? "
As he spoke, there was a movement beneath
the umbrella. Aunt Sarah was waking. In
another moment she would see her — Betty
— standing there flushed and sobbing, and
would ask what could have happened. It
was not to be borne ; and, with a stifled cry,
Betty caught up her hat, and pulling it down
closely over her face with both hands as she
ran, she fled swiftly from the spot, never once
stopping till she reached home, leaving the
Count to explain with ready ingenuity to the
dazed old lady, when she awakened sufficiently
to know that she had been asleep, that Ma-
demoiselle had a bad headache, but was not
willing to wake her honored aunt, and so had
gone back alone. But he had remained, he
said, with the most greatest pleasure, to care
for her, and he was very glad she had had so
excellent a sleep. He hoped she was well
rested, that she might keep strong for their
drive to-morrow.
And then he offered his arm to poor old
stumbling Aunt Sarah, with her watery eyes
and humbly apologetic bearing, as if she were
always asking pardon of the world at large
for having so unexpectedly found herself in it,
and told her, with an air of saying it to a prin-
cess of the blood, how proud he was to have
the honor of conducting her home. And
frightened to death at thinking that a few
moments before she had actually been sleep-
ing in his august presence, keeping him wait-
ing all for her, she took his proffered arm
with grateful meekness; and so they, too, went
slowly and silently down through the beautiful
great Black Forest, that hears and that keeps
so many and many a secret.
CHAPTER XIII.
Betty did not appear the next day un-
til just as they were starting for their drive.
They were to go to Wildsee, and Prentiss had
ordered the little donkey-cart sent on ahead
to meet them at the point where they must
THE KNIGHT OF THE BLACK FOREST
573
leave the carriage, to take Aunt Sarah up the
mountain. This was his last day. Lois could
not once forget it. But if he thought of it, he
appeared quite as usual, frank and cheery,
and with a bright word and thoughtful act
for every one.
They were all getting into the carriage, and
Kreuzner was bustling officiously around with
totally unnecessary shawls and umbrellas and
water-proofs as a send-off, when Betty came
down, very pale and subdued, but blushing
vividly as she greeted the Count, who mur-
mured a few words of concern for her head-
ache of yesterday, and held her hand tightly
for an instant as he handed her into the car-
riage. Prentiss was already on the box in the
most awkward position possible, trying to
command a view of the road and of his party
at the same time, and off they started.
It was not a very long drive, but a .very
beautiful one, following the highway as far as
Seebach, and there turning off and climbing
up the mountains by a steep but smooth as-
cent, every turn of the road affording some
new glimpse into the picturesque ravine be-
low, or some new grouping of the higher hills
beyond. Both girls were very quiet. Betty's
heart was full of a vague expectancy and
dread. Surely, having said so much, Ruprecht
must say more before he went. Surely he
would not leave her so. How would he have
dared to kiss her unless he loved her ? And
if he loved her, why did he not tell her so
honorably, and ask her to be — to be — no,
she could not say it quite out even in thought.
Could it be he fancied her only flirting still ?
She was only flirting at first, and she had
flirted horribly, outrageously; she had allowed
him — had encouraged him — to go pretty far.
But it was different now. He must sechow
different it was. She was not flirting now at
all. She was not one of those girls who can
let men kiss them aijd call that only flirting,
too. That is something else. That is either
love, or — or it is very wrong indeed. What
had he meant by it all ? He, too, was only
flirting at first because she was; they had both
understood it very well; but when she stopped,
had he stopped, too, or had he gone on as he
had begun ? How could she tell ?
She thought over one by one all her flirta-
tions of the past, which somehow had always
ended with love on the man's side, leaving
her heart-free. Had it gone so hard with
them then as it had with her now? There
was Tom Miller. He had thought she cared
for him. He had been sure of it. She remem-
bered how she had said he had no business
to misunderstand her so. And Horace Wright.
Oh, how angry he had been with her ! He
said she had led him on, and had trifled with
him purposely, only to spoil his life in the
end. He had really gone to the bad since,
but of course he must always have had it in
him, anyway. She couldn't be accountable
for that. And Attis Aikman had been worse
still; he had just laughed in a horrid way
when she refused him, and vowed he should
never believe women again, since she had de-
ceived him ; all women were vain, weak, faith-
less coquettes like her; she did not care how
many hearts she broke ; all that women ever
cared for was to count up their victims and
make sure that they had twenty where the
girl next door had ten, or ten where she had
five. Did all girls have such dreadful times
writh their lovers, and have to listen to such
dreadful things ? Ah, there was poor Charlie
Waterman; he had not blamed her or said
one word ; but that had been worst of all.
She had never thought he would mind it
much, he seemed so gentle always, almost too
gentle for a man ; and it had been so nice to
carry on a little with him, sure that whatever
she did, he would never go too far. And then,
when the end came and she had told him, just as
she had told all the rest, that she was so sorry,
and that she liked him ever and ever so much,
but that — oh, no! — she did not love him at
all, he had just looked at her, and she saw
that she had hurt him cruelly, right down to
his trusting, womanish heart. She had felt
really sorry for him, as sorry as she had said
she was, and had cried a little about it after-
ward. Charlie died later of a fever, not, of
course, of disappointed love. Only, when he
died, she cried again about it a little. And
after she had thrown over that great idiot
Jake Wryburn, though she knew she could
never marry him, — not if he were the only
man in the world, — yet she could not help
coaxing him back to her side from time to
time, just to brighten him up a little, and —
well, yes, also just a little bit perhaps for the
sake of keeping him from going right offto that
odious Mary Poole, who was so dead in love
with him, and just the one for him, everybody
said, — as if a girl with such preposterously
red hair could ever make any one a good
wife ! But if Mary had really cared for him,
why then, when Betty in her foolish play that
" didn't mean anything " had kept him from
her, poor Mary, in spite of her red hair and
her big ears, must have felt something as
Betty was feeling now, — not, of course, quite
the same, for that stupid Jake was not for a
moment to compare with the Count ; but still,
Betty confessed to herself in her new-born
honesty, Mary might not have felt nearly so
badly, and have had a very uncomfortably
sore heart all the same. Betty's face grew
very sober as she thought it all over. Every-
574
THE KNIGHT OF THE BLACK FOREST.
body had always called her a little flirt, and
she had not minded it a bit, and had called
herself so, too ; she always had been honest
enough about it, and never had pretended to
be anything else ; it was only the men that
were in love with her who had not believed
she was one- — till the end. And was it so
with the Count now ? Was he only a flirt, too,
just as she had been, and did not he mean
anything more than she had always meant ?
Oh, it was cruel, cruel ! How could men be
so heartless, and think only of their own pass-
ing amusement, and nothing of other's pain !
And then her conscience rose up and stared
her in the face, and she felt that she had de-
served it all, and had not even the right to
cry out at her own distress.
And Lois, too, had her trouble. Ned Pren-
tiss was going away that evening; she was
sending him off, and he loved her. He had
said his was not the only love she would have,
that there would be others to love her, too.
Perhaps. Do not most women have many
lovers ? But all lovers are not alike, and had
she chosen wisely in throwing this love away ?
Was she steeling her heart against the better
love, for sake of a less worthy one ? Were a
tongue skilled in soft speech, and eyes that
said what they would, better than truth so
true that it sometimes wounded ? Was a
perfect face always the sign of a perfect heart?
Was a love of the beautiful and the ideal all
that was needed to help one bear life's bur-
dens ? Was not the love that would humbly
stoop to pluck out a thorn from one's foot
truer than a love that, while noting the least
beauties by the way, led one limping over
stones and thorns alike ? No one would ever
love her better than Ned loved her. She did
not question that. She only questioned
whether she had answered rightly, — whether
she was not throwing away as valueless what
she might some day find had been a priceless
good, — whether she did not, after all, love him
perhaps better than she had owned. She
watched him all day stealthily. Not a word,
not an act, was lost upon her; while he, quite
unconscious of her scrutiny, did and said ex-
actly what he would have said and done had
she been miles away. It was not Von Linden-
fels, but Prentiss, she noticed, who spoke so
cheerily to the little peasant children trudg-
ing along wearily by the side of their own slow-
stepping horses up the hill. Von Lindenfels
had pointed out how pretty one child was,
and how artistically another's dress — the red
skirt, high bodice, white sleeves, and blue
neckerchief — blended with the somber road-
side coloring; but it was Prentiss who be-
thought him to make the little ones put their
lumbering, heavy pickaxes on the carriage,
and rest their aching shoulders till the divid-
ing ways obliged them to resume their load.
And when they had left the carriage and
were walking up the steep path, it was Pren-
tiss who, no matter with whom he was or
what he was saying, never for an instant for-
got Aunt Sarah in her little jolty donkey-cart.
It was he who always saw the stone to be
avoided, or the rut that needed a helping
hand to smooth it beneath the wheels, or
where the donkey was a trifle nearer the edge
of the road than might be pleasant to Aunt
Sarah's timid nerves. And then when they
came to a tree which had fallen plump across
the path, and the Count said they must go
back, there being no possibility of getting the
cart by with a precipice on one side and a
perpendicular bank on the other, Prentiss
went silently to work, and somehow or other
crushed out a sort of way by the side, along
which Von Lindenfels escorted first Betty and
then Lois gallantly enough, and stood watch-
ing and mocking as the donkey scrambled
clumsily after with the tiny, empty wagon.
And when Aunt Sarah grew suddenly so fool-
ishly afraid to follow, and was sure she should
stumble on the rocks or sprain her foot, and
begged them all to go on and leave her, it
was Prentiss who hurried back and caught the
old lady right up in his strong arms and carried
her over, with never a thought of how ridicu-
lous he looked, staggering along the rough
path with his tall, thin, remonstrative burden.
Then only a little farther up they came to
just such another fallen tree still more hope-
lessly blocking the passage ; and this time the
Count said they would really have to give up
trying to pass on farther with the cart. The
donkey could creep under the tree well
enough, but not with the wagon, and Aunt
Sarah had better sit there and wait for them.
She would have the donkey-boy to keep her
company. And again it was Prentiss who
cheerily insisted that there was no trouble at
all, and who had the donkey promptly un-
harnessed and induced him to crawl under
the tree to the other side, and then by pulling
and pushing and hauling and cheering, just
by main perseverance and will, it seemed to
Lois, got the cart safely over the huge trunk
too, and helped the boy reharness the donkey,
all while the Count stood idly by, a most
amused and skeptical observer. Lois won-
dered why he did not offer to help. With his
tall, finely proportioned figure, he looked fully
as strong as Ned. Could it be Ned was the
more truly gallant of the two ?
They reached the Wildsee at last : a wee
little sheet of water nestled in closely among
the hills as if hiding itself away to sleep.
" A pond ! Just a duck-pond ! " cried Pren-
THE KNIGHT OF THE BLACK FOREST.
575
tiss. " Not big enough to float a toy-boat !
And this they call Wildsee ! Well, I declare !
Oh, ye shades of the mighty ! "
The Count shrugged his shoulders and
turned to Lois. " Mademoiselle, you are not
disappointed in it ? "
No, indeed, she was not. She saw the
beauty of it all — the great, dark, blue-green
trees above, tall and funereal, the fern-tangled
banks, the clear sapphire blue of the placid
little lake, lying there calm and unruffled, as
if in an enchanted dream of floating lights
and shadows.
" It is perfect ! " she said. " But of course
all cannot care for the same things. It is not
strange that what one likes another should
see no beauty in. It would be a tame world
that all eyes saw alike."
" It may be," said Von Lindenfels ; " but
there is never happiness for me if the heart
I love beats not with mine, pulse for pulse.
All its pleasures must be my pleasures, its
pains my pains. Where there is not true sym-
pathy, there can love be never."
Betty and Prentiss had started a match at
skipping stones. Aunt Sarah sat contentedly
near by. The Count and Lois were quite
alone as they continued their walk around
the Wildsee. Lois looked thoughtfully out
over the little lake.
" No," she answered, at last ; " I suppose
there cannot be. There should, of course, be
real sympathy before there could be real
love. The only question is, what is real sym-
pathy?"
"Ach, Mademoiselle, can you ask that ?
Have you not found it ? "
" I do not know," she said slowly. " How
can I tell if I have found it, till I know what
it is ? " And she raised her eyes to his, fjj.ll
of the trouble that she had been so long in
solving.
" Real sympathy ? " said Von Lindenfels,
in the low voice which had so peculiar a
charm. " Real sympathy, — is not that what I
give you ? "
" Do you give it to me ? " said Lois, search -
ingly. " In all things ? In what is best, as well
as in what is beautiful ? "
" Yes, in all things."
His whole soul was in his eyes, apparently,
as he looked down at her. What was it that
she read there besides what he wished her to
read ? There was no coquetry in her steady
gaze. Her eyes were very clear and truthful,
and wholly earnest.
" No, not in all things, Count von Linden-
fels," she said gently, with a little sad smile
that seemed to ask his forgiveness for reading
him so truly. " Not in all things. Only in
what is beautiful."
" And what is best if not what is beautiful ? "
he asked triumphantly.
Lois shook her head with a dreary sense
of not being able to answer. Had she not
spoken just so to Prentiss only a few days
since ?
" I do not know," she said again. " But
what is right does not always seem beautiful,
even though it ought to. Duties are often
ugly enough."
" Duties ? " broke in the Count, with a
laugh. " We are not talking of duties, you
and I, Mademoiselle. Leave those for old
women, who need no prettier words. They
fit not lips like yours. We were talking of
sympathy, is it not so ? And of that which
follows so close, so near."
" But sympathy must extend to duties, or
there is no real sympathy between any two,"
Lois persisted ; " for life is all made up of
duties — duties toward one's self and duties
toward others."
" Then you have a duty also toward me,
that you confess," said the Count, skillfully
drawing her away from the stupid topic. " And
your duty to me, I see it very plain. It is to
be kind, most kind to-day, because we so soon
part, and to tell me some little word that I
may shut up warm in my heart to rejoice me
when I am far away, and do long for you
with all my life and soul. Mein Kind, mein
liebes Kind, hast thou no such word for
me ? "
" Yes," she said, after a pause, looking sud-
denly up at him in a strange way, " I have."
"Ach" he exclaimed, springing toward her,
" you have ? You will make my poor heart
glad, even although it later must break in its
good-bye ? Mein Kind, spreche nur /"
Lois drew back. Her eyes were moist and
shining.
" I want to ask you just this one thing,"
she said, — " to be true always, always, in all
that you say and do, true in all things, true
from your very heart."
The Count looked at her uncertainly.
What did she mean ?
" I understand not," he said hesitatingly.
" Is it that you doubt my truth ? Is it you can
think that my heart is not true, that it will
not always be true, even though I must go ? "
" Yes," she said very clearly, though her
voice shook a little, " that is what I mean,
Count von Lindenfels; that you are not
true, that you would not be true to any one
woman. You may be all else, but you are
not true."
" Mademoiselle ! Mademoiselle ! " he cried
hotly, coloring furiously over all his hand-
some, high-born face, " you say this to me !
Gott in Himrnel, do I hear it ! You do mis-
576
THE KNIGHT OF THE BLACK FOREST
take me. Could you only read in my heart, —
could you know "
Lois put out her hand to silence him.
"Please! please!" she implored, growing
pale, but not once faltering. " Do not be angry
with me. It hurt me to say it, but I felt I
must. And now you will understand that you
are not ever to speak so to me again. And
perhaps in the future you will not speak so
again to any other woman either, except only
when you mean it all in earnest, and not in
play. Is it not late ? Come, we must find the
others. It is time we went home."
And she passed him by, and went on.
CHAPTER XIV
The trip back from the Wildsee was accom-
plished, as all down-hill journeys are, moral
or physical, in a far shorter time than it took
for the ascent, and, as by mutual agreement,
it was a very quiet one. Betty's heart was full
to overflowing. The Count had walked all
the way down with her, and there had been
a few tenderly ambiguous sentences on his
part, and he had called her back just as they
were reentering the carriage, to give her a
daisy, with a glance that might mean every-
thing or nothing. But that was all. Could
it be he was never going to say more ?
It was already late when they reached
Rippolds Au, and Prentiss had but a few
moments before he was to leave with the
stage. A large open traveling-carriage, with
luggage piled up behind, and four horses
attached, and footmen and liveried servants
lounging around in extraordinary multiplicity,
stood waiting near their house as they drove
up. Kreuzner came hurrying forward to meet
them, bristling with impatience.
" Herr Graf, your friends have arrive. They
did come just so soon as you were gone. They
wait for you upstairs. Herr von Reichel like
it not at all that he wait so long, and the
ladies, they think you never come."
" So, so, they have come ? " exclaimed the
Count. " I expected them not till to-morrow.
I must seek them immediately. Mr. Prentiss,
I will say good-bye, in case I see you not
again."
The gentlemen shook hands; the Count
disappeared, lifting his hat with his most
courteous bow, and Prentiss followed the la-
dies to their parlor, bringing up the remain-
der of the shawls that everybody else had
overlooked.
" I suppose I must say good-bye now my-
self," he said, consulting his watch with a
scarcely audible sigh. " Thank you all very
much for all your kindness to me; I shall
not forget it. I hope you will have a pleas-
ant time in Europe, and not get overdone
with the shows. I shall see you, of course,
when you return."
" How we shall miss you ! " said Aunt
Sarah, holding his hand affectionately in her
weak grasp, with a friendly moisture about
her eyes. " I don't know what we shall do
without you."
" Oh, you'll get along all right," he an-
swered, in his cheeriest, most matter-of-fact
tone. " You'll be starting off on your travels
so soon yourselves that you won't have time
to be lonely here. Take care of yourself,
and don't let Kreuzner cheat your soul out
of your body, or let Miss Lois do too
many cathedrals. Good-bye, Aunt Sarah. I
know you'll not begrudge me a kiss this time.
Good-bye, Miss Betty. Good-bye, Miss Lois."
And he was gone.
" Let's come to the balcony and wave him
off," said Betty, dragging Lois with her.
" There's the stage now at the farther door.
How plebeian it looks by the side of this
gorgeous turn-out of the Count's friends !
Doesn't it? There's the porter with Ned's
valise. And there's Ned himself. See ! "
There he was, to be sure, shaking hands
with half of Rippolds Au, as* it seemed, so
many crowded up around him in the hearty
German fashion to wish him bon voyage, all
the children flocking up, too, for a vociferous
farewell.
" And now he's off," said Betty. " There
he is on the top of the stage. He's looking
back at us. He's waving his hat. Lois, do
you see ? Good-bye, good-bye ! "
Lois did see, indeed, gazing after him so
long as the stage was in sight with swimming
eyes, though with head held proudly erect,
and a dull pain tugging at her heart, that no
one could see or know.
" Dear old Ned, I'm sorry he's gone," said
Betty. " You needn't have been so unkind to
him, Lois. Oh, look ! the carriage is drawing
up to the door here, and they're bringing out
— oh, can it be ? — yes — there's a Von and
an L — it must be the Count's things! Lois,
they can't be all going away to-night, can
they ? They can't be going to take away Ru-
precht to-night, can they ? Lois ! Lois ! "
The poor child caught her cousin's hand
imploringly, turning dark, frightened eyes
upon her.
" Hush ! " said Lois, closing her hand on
Betty's, with an almost passionate tenderness
for her in her trouble. " Hush, dear! Here
is Kreuzner."
Kreuzner in truth was close upon them, his
benevolent countenance radiant with the
pleasure of having so much news to tell.
TJ?E KNIGHT OF THE BLACK FOREST.
577
ISB^
iiffliifiiiiiiiiiiffliiiiiiiiiiiiiiii'
illllii!l.:i.i', ,IIiiIi,'iiVIii!i,;iSi1'' 'i '',iii Jijjjilri JJ
111 ,lilffllll
" You are out there, ladees ! That is goot.
I come to tell you to look out and see the
fine carriage. Herr von Reichel he travels as
a prince. He has so much money he can do
just what he likes. I know his waiting-man
for many years — Fritz ; you see him there
with the Herr Graf's luggage. Oh, a fine time
we did have this afternoon, packing it up to
have it ready till he get back, Herr von
Reichel was in such haste to be off. So I did
help Fritz. I never refuse when I can help
everybody. I am too amiable. It is my fault.
And such clothes, ladees ! Such fineries I
never did see ! He is a very extravagant lord,
this Graf von Lindenfels, and that is why he
must marry rich. Fritz telled me all about it.
I always find out everything. And that is
why he is to marry with Fraulein Wilhelmina
von Reichel. You shall see her soon. She is
not handsome at all, no ; but she is extraordi-
nary rich, and that is still more better. It
was one grand betrothal, such as one never
had before nowhere, Fritz say, and they shall
be married this November. Oh, these hand-
some lords they always lucky. They gets all
the pretty ladees' smiles and all the ugly la-
dees' gold. And Fraulein Wilhelmina, she so
Vol. XXIX.— 55.
glad to see her Graf again she not let him go
from her side — no, not for a moment ; and
the Herr Graf, he see me just now as I did
accidentally pass the door-crack (I thought I
should have one goot look at her before she
go), and he called to me, and make believed
he settle some bill with me, and give me his
card private-like for you all, — there it is, mees,
— and did say : ' Tell the ladees that it break
my heart that I cannot go to say them good-
bye, but the gnadiges Fraulein she let me
not out of her eyes. But you take them good-
bye for me, my goot fellow, my excellent, fine
Kreuzner (ach, der Graf, he always have a
polite word for me; he esteem me always
very high !), and tell them I forget them not,
never ! ' Ach, die Herrschafteii ! they come !
I must go make my adieux to Fritz."
" Betty, Betty, darling ! " whispered Lois in
terror. The child was white as a sheet, and
shaking from head to foot. " Betty, darling,
try not to show it. Try to look up, just till he
is gone ! "
There was a great hurrying to and fro of
officials and servants and hostlers below ; a
cracking of whips ; a shouting and a calling,
and a deal of aimless bustle and confusion,
578
DUTCH PORTRAITURE.
in the midst of which a little, consequential,
cross-looking man hurried out of the house
and sprang into the carriage, first handing in
a rather subdued-looking elderly lady and a
younger one, who, even in that quick glance,
showed as eminently haughty and aristocratic
of bearing as she was plain of feature. The
Count followed quickly, with head thrown
back and a perfectly expressionless face as he
passed through the line of bowing officials,
and cast a swift glance around and then up
at their balcony, as he took his seat by the
Fraulein.
" Betty, Betty ! " whispered Lois again.
The Count saw them, and instantly rose to
his feet and stood, taking off his hat. There
was no lack of expression in his face now.
The horses were whipped up ; the carriage
was moving away.
Little Betty made one supreme effort. The
blood rushed back to her face, transforming
her into a brilliant, laughing beauty. Was it
possible this was the same Betty of a moment
ago ? She bent over the balcony, nodding
her pretty head merrily and waving her little
hand to him saucily as he stood up, straight
and handsome, with bared head. And then,
just as the carriage drove off, she leaned far-
ther forward still, plucked his daisy from her
belt, and threw it full at him with a light,
ringing laugh. It fell close beside him. He
caught it up, kissed it, waved his hat, and
was whirled off around the house out of sight.
" He is gone," said Betty, laughing still,
but hysterically now, and turning to Lois,
who had bowed her good-bye with such
graceful indifference. " Lois, he is gone, too,
— our knight, our knight ! "
" No," answered Lois very softly, and
drawing Betty closely to her. " No, dear.
This one was false. We will forget him. The
other was the knight, Betty. It was Ned
Prentiss who was the real knight of the Black
Forest."
THE END.
DUTCH PORTRAITURE.
The school of art which began with Van
Eyck and finished with Snyders has been,
even more than the Venetian, the " school
for painters." In the technical power which
culminated in Rubens (though so powerful a
genius as Rembrandt may well be allowed to
contest the claim to supremacy in some
points) there has not been a quality of tech-
nical attainment omitted. The realism of
Mieris puts to shame the best modern work,
in the same vein ; Memling and Van Eyck
have never been surpassed for the tender
fidelity to nature which was their contribution
to art; no one has ever equaled Rubens
for the expression of power in action, or
exceeded him in the poetic treatment of
the facts of flesh ; Rembrandt rivals Velas-
quez in the subtlety of character rendering ;
Teniers has no equal in the movement and
elasticity of his personages; and in the diversi-
fied nature of the landscape school which
gave us Ruysdael, Cuyp, Hobbema, Vande-
velde, Backhuysen, and a score of others, we
have the foundation of all modern landscape.
We have got a fashion of putting disparage-
ment on the Dutch school, though Rubens
and Rembrandt force their way to the front
rank by their sheer power of painting ; but the
truth is that in all that pertains to the power
of rendering facts in the most terse and fluent
language of art, the great Dutch school is
still our university. Ignoble it often is, in all
that pertains to thought; vulgar often to
indecency, mean and low in its ideals ; but in
its art it is always masterly and right, avoid-
ing the artificiality of the early French school,
while it missed its airy grace, and meeting the
ascetic spirit of the North German school
with the bonhomie of good beer-drinkers and
jolly livers.
What it is distinguished above all schools
in, is the universal excellence of the training
even of its inferior painters, the inculcation of
sound methods of training and painting, so
that there are thousands of pictures afloat,
which, while we dare not accept them as by
any of the great Dutchmen, are yet so well
painted, so solid and brilliant in color, so true
in the sense of harmony of tint, in tonality,
that only profound study and careful attention
to the most minute qualities of execution and
design enable us to assign them to some less
known or apocryphal pupil, rather than to the
master. Scores of painters whose names have
scarcely survived, and whose pictures have,
when properly attributed, little commercial
value, have played the cuckoo in the greater
studios and left their offspring to be cared for
as the legitimate children of Teniers, Wou-
vermans, Backhuysen, and even of Rem-
brandt and Rubens, though of these latter no
one acquainted with art should be long in
doubt.
To know what the greatest work of the
DUTCH PORTRAITURE.
579
PORTRAIT OF AN OLD WOMAN. AFTER PAINTING BY REMBRANDT IN THE NATIONAL GALLERY, LONDON-
ENGRAVED BY WILLIAM MILLER FROM THE PHOTOGRAPH BY THE PHOTOGRAPHIC COMPANY OF BERLIN.
school was, and what Terriers, the most wide-
ly forged of all the Dutchmen even in his own
day, could do, one must go to Amsterdam.
There, too, Wouvermans comes to one as a
revelation of masterhood in his way, and
there still hang the great portraits of Rem-
brandt, where the master saw them hang,
uncleaned and unrestored; and when we see
them we can understand that for certain qual-
ities of technique whenever we want a master
we must go to Holland.
The occasional sorties from their specialties
of the Dutch masters, and in which they
carry their mastery as firmly as in their more
familiar fields, show how sound and large was
their training. The landscape painter rests
his eyes in portraiture, and the portraitist goes
into the fields with the landscapist, and
neither was ever much at a loss. They laughed
at the ideal, and stuck to their peasants and
beer ; but peasants and beer never knew any
other masters.
It is in portrait especially that the Dutch
school maintains not only its technical excel-
58o
TO A DEBUTANTE.
lence, but an amount of dignity which in its
pictorial subjects it often fails in. It is here
that its wonderful power of large realization
is shown to best advantage, for here the
severest truth comes nearest the ideal. No
portrait that does not render the absolute
externality of the subject can ever be a great
portrait. The familiar notion that an artist
may paint an ideal head, which, differing from
what we see of the individual, shall yet repre-
sent him more truly or nobly, is one only to
be entertained by those who have vague and
unsound notions of art. A portrait may insist
unduly on the representation of accidental
markings and malformations of the face, and
miss the necessary fidelity to the essential
traits ; and it is possible to miss entirely some
minor traits and even general accuracy of
feature, and yet keep certain elements of inti-
mate likeness; but the true portrait misses
neither the one nor the other, but renders to
the face all that belongs to it. We know a
man by what we see of him, and there is no
hidden and mysterious quality in his soul that
does not appear in his face; likeness, even
of the highest quality, is simply a matter of
subtly correct drawing. There is a quality
of fidelity in facial execution which becomes
highly important in portraiture where it is
a question of rendering mobile character,
from the sympathy between the fleeting ex-
pression and the rapid, subtle touch that
expresses it ; but the greatest portrait painters
in general practice avoid all transitory
expression — what they aim at is character,
the vital and fundamental elements of the
individuality, and not its accidental and mobile
quality. A head by Titian is invariably grave
and composed, — so of Velasquez, of Rubens
Tintoret, Raphael, and, with very few excep-
tions, of Rembrandt; but his faculty was
such, and his sense of character, that the faint
dawn of a smile which appears in some of his
heads was rather an attribute of character
than the record of passing emotion.
Portrait is history painting, — the history
of the individual, — and to be writ large it must
be the history of all that life has made of the
individual, not what he felt or showed in a
moment of exceptional being.
This is recognized as law by all the great
portrait schools ; and the Dutch painters with
their intense feeling for the picturesque
(which may indeed be called the Dutch
Ideal) rendered with a happier fidelity those
traits which added to the ruggedness and pic-
turesqueness of the model, and their solid
method of painting came in to help the im-
pression due to the substantial character of
the Dutch type of individuality. Thus it is
that while the greatest Dutch painters scarcely
rival in dignity and impressiveness the best
portraits of the Venetian school or those of
Velasquez, they have a pictorial quality quite
their own, that of pictorial rendering of pic-
turesque material. No characteristic head of
a Dutch painter misses this.
W. J. Siillman.
TO A DEBUTANTE.
The music dwells upon its dying chord,
And thou dost linger trembling at thy start
Across the charmed borderlands of art.
The footlights' arc is like a flaming sword,
To frighten yet defend thee. Every word
Has meaning more than lies within thy part —
Thrilled with the pathos of a fainting heart,
And asking sympathy that none afford.
But wait ! and when the fostering years shall bring
Perfection to those fairest gifts of thine,
Its tributes at thy feet a world will fling,
And call thy calm precision fire divine.
All other hearts' emotions thou shalt waken,
While thine amidst the tempest rests unshaken.
Henry Tyrrell.
THE RISE OF SILAS LAPHAM*
BY W. D. HOWELLS,
Author of " Venetian Life," "A Chance Acquaintance," "A Modern Instance," "A Woman's Reason," etc.
IX.
Lapham had the pride which comes of
self-making, and he would not openly lower
his crest to the young fellow he had taken
into his business. He was going to be ob-
viously master in his own place to every one ;
and during the hours of business he did noth-
ing to distinguish Corey from the half-dozen
other clerks and book-keepers in the outer
office, but he was not silent about the fact
that Bromfield Corey's son had taken a fancy
to come to him. " Did you notice that fellow
at the desk facing my type- writer girl ? Well,
sir, that's the son of Bromfield Corey — old
Phillips Corey's grandson. And I'll say this
for him, that there isn't a man in the office
that looks after his work better. There isn't
anything he's too good for. He's right here
at nine every morning, before the clock gets
in the word. I guess it's his grandfather com-
ing out in him. He's got charge of the foreign
correspondence. We're pushing the paint
everywhere." He nattered himself that he did
not lug the matter in. He had been warned
against that by his wife, but he had the right
to do Corey justice, and his brag took the
form of illustration. " Talk about training for
business — I tell you it's all in the man him-
self! I used to believe in what old Horace
Greeley said about college graduates being
the poorest kind of horned cattle; but I've
changed my mind a little. You take that fel-
low Corey. He's been through Harvard, and
he's had about every advantage that a fellow
could have. Been everywhere, and talks half
a dozen languages like English. I suppose
he's got money enough to live without lifting
a hand, any more than his father does ; son
of Bromfield Corey, you know. But the
thing was in him. He's a natural-born busi-
ness man ; and I've had many a fellow with
me that had come up out of the street, and
worked hard all his life, without ever losing
his original opposition to the thing. But
Corey likes it. I believe the fellow would
like to stick at that desk of his night and day.
I don't know where he got it. I guess it must
be his grandfather, old Phillips Corey; it
often skips a generation, you know. But what
I say is, a thing has got to be born in a man ;
and if it ain't born in him, all the privations
in the world won't put it there, and if it is, all
the college training won't take it out."
Sometimes Lapham advanced these ideas
at his own table, to a guest whom he had
brought to Nantasket for the night. Then he
suffered exposure and ridicule at the hands
of his wife, when opportunity offered. She
would not let him bring Corey down to Nan-
tasket at all.
" No, indeed ! " she said. " I am not going
to have them think we're running after him.
If he wants to see Irene, he can find out ways
of doing it for himself."
" Who wants him to see Irene ? " retorted
the Colonel angrily.
" I do," said Mrs. Lapham. " And I want
him to see her without any of your conniv-
ance, Silas. I'm not going to have it said that
I put my girls at anybody. Why don't you
invite some of your other clerks ? "
" He ain't just like the other clerks. He's
going to take charge of a part of the business.
It's quite another thing."
" Oh, indeed ! " said Mrs. Lapham vexa-
tiously. " Then you are going to take a
partner."
" I shall ask him down if I choose ! " re-
turned the Colonel, disdaining her insinuation.
His wife laughed with the fearlessness of a
woman who knows her husband.
" But you won't choose when you've
thought it over, Si." Then she applied an
emollient to his chafed surface. " Don't you
suppose I feel as you do about it ? I know
just how proud you are, and I'm not going to
have you do anything that will make you feel
meeching afterward. You just let things take
their course. If he wants Irene, he's going to
find out some way of seeing her ; and if he
don't, all the plotting and planning in the
world isn't going to make him."
" Who's plotting ? " again retorted the
Colonel, shuddering at the utterance of hopes
and ambitions which a man hides with shame,
but a woman talks over as freely and coolly
as if they were items of a milliner's bill.
" Oh, not you / " exulted his wife. " I
understand what you want. You want to get
Copyright, 1884, by W. D. Howells. All rights reserved.
582
THE RISE OE SILAS LATHAM.
this fellow, who is neither partner nor clerk,
down here to talk business with him. Well, now,
you just talk business with him at the office."
The only social attention which Lapham
succeeded in offering Corey was to take him
in his buggy, now and then, for a spin out
over the Milldam. He kept the mare in town,
and on a pleasant afternoon he liked to knock
off early, as he phrased it, and let the mare
out a little. Corey understood something
about horses, though in a passionless way,
and he would have preferred to talk business
when obliged to talk horse. But he deferred
to his business superior with the sense of dis-
cipline which is innate in the apparently in-
subordinate American nature. If Corey could
hardly have helped feeling the social differ-
ence between Lapham and himself, in his
presence he silenced his traditions, and
showed him all the respect that he could have
exacted from any of his clerks. He talked
horse with him, and when the Colonel wished
he talked house. Besides himself and his paint
Lapham had not many other topics ; and if he
had a choice between the mare and the edi-
fice on the water side of Beacon street, it was
just now the latter. Sometimes, in driving in
or out, he stopped at the house, and made
Corey his guest there, if he might not at Nan-
tasket ; and one day it happened that the
young man met Irene there again. She had
come up with her mother alone, and they
were in the house, interviewing the carpenter
as before, when the Colonel jumped out of
his buggy and cast anchor at the pavement.
More exactly, Mrs. Lapham was interviewing
the carpenter, and Irene was sitting in the
bow- window on a trestle, and looking out at
the driving. She saw him come up with her
father, and bowed and blushed. Her father
went on upstairs to find her mother, and
Corey pulled up another trestle which he
found in the back part of the room. The first
floorings had been laid throughout the house,
and the partitions had been lathed so that
one could realize the shape of the interior.
" I suppose you will sit at this window a
good deal," said the young man.
" Yes, I think it will be very nice. There's
so much more going on than there is in the
Square."
"It must be very interesting to you to see
the house grow."
" It is. Only it doesn't seem to grow so
fast as I expected."
" Why, I'm amazed at the progress your
carpenter has made every time I come."
The girl looked down, and then lifting her
eyes she said, with a sort of timorous appeal :
" I've been reading that book since you
were down at Nantasket." r
" Book ? " repeated Corey, while she red-
dened with disappointment. " Oh, yes. ' Mid-
dlemarch.' Did you like it ? "
"I haven't got through with it yet. Pen
has finished it."
" What does she think of it ? "
" Oh, I think she likes it very well. I
haven't heard her talk about it much. Do
you like it ? "
" Yes ; I liked it immensely. But it's several
years since I read it."
" I didn't know it was so old. It's just got
into the Seaside Library," she urged, with a
little sense of injury in her tone.
" Oh, it hasn't been out such a very great
while," said Corey, politely. "It came a little
before ' Daniel Deronda.' "
The girl was again silent. She followed the
curl of a shaving on the floor with the point
of her parasol.
" Do you like that Rosamond Vincy ? "
she asked, without looking up.
Corey smiled in his kind way.
" I didn't suppose she was expected to have
any friends. I can't say I liked her. But I
don't think I disliked her so much as the
author does. She's pretty hard on her good-
looking " — he was going to say girls, but as
if that might have been rather personal, he
said — " people."
"Yes, that's what Pen says. She says she
doesn't give her any chance to be good. She
says she should have been just as bad as
Rosamond if she had been in her place."
The young man laughed. " Your sister is
very satirical, isn't she ? "
" I don't know," said Irene, still intent upon
the convolutions of the shaving. " She keeps
us laughing. Papa thinks there's nobody that
can talk like her." She gave the shaving a
little toss from her, and took the parasol up
across her lap. The unworldliness of the Lap-
ham girls did not extend to their dress;
Irene's costume was very stylish, and she gov-
erned her head and shoulders stylishly. " We
are going to have the back room upstairs for
a music-room and library," she said abruptly.
" Yes ? " returned Corey. " I should think
that would be charming."
" We expected to have book-cases, but the
architect wants to build the shelves in."
The fact seemed to be referred to Corey
for his comment.
" It seems to me that would be the best
way. They'll look like part of the room then.
You can make them low, and hang your pic-
tures above them."
" Yes, that's what he said." The girl looked
out of the window in adding, " I presume
with nice bindings it will look very well."
" Oh, nothing furnishes a room like books."
THE RISE OF SILAS LAJPHAM.
583
" No. There will have to be a good many
of them."
"That depends upon the size of your room
and the number of your shelves."
" Oh, of course ! I presume," said Irene,
thoughtfully, " we shall have to have Gib-
bon."
" If you want to read him," said Corey,
with a laugh of sympathy for an imaginable
joke.
" We had a great deal about him at school.
I believe we had one of his books. Mine's
lost, but Pen will remember."
The young man looked at her, and then
said, seriously, " You'll want Greene, of
course, and Motley, and Parkman."
" Yes. What kind of writers are they ? "
" They're historians, too."
a Oh, yes ; I remember now. That's what
Gibbon was. Is it Gibbon or Gibbons ? "
The young man decided the point with ap-
parently superfluous delicacv. " Gibbon, I
think."
"There used to be so many of them," said
Irene, gayly. " I used to get them mixed up
with each other, and I couldn't tell them from
the poets. Should you want to have poetry? "
" Yes ; I suppose some edition of the Eng-
lish poets."
" We don't any of us like poetry. Do you
like it?"
" I'm afraid I don't very much," Corey
owned. " But, of course, there was a time
when Tennyson was a great deal more to me
than he is now."
" We had something about him at school,
too. I think I remember the name. I think
we ought to have all the American poets."
" Well, not all. Five or six of the best :
you want Longfellow and Bryant and Whit-
tier and Holmes and Emerson and Lowell."
The girl listened attentively, as if making
mental note of the names.
" And Shakspere," she added. " Don't you
like Shakspere's plays ? "
" Oh, yes, very much."
" I used to be perfectly crazy about his
plays. Don't you think ' Hamlet ' is splen-
did ? We had ever so much about Shakspere.
Weren't you perfectly astonished when you
found out how many other plays of his there
were ? I always thought there was nothing
but ' Hamlet ' and ' Romeo and Juliet ' and
' Macbeth ' and < Richard III.' and ' King
Lear,' and that one that Robeson and Crane
have — oh, yes! ' Comedy of Errors.'"
" Those are the ones they usually play,"
said Corey.
" I presume we shall have to have Scott's
works," said Irene, returning to the question
of books.
" Oh, yes."
" One of the girls used to think he was
great. She was always talking about Scott."
Irene made a pretty little, amiably contempt-
uous mouth. " He isn't American, though? "
she suggested.
" No," said Corey; "he's Scotch, I believe."
Irene passed her glove over her forehead.
" I always get him mixed up with Cooper.
Well, papa has got to get them. If we
have a library, we have got to have books
in it. Pen says it's perfectly ridiculous hav-
ing one. But papa thinks whatever the
architect says is right. He fought him hard
enough at first. I don't see how any one can
keep the poets and the historians and novel-
ists separate in their mind. Of course papa
will buy them if we say so. But I don't see
how I'm ever going to tell him which ones."
The joyous light faded out of her face and
left it pensive.
" Why, if you like, said the young man,
taking out his pencil, " I'll put down the
names we've been talking about."
He clapped himself on his breast pockets to
detect some lurking scrap of paper.
" Will you ? she cried delightedly.
" Here ! take one of my cards," and she
pulled out her card-case. " The carpenter
writes on a three-cornered block and puts it
into his pocket, and it's so uncomfortable he
can't help remembering it. Pen says she's
going to adopt the three-cornered-block plan
for papa."
" Thank you," said Corey. " I believe I'll
use your card." He crossed over to her, and
after a moment sat down on the trestle beside
her. She looked over the card as he wrote.
" Those are the ones we mentioned, but per-
haps I'd better add a few others."
" Oh, thank you," she said, when he had
written the card full on both sides. "He has
got to get them in the nicest binding, too. I
shall tell him about their helping to furnish
the room, and then he can't object." She re-
mained with the card, looking at it rather
wistfully.
Perhaps Corey divined her trouble of mind.
" If he will take that to any book-seller,
and tell him what bindings he wants, he will
fill the order for him."
" Oh, thank you very much," she said, and
put the card back into her card-case with great
apparent relief. Then she turned her lovely
face toward the young man, beaming with the
triumph a woman feels in any bit of successful
manoeuvring, and began to talk with recovered
gayety of other thing;, as if, having got rid of
a matter annoying out of all proportion to its
importance, she was now going to indemnify
herself.
5^4
THE RISE OF SILAS LAPHAM.
Corey did not return to his own trestle.
She found another shaving within reach of
her parasol, and began poking that with it, and
trying to follow it through its folds. Corey
watched her awhile.
" You seem to have a great passion for
playing with shavings," he said. " Is it a new
one?"
" New what ? "
"Passion."
"I don't know," she said, dropping her
eyelids, and keeping on with her effort. She
looked shyly aslant at him. " Perhaps you
don't approve of playing with shavings ? "
"Oh, yes, I do. I admire it very much.
But it seems rather difficult. I've a great am-
bition to put my foot on the shaving's tail
and hold it for you."
" Well," said the girl.
" Thank you," said the young man. He
did so, and now she ran her parasol point
easily through it. They looked at each other
and laughed. " That was wonderful. Would
you like to try another ? " he asked.
" No, I thank you," she replied. " I think
one will do."
They both laughed again, for whatever
reason or no reason, and then the young girl
became sober. To a girl everything a young
man does is of significance ; and if he holds a
shaving down with his foot while she pokes
through it with her parasol, she must ask her-
self what he means by it.
" They seem to be having rather a long
interview with the carpenter to-day," said
Irene, looking vaguely toward the ceiling.
She turned with polite ceremony to Corey.
" I'm afraid you're letting them keep you.
You mustn't."
" Oh, no. You're letting me stay," he re-
turned.
She bridled, and bit her lip for pleasure.
" I presume they will be down before a great
while. Don't you like the smell of the wood
and the mortar? It's so fresh."
"Yes, it's delicious." He bent forward and
picked up from the floor the shaving with
which they had been playing, and put it to his
nose. " It's like a flower. May I offer it to
you ?" he asked, as if it had been one.
" Oh, thank you, thank you ! " She took it
from him and put it into her belt, and then
they both laughed once more.
Steps were heard descending. When the
elder people reached the floor where they
were sitting, Corey rose and presently took
his leave.
"What makes you so solemn, 'Rene?"
asked Mrs. Lapham.
" Solemn ? " echoed the girl. " I'm not a
bit solemn. What can you mean ? "
Corey dined at home that evening, and as
he sat looking across the table at his father,
he said, " I wonder what the average literature
of non-cultivated people is."
" Ah," said the elder, " I suspect the aver-
age is pretty low even with cultivated people.
You don't read a great many books yourself,
Tom."
" No, I don't," the young man confessed.
" I read more books when I was with Stanton,
last winter, than I had since I was a boy.
But I read them because I must — there was
nothing else to do. It wasn't because I was
fond of reading. Still, I think I read with
some sense of literature and the difference
between authors. I don't suppose that people
generally do that ; I have met people who had
read books without troubling themselves to
find out even the author's name, much less
trying to decide upon his quality. I suppose
that's the way the vast majority of people
read."
" Yes. If authors were not almost neces-
sarily recluses, and ignorant of the ignorance
about them, I don't see how they could en-
dure it. Of course they are fated to be over-
whelmed by oblivion at last, poor fellows ;
but to see it weltering all round them while
they are in the very act of achieving immor-
tality must be tremendously discouraging. I
don't suppose that we who have the habit
of reading, and at least a nodding acquaint-
ance with literature, can imagine the bestial
darkness of the great mass of people — even
people whose houses are rich, and whose linen
is purple and fine. But occasionally we get
glimpses of it. I suppose you found the latest
publications lying all about in Lapham cot-
tage when you were down there ? "
Young Corey laughed. " It wasn't exactly
cumbered with them."
"No?"
" To tell the truth, I don't suppose they
ever buy books. The young ladies get novels
that they hear talked of out of the circulating
library."
" Had they knowledge enough to be
ashamed of their ignorance ? "
"Yes, in certain ways — to a certain de-
gree."
" It's a curious thing, this thing we call
civilization," said the elder, musingly. " We
think it is an affair of epochs and of nations.
It's really an affair of individuals. One brother
will be civilized and the other a barbarian.
I've occasionally met young girls who were
so brutally, insolently, willfully indifferent to
the arts which make civilization that they
ought to have been clothed in the skins of
wild beasts and gone about barefoot with
clubs over their shoulders. Yet they were of
THE RISE OF SILAS LAPHAM.
58s
polite origin, and their parents were at least
respectful of the things that these young an-
imals despised."
" I don't think that is exactly the case with
the Lapham family," said the son, smiling.
" The father and mother rather apologized
about not getting time to read, and the young
ladies by no means scorned it."
" They are quite advanced ! "
" They are going to have a library in their
Beacon street house."
" Oh, poor things ! How are they ever go-
ing to get the books together ? "
"Well, sir," said the son, coloring a little,
"/have been indirectly applied to for help."
" You, Tom ! " His father dropped back
in his chair and laughed.
" I recommended the standard authors,"
said the son.
" Oh, I never supposed your prudence
would be at fault, Tom ! "
" But seriously," said the young man, gen-
erously smiling in sympathy with his father's
enjoyment, " they're not unintelligent people.
They are very quick, and they are shrewd
and sensible."
" I have no doubt that some of the Sioux
are so. But that is not saying that they are
civilized. All civilization comes through lit-
erature now, especially in our country. A
Greek got his civilization by talking and
looking, and in some measure a Parisian may
still do it. But we, who live remote from
history and monuments, we must read or we
must barbarize. Once we were softened, if
not polished, by religion ; but I suspect that
the pulpit counts for much less now in civil-
izing."
" They're enormous devourers of newspa-
pers, and theater-goers ; and they go a great
deal to lectures. The Colonel prefers them
with the stereopticon."
" They might get a something in that way,"
said the elder, thoughtfully. " Yes, I suppose
one must take those things into account —
especially the newspapers and the lectures. I
doubt if the theater is a factor in civilization
among us. I dare say it doesn't deprave a
great deal, but from what I've seen of it I
should say that it was intellectually degrad-
ing. Perhaps they might get some sort of
lift from it; I don't know. Tom ! " he added,
after a moment's reflection. " I really think
I ought to see this patron of yours. Don't
you think it would be rather decent in me to
make his acquaintance ? "
" Well, if you have the fancy, sir," said the
young man. " But there's no sort of obliga-
tion. Colonel Lapham would be the last
man in the world to want to give our rela-
tion any sort of social character. The meet-
Vol. XXIX.— 56.
ing will come about in the natural course of
things."
" Ah, I didn't intend to propose anything
immediate," said the father. " One can't do
anything in the summer, and I should prefer
your mother's superintendence. Still, I can't
rid myself of the idea of a dinner. It appears
to me that there ought to be a dinner."
" Oh, pray don't feel that there's any ne-
cessity."
" Well," said the elder, with easy resigna-
tion, " there's at least no hurry."
"There is one thing I don't like," said Lap-
ham, in the course of.one of those talks which
came up between his wife and himself con-
cerning Corey, " or at least I don't understand
it ; and that's the way his father behaves. I
don't want to force myself on any man; but
it seems to me pretty queer the way he holds
off. I should think he would take enough in-
terest in his son to want to know something
about his business. What is he afraid of?"
demanded Lapham angrily. " Does he think
I'm going to jump at a chance to get in
with him, if he gives me one ? He's mightily
mistaken if he does. / don't want to know
him."
" Silas," said his wife, making a wife's free
version of her husband's words, and replying
to their spirit rather than their letter, " I hope
you never said a word to Mr. Corey to let
him know the way you feel."
" I never mentioned his father to him ! "
roared the Colonel. " That's the way I feel
about it ! "
" Because it would spoil everything. I
wouldn't have them think we cared the least
thing in the world for their acquaintance.
We shouldn't be a bit better off. We don't
know the same people they do, and we don't
care for the same kind of things."
Lapham was breathless with resentment of
his wife's implication. " Don't I tell you,"
he gasped, " that I don't want to know them ?
Who began it ? They're friends of yours if
they're anybody's."
" They're distant acquaintances of mine,"
returned Mrs. Lapham quietly ; " and this
young Corey is a clerk of yours. And I want
we should hold ourselves so that when they
get ready to make the advances we can meet
them half-way or not, just as we choose."
" That's what grinds me," cried her hus-
band. " Why should we wait for them to
make the advances ? Why shouldn't we make
'em ? Are they any better than we are ? My
note of hand would be worth ten times what
Bromfield Corey's is on the street to-day.
And I made my money. I haven't loafed my
life away."
586
THE RISE OF SILAS LAPHAM.
" Oh, it isn't what you've got, and it isn't
what you've done exactly. It's what you are."
" Well, then, what's the difference ? "
" None that really amounts to anything,
or that need give you any trouble, if you don't
think of it. But he's been all his life in society,
and he knows just what to say and what to do,
and he can talk about the things that society
people like to talk about, and you — can't."
Lapham gave a furious snort. " And does
that make him any better ? "
" No. But it puts him where he can make
the advances without demeaning himself, and
it puts you where you can't. Now, look here,
Silas Lapham ! You understand this thing as
well as I do. You know that I appreciate
you, and that I'd sooner die than have you
humble yourself to a living soul. But I'm not
going to have you coming to me, and pre-
tending that you can meet Bromfield Corey
as an equal on his own ground. You can't.
He's got a better education than you, and if
he hasn't got more brains than you, he's got
different. And he and his wife, and their
fathers and grandfathers before 'em, have al-
ways had a high position, and you can't help
it. If you want to know them, you've got to
let them make the advances. If you don't,
all well and good."
" I guess," said the chafed and vanquished
Colonel, after a moment for swallowing the
pill, " that they'd have been in a pretty fix if
you'd waited to let them make the advances
last summer."
" That was a different thing altogether. I
didn't know who they were, or may be I
should have waited. But all I say now is that
if you've got young Corey into business with
you, in hopes of our getting into society with
his father, you better ship him at once. For
I ain't going to have it on that basis."
" Who wants to have it on that basis ? "
retorted her husband.
" Nobody, if you don't," said Mrs. Lapham
tranquilly.
Irene had come home with the shav-
ing in her belt, unnoticed by her father, and
unquestioned by her mother. But her sister
saw it at once, and asked her what she was
doing with it.
" Oh, nothing," said Irene, with a joyful
smile of self-betrayal, taking the shaving care-
fully out, and laying it among the laces and
ribbons in her drawer.
" Hadn't you better put it in water, 'Rene?
It'll be all wilted by morning," said Pen.
" You mean thing ! " cried the happy girl.
" It isn't a flower ! "
" Oh, I thought it was a whole bouquet.
Who gave it to you ? "
" I sha'n't tell you," said Irene saucily.
" Oh, well, never mind. Did you know Mr.
Corey had been down here this afternoon,
walking on the beach with me ? "
"He wasn't — he wasn't at all! He was
at the house with me. There ! I've caught you
fairly."
" Is that so ? " drawled Penelope. " Then
I never could guess who gave you that pre-
cious shaving."
" No, you couldn't ! " said Irene, flushing
beautifully. " And you may guess, and you
may guess, and you may guess ! " With her
lovely eyes she coaxed her sister to keep on
teasing her, and Penelope continued the com-
edy with the patience that women have for
such things.
" Well, I'm not going to try, if it's no use.
But I didn't know it had got to be the fashion
to give shavings instead of flowers. But there's
some sense in it. They can be used for kin-
dlings when they get old, and you can't do
anything with old flowers. Perhaps he'll get
to sending 'em by the barrel."
Irene laughed for pleasure in this torment-
ing. " Oh, Pen, I want to tell you how it all
happened."
" Oh, he did give it to you, then ? Well, I
guess I don't care to hear."
" You shall, and you've got to ! " Irene ran
and caught her sister, who feigned to be go-
ing out of the room, and pushed her into a
chair. " There, now ! " She pulled up an-
other chair, and hemmed her in with it. " He
came over, and sat down on the trestle along-
side of me "
" What ? As close as you are to me now ? "
" You wretch ! I will give it to you ! No,
at a proper distance. And here was this shav-
ing on the floor, that I'd been poking with
my parasol "
" To hide your embarrassment."
" Pshaw ! I wasn't a bit embarrassed. I
was just as much at my ease ! And then he
asked me to let him hold the shaving down
with his foot, while I went on with my poking.
And I said yes he might "
" What a bold girl ! You said he might
hold a shaving down for you ? "
"And then — and then — " continued Irene,
lifting her eyes absently, and losing herself
in the beatific recollection, "and then — Oh,
yes ! Then I asked him if he didn't like the
smell of pine shavings. And then he picked it
up, and said it smelt like a flower. And then he
asked if he might offer it to me — just for a
joke, you know. And I took it, and stuck it
in my belt. And we had such a laugh ! We
got into a regular gale. And oh, Pen, what
do you suppose he meant by it ? " She sud-
denly caught herself to her sister's breast, and
hid her burning face on her shoulder.
THE RISE OF SILAS LAPHAM.
587
" Well, there used to be a book about the lan-
guage of flowers. But I never knew much
about the language of shavings, and I can't
say exactly "
" Oh, don't — don't, Pen ! " and here Irene
gave over laughing, and began to sob in her
sister's arms.
" Why, 'Rene ! " cried the elder girl.
" You know he didn't mean anything. He
doesn't care a bit about me. He hates me !
He despises me ! Oh, what shall I do ? "
A trouble passed over the face of the sister
as she silently comforted the child in her
arms ; then £he drolling light came back into
her eyes. " Well, 'Rene, you haven't got to
do anything. That's one advantage girls have
got — if it is an advantage. I'm not always
sure."
Irene's tears turned to laughing again.
When she lifted her head it was to look into
the mirror confronting them, where her beauty
showed all the more brilliant for the shower
that had passed over it. She seemed to gather
courage from the sight.
" It must be awful to have to do" she said,
smiling into her own face. " I don't see how
they ever can."
"Some of 'em can't — especially when
there's such a tearing beauty around."
" Oh, pshaw, Pen ! You know that isn't
so. You've got a real pretty mouth, Pen,"
she added thoughtfully, surveying the feature
in the glass, and then pouting her own lips
for the sake of that effect on them.
" It's a useful mouth," Penelope admitted;
" I don't believe I could get along without it
now, I've had it so long."
"It's got such a funny expression — just
the mate of the look in your eyes ; as if you
were just going to say something ridiculous.
He said, the very first time he saw you, that
he knew you were humorous."
" Is it possible ? It must be so, if the
Grand Mogul said it. Why didn't you tell
me so before, and not let me keep on going
round just like a common person ? "
Irene laughed as if she liked to have her
sister take his praises in that way rather than
another. " I've got such a stiff, prim kind of
mouth," she said, drawing it down, and then
looking anxiously at it.
" I hope you didn't put on that expression
when he offered you the shaving. If you did,
I don't believe he'll ever give you another
splinter."
The severe mouth broke into a lovely
laugh, and then pressed itself in a kiss against
Penelope's cheek.
" There ! Be done, you silly thing ! I'm
not going to have you accepting me before
I've offered myself, a?iyway." She freed her-
self from her sister's embrace, and ran from
her round the room.
Irene pursued her, in the need of hiding her
face against her shoulder again. " Oh, Pen !
Oh, Pen ! " she cried.
The next day, at the first moment of find-
ing herself alone with her eldest daughter,
Mrs. Lapham asked, as if knowing that
Penelope must have already made it subject
of inquiry : " What was Irene doing with that
shaving in her belt yesterday ? "
" Oh, just some nonsense of hers with Mr.
Corey. He gave it to her at the new house."
Penelope did not choose to look up and meet
her mother's grave glance.
" What do you think he meant by it ? "
Penelope repeated Irene's account of the
affair, and her mother listened without seem-
ing to derive much encouragement from it.
" He doesn't seem like one to flirt with
her," she said at last. Then, after a thought-
ful pause : " Irene is as good a girl as ever
breathed, and she's a perfect beauty. But I
should hate the day when a daughter of mine
was married for her beauty."
" You're safe as far as I'm concerned,
mother."
Mrs. Lapham smiled ruefully. " She isn't
really equal to him, Pen. I misdoubted that
from the first, and it's been borne in upon me
more and more ever since. She hasn't mind
enough."
" I didn't know that a man fell in love with
a girl's intellect," said Penelope quietly.
" Oh, no. He hasn't fallen in love with
Irene at all. If he had, it wouldn't matter
about the intellect."
Penelope let the self-contradiction pass.
" Perhaps he has, after all."
" No," said Mrs. Lapham. " She pleases
him when he sees her. But he doesn't try to
see her."
" He has no chance. You won't let father
bring him here."
" He would find excuses to come without
being brought, if he wished to come," said the
mother. " But she isn't in his mind enough
to make him. He goes away and doesn't
think anything more about her. She's a child.
She's a good child, and I shall always say
it ; but she's nothing but a child. No, she's
got to forget him."
" Perhaps that won't be so easy."
c< No, I presume not. And now your father
has got the notion in his head, and he will
move heaven and earth to bring it to pass. I
can see that he's always thinking about it."
" The Colonel has a will of his own," ob-
served the girl, rocking to and fro where she
sat looking at her mother.
5*8
THE RISE OF SILAS LAPHAM.
" I wish we had never met them ! " cried
Mrs. Lapham. " I wish we had never thought
of building ! I wish he had kept away from
your father's business ! "
" Well, it's too late now, mother," said the
girl. " Perhaps it isn't so bad as you think."
" Well, we must stand it, anyway," said
Mrs. Lapham, with the grim antique Yankee
submission.
" Oh, yes, we've got to stand it," said Pen-
elope, with the quaint modern American fatal-
ism.
x.
It was late June, almost July, when Corey
took up his life in Boston again, where the
summer slips away so easily. If you go out
of town early, it seems a very long summer
when you come back in October; but if you
stay, it passes swiftly, and, seen foreshortened
in its flight, seems scarcely a month's length.
It has its days of heat, when it is very hot,
but for the most part it is cool, with baths of
the east wind that seem to saturate the soul
with delicious freshness. Then there are
stretches of gray, westerly weather, when the
air is full of the sentiment of early autumn,
and the frying of the grasshopper in the blos-
somed weed of the vacant lots on the Back
Bay is intershot with the carol of crickets ; and
the yellowing leaf on the long slope of Mt.
Vernon street smites the sauntering observer
with tender melancholy. The caterpillar,
gorged with the spoil of the lindens on Chest-
nut, and weaving his own shroud about him
in his lodgment on the brickwork, records the
passing of summer by mid-July ; and if after
that comes August, its breath is thick and
short, and September is upon the sojourner
before he has fairly had time to philosophize
the character of the town out of season.
But it must have appeared that its most
characteristic feature was the absence of
everybody he knew. This was one of the
things that commended Boston to Bromfield
Corey during the summer ; and if his son had
any qualms about the life he had entered
upon with such vigor, it must have been a
relief to him that there was scarcely a soul
left to wonder or pity. By the time people
got back to town the fact of his connection
with the mineral paint man would be an old
story, heard afar off with different degrees of
surprise, and considered with different degrees
of indifference. A man has not reached the
age of twenty-six in any community where he
was born and reared without having had his
capacity pretty well ascertained; and in Bos-
ton the analysis is conducted with an unspar-
ing thoroughness which may fitly impress the
un-Bostonian mind, darkened by the popular
superstition that the Bostonians blindly ad-
mire one another. A man's qualities are sifted
as closely in Boston as they doubtless were
in Florence or Athens; and, if final mercy was
shown in those cities because a man was,
with all his limitations, an Athenian or Flor-
entine, some abatement might as justly be
made in Boston for like reason. Corey's
powers had been gauged in college, and he
had not given his world reason to think very
differently of him since he came out of college.
He was rated as an energetic fellow, a little
indefinite in aim, with the smallest amount
of inspiration that can save a man from being
commonplace. If he was not commonplace,
it was through nothing remarkable in his
mind, which was simply clear and practical,
but through some combination of qualities
of the heart that made men trust him, and
women call him sweet — a word of theirs which
conveys otherwise indefinable excellences.
Some of the more nervous and excitable said
that Tom Corey was as sweet as he could
live; but this perhaps meant no more than
the word alone. No man ever had a son less
like him than Bromfield Corey. If Tom Corey
had ever said a witty thing, no one could re-
member it ; and yet the father had never said
a witty thing to a more sympathetic listener
than his own son. The clear mind which pro-
duced nothing but practical results reflected
everything with charming lucidity ; and it
must have been this which endeared Tom
Corey to every one who spoke ten words with
him. In a city where people have good rea-
son for liking to shine, a man who did not
care to shine must be little short of univers-
ally acceptable without any other effort for
popularity ; and those who admired and en-
joyed Bromfield Corey loved his son. Yet,
when it came to accounting for Tom Corey,
as it often did in a community where every
one's generation is known to the remotest de-
grees of cousinship, they could not trace his
sweetness to his mother, for neither Anna
Bellingham nor any of her family, though
they were so many blocks of Wenham ice for
purity and rectangularity, had ever had any
such savor; and, in fact, it was to his father,
whose habit of talk wronged it in himself, that
they had. to turn for this quality of the son's.
They traced to the mother the traits of prac-
ticality and common sense in which he bor-
dered upon the commonplace, and which,
when they had dwelt upon them, made him
seem hardly worth the close inquiry they had
given him.
While the summer wore away he came and
went methodically about his business, as if it
had been the business of his life, sharing his
THE RISE OF SILAS LAPHAM.
5%
father's bachelor liberty and solitude, and ex-
pecting with equal patience the return of his
mother and sisters in the autumn. Once or
twice he found time to ran down to Mt. De-
sert and see them ; and then he heard how the
Philadelphia and New York people were get-
ting in everywhere, and was given reason to
regret the house at Nahant which he had
urged to be sold. He came back and applied
himself to his desk with a devotion that was
exemplary rather than necessary ; for Lapham
made no difficulty about the brief absences
which he asked, and set no term to the ap-
prenticeship that Corey was serving in the
office before setting off upon that mission to
South America in the early winter, for which
no date had yet been fixed.
The summer was a dull season for the paint
as well as for everything else. Till things
should brisk up, as Lapham said, in the fall, he
was letting the new house take a great deal of
his time. ^Esthetic ideas had never been intel-
ligibly presented to him before, and he found
a delight in apprehending them that was very
grateful to his imaginative architect. At the
beginning, the architect had foreboded a series
of mortifying defeats and disastrous victories
in his encounters with his client ; but he had
never had a client who could be more reason-
ably led on from one outlay to another. It ap-
peared that Lapham required but to understand
or feel the beautiful effect intended, and he
was ready to pay for it. His bull-headed pride
was concerned in a thing which the architect
made him see, and then he believed that he
had seen it himself, perhaps conceived it.
In some measure the architect seemed to share
his delusion, and freely said that Lapham was
very suggestive. Together they blocked out
windows here, and bricked them up there;
they changed doors and passages; pulled
down cornices and replaced them with others
of different design ; experimented with costly
devices of decoration, and went to extrava-
gant lengths in novelties of finish. Mrs. Lap-
ham, beginning with a woman's adventurous-
ness in the unknown region, took fright at the
reckless outlay at last, and refused to let her
husband pass a certain limit. He tried to
make her believe that a far-seeing economy
dictated the expense ; and that if he put the
money into the house, he could get it out any
time by selling it. She would not be persuaded.
" I don't want you should sell it. And you've
put more money into it now than you'll
ever get out again, unless you can find as big
a goose to buy it, and that isn't likely. No,
sir ! You just stop at a hundred thousand, and
don't you let him get you a cent beyond.
Why, you're perfectly bewitched with that
fellow ! You've lost your head, Silas Lapham,
and if you don't look out you'll lose your
money too."
The Colonel laughed ; he liked her to talk
that way, and promised he would hold up
awhile.
" But there's no call to feel anxious, Pert,
It's only a question what to do with the
money. I can reinvest it ; but I never had
so much of it to spend before."
" Spend it, then," said his wife ; " don't
throw it away ! And how came you to have
so much more money than you know what to
do with, Silas Lapham ? " she added.
" Oh, I've made a very good thing in
stocks lately."
" In stocks ? When did you take up gam-
bling for a living ? "
"Gambling? Stuff! What gambling? Who
said it was gambling ? "
" You have ; many a time."
" Oh, yes, buying and selling on a margin.
But this was a bona fide transaction. I bought
at forty-three for an investment, and I sold at
a hundred and seven ; and the money passed
both times."
" Well, you better let stocks alone," said
his wife, with the conservatism of her sex.
" Next time you'll buy at a hundred and
seven and sell at forty-three. Then where'll
you be ? "
" Left," admitted the Colonel.
" You better stick to paint awhile yet."
The Colonel enjoyed this, too, and laughed
again with the ease of a man who knows
what he is about. A few days after that he
came down to Nantasket with the radiant air
which he wore when he had done a good
thing in business and wanted his wife's sym-
pathy. He- did not say anything of what had
happened till he was alone with her in their
own room ; but he was very gay the whole
evening, and made several jokes which Pen-
elope said nothing but very great prosperity
could excuse : they all understood these
moods of his.
" Well, what is it, Silas ? " asked his wife
when the time came. "Any more big-bugs
wanting to go into the mineral paint business
with you ? "
" Something better than that."
" I could think of a good many better
things," said his wife, with a sigh of latent bit-
terness. " What's this one ? "
" I've had a visitor."
"Who?"
" Can't you guess ? "
" I don't want to try. Who was it? "
" Rogers."
Mrs. Lapham sat down with her hands in
her lap, and stared a^t the smile on her hus-
band's face, where he sat facing her.
59°
THE RISE OF SILAS LAPHAM.
" I guess you wouldn't want to joke on that
subject, Si," she said, a little hoarsely, " and
you wouldn't grin about it unless you had some
good news. I don't know what the miracle is,
but if you could tell quick "
She stopped like one who can say no more.
" I will, Persis," said her husband, and with
that awed tone in which he rarely spoke of
anything but the virtues of his paint. " He
came to borrow money of me, and I lent him
it. That's the short of it. The long "
" Go on," said his wife, with gentle patience.
" Well, Pert, I was never so much aston-
ished in my life as I was to see that man come
into my office. You might have knocked me
down with— I don't know what."
" I don't wonder. Go on ! "
" And he was as much embarrassed as I
was. There we stood, gaping at each other,
and I hadn't hardly sense enough to ask him
to take a chair. I don't know just how we
got at it. And I don't remember just how it
was that he said he came to come to me. But
he had got hold of a patent right that he
wanted to go into on a large scale, and there
he was wanting me to supply him the funds."
" Go on ■! " said Mrs. Lapham, with her
voice further in her throat.
" I never felt the way you did about Rogers,
but I know how you always did feel, and I
guess I surprised him with my answer. He
had brought along a lot of stock as secu-
rity "
" You didn't take it, Silas ! " his wife flashed
out.
" Yes, I did, though," said Lapham. " You
wait. We settled our business, and then we
went into the old thing, from the very start.
And we talked it all over. And when we got
through we shook hands. Well, I don't know
when it's done me so much good to shake
hands with anybody."
" And you told him — you owned up to
him that you were in the wrong, Silas ? "
" No, I didn't," returned the Colonel,
promptly ; " for I wasn't. And before we got
through, I guess he saw it the same as I did."
" Oh, no matter ! so you had the chance
to show how you felt."
" But I never felt that way," persisted the
Colonel. " I've lent him the money, and I've
kept his stocks. And he got what he wanted
out of me."
"Give him back his stocks ! "
" No, I sha'n't. Rogers came to borrow.
He didn't come to beg. You needn't be
troubled about his stocks. They're going to
come up in time ; but just now they're so low
down that no bank would take them as secu-
rity, and I've got to hold them till they do
rise. I hope you're satisfied now, Persis,"
said her husband ; and he looked at her with
the willingness to receive the reward of a good
action which we all feel when we have per-
formed one. " I lent him the money you
kept me from spending on the house."
"Truly, Si? Well, I'm satisfied," said
Mrs. Lapham, with a deep, tremulous breath.
" The Lord has been good to you, Silas,"
she continued, solemnly. "You may laugh
if you choose, and I don't know as / believe
in his interfering a great deal; but I believe
he's interfered this time ; and I tell you, Si-
las, it ain't always he gives people a chance to
make it up to others in this life. I've been
afraid you'd die, Silas, before you got the
chance ; but he's let you live to make it up
to Rogers."
" I'm glad to be let live," said Lapham,
stubbornly ; " but I hadn't anything to make
up to Milton K. Rogers. And if God has
let me live for that "
" Oh, say what you please, Si! Say what
you please, now you've done it ! I sha'n't stop
you. You've taken the one spot — the one
speck — off you that was ever there, and I'm
satisfied."
" There wa'n't ever any speck there," Lap-
ham held out, lapsing more and more into his
vernacular ; " and what I done, I done for you,
Persis."
" And I thank you for your own soul's sake,
Silas."
" I guess my soul's all right," said Lapham.
" And I want you should promise me one
thing more."
" Thought you said you were satisfied ? "
" I am. But I want you should promise me
this : that you won't let anything tempt you —
anything! — to ever trouble Rogers for that
money you lent him. No matter what hap-
pens— no matter if you lose it all. Do you
promise ? "
" Why, I don't ever expect to press him
for it. That's what I said to myself when I
lent it. And of course I'm glad to have that
old trouble healed up. I don't think I ever did
Rogers any wrong, and I never did think so;
but if I did do it — if I did — I'm willing to
call it square, if I never see a cent of my money
back again."
" Well, that's all," said his wife.
They did not celebrate his reconciliation
with his old enemy — for such they had always
felt him to be since he ceased to be an ally —
by any show of joy or affection. It was not
in their tradition, as stoical for the woman as
for the man, that they should kiss or embrace
each other at such a moment. She was con-
tent to have told him that he had done his
duty, and he was content with her saying that.
But before she slept she found words to add
THE RISE OE SILAS LAPHAM.
59i
that she always feared the selfish part he had
acted toward Rogers had weakened him, and
left him less able to overcome any temptation
that might beset him; and that was one reason
why she could never be easy about it. Now
she should never fear for him again.
This time he did not explicitly deny her
forgiving impeachment.
" Well, it's all past and gone now, anyway ;
and I don't want you should think anything
more about it."
He was man enough to take advantage of
the high favor in which he stood when he
went up to town, and to abuse it by bringing
Corey down to supper. His wife could
not help condoning the sin of disobedience in
him at such a time. Penelope said that be-
tween the admiration she felt for the Colonel's
boldness and her mother's forbearance, she
was hardly in a state to entertain company
that evening ; but she did what she could.
Irene liked being talked to better than talk-
ing, and when her sister was by she was al-
ways, tacitly or explicitly, referring to her for
confirmation of what she said. She was con-
tent to sit and look pretty as she looked at
the young man and listened to her sister's
drolling. She laughed, and kept glancing at
Corey to make sure that he was understand-
ing her. When they went out on the veranda
to see the moon on the water, Penelope led
the way and Irene followed.
They did not look at the moonlight long.
The young man perched on the rail of the
veranda, and Irene took one of the red-
painted rocking-chairs where she could con-
veniently look at him and at her sister, who
sat leaning forward lazily and running on, as
the phrase is. That low, crooning note of
hers was delicious; her face, glimpsed now
and then in the moonlight as she turned it-vor
lifted it a little, had a fascination which kept
his eye. Her talk was very unliterary, and its
effect seemed hardly conscious. She was far
from epigram in her funning. She told of
this trifle and that ; she sketched the charac-
ters and looks of people who had interested
her, and nothing seemed to have escaped her
notice ; she mimicked a little, but not much ;
she suggested, and then the affair represented
itself as if without her agency. She did not
laugh; when Corey stopped, she made a soft
cluck in her throat, as if she liked his being
amused, and went on again.
The Colonel, left alone with his wife for
the first time since he had come from town,
made haste to take the word. " Well, Pert,
I've arranged the whole thing with Rogers,
and I hope you'll be satisfied to know that
he owes me twenty thousand dollars, and that
I've got security from him to the amount of a
fourth of that, if I was to force his stocks to
a sale."
" How came he to come down with you ? "
asked Mrs. Lapham.
" Who ? Rogers ? "
" Mr. Corey."
" Corey ? Oh ! " said Lapham, affecting
not to have thought she could mean Corey.
" He proposed it."
" Likely ! " jeered his wife, but with perfect
amiability.
" It's so," protested the Colonel. " We got
talking about a matter just before I left, and
he walked down to the boat with me; and
then he said if I didn't mind he guessed he'd
come along down and go back on the return
boat. Of course I couldn't let him do that."
" It's well for you you couldn't."
" And I couldn't do less than bring him
here to tea."
" Oh, certainly not."
" But he ain't going to stay the night —
unless," faltered Lapham, " you want him to."
" Oh, of course, / want him to ! I guess
he'll stay, probably."
" Well, you know how crowded that last
boat always is, and he can't get any other
now."
Mrs. Lapham laughed at the simple wile.
" I hope you'll be just as well satisfied, Si, if
it turns out he doesn't want Irene after all."
" Pshaw, Persis ! What are you always
bringing that up for ? " pleaded the Colonel.
Then he fell silent, and presently his rude,
strong face was clouded with an unconscious
frown.
" There ! " cried his wife, startling him
from his abstraction. " I see how you'd feel ;
and I hope that you'll remember who you've
got to blame."
" I'll risk it," said Lapham, with the confi-
dence of a man used to success.
From the veranda the sound of Penelope's
lazy tone came through the closed windows,
with joyous laughter from Irene and peals
from Corey.
" Listen to that ! " said her father within,
swelling up with inexpressible satisfaction.
" That girl can talk for twenty, right straight
along. She's better than a circus any day. I
wonder what she's up to now."
" Oh, she's probably getting off some of
those yarns of hers, or telling about some
people. She can't step out of the house with-
out coming back with more things to talk
about than most folks would bring back from
Japan. There ain'taridiculouspersonshe'sever
seen but what she's got something from them
to make you laugh at ; and I don't believe
we've ever had anybody in the house since
the girl could talk that she hain't got some
592
LONGFELLOW LN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.
saying from, or some trick that'll pint 'em
out so't you can see 'em and hear 'em. Some-
times I want to stop her ; but when she gets
into one of her gales there ain't any standing
up against her. I guess it's lucky for Irene
that she's got Pen there to help entertain her
company. I can't ever feel down where
Pen is."
" That's so," said the Colonel. " And I
guess she's got about as much culture as any
of them. Don't you?"
" She reads a great deal," admitted her
mother. " She seems to be at it the whole
while. I don't want she should injure her
health, and sometimes I feel like snatchin' the
books away from her. I don't know as it's
good for a girl to read so much, anyway,
especially novels. I don't want she should
get notions."
" Oh, I guess Pen'll know how to take care
of herself," said Lapham.
" She's got sense enough. But she ain't so
practical as Irene. She's more up in the clouds
— more of what you may call a dreamer.
Irene's wide-awake every minute ; and I de-
clare, any one to see these two together when
there's anything to be done, or any lead to be
taken, would say Irene was the oldest, nine
times out of ten. It's only when they get to
talking that you can see Pen's got twice as
much brains."
" Well," said Lapham, tacitly granting this
point, and leaning back in his chair in supreme
content. " Did you ever see much nicer girls
anywhere ? "
His wife laughed at his pride. " I presume
they're as much swans as anybody's geese."
" No ; but honestly, now !"
" Oh, they'll do ; but don't you be silly, if
you can help it, Si."
The young people came in, and Corey said
it was time for his boat. Mrs. Lapham pressed
him to stay, but he persisted, and he would
not let the Colonel send him to the boat;
he said he would rather walk. Outside, he
pushed along toward the boat, which pres-
ently he could see lying at her landing in the
bay, across the sandy tract to the left of the
hotels. From time to time he almost stopped
in his rapid walk, as a man does whose mind
is in a pleasant tumult ; and then he went
forward at a swifter pace.
" She's charming! " he said, and he thought
he had spoken aloud. He found himself
floundering about in the deep sand, wide of
the path ; he got back to it, and reached
the boat just before she started. The clerk
came to take his fare, and Corey looked
radiantly up at him in his lantern-light, with
a smile that he must have been wearing a long
time ; his cheek was stiff with it. Once some
people who stood near him edged suddenly
and fearfully away, and then he suspected
himself of having laughed outright.
(To be continued.)
W. L>. Howells.
LONGFELLOW IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.
Erelong I paced those cloisteral aisles, erelong
I moved where pale memorial shapes convene,
Where poet, warrior, statesman, king or queen
In one great elegy of sculpture throng,
When suddenly, with heart-beats glad and strong,
I saw the face of that lost friend serene
Who robed Hiawatha and Evangeline
In such benign simplicity of song !
Then, swiftly as light mists on morning leas,
All history, legend, England, backward drawn,
Vanished like vision to incorporate air.
And in one sweet colonial home o'er seas
I saw the lamp shine out across the lawn,
I heard the old clock ticking on the stair !
London, Sept, 1884.
Edgar Fawcctt.
THE BATTLE OF SHILOH.
tions of war, I believed much
more could be accomplished
without further sacrifice of life.
Clarksville, a town between
Donelson and Nashville, in the
State of Tennessee, and on the
east bank of the Cumberland,
was garrisoned by the enemy.
Nashville was also garrisoned,
and was probably the best pro-
visioned depot at the time in
the Confederacy. Albert Sidney
Johnston occupied Bowling
Green, Kentucky, with a large
force. I believed, and my infor-
mation justified the belief, that
these places would fall into our
hands without a battle, if threat-
ThisistheC
jround above tl
THE battle of Shiloh, fought
on Sunday and Monday, the
6th and- 7th of April, 1862, is
perhaps less understood, or, to
state the ease more accurately,
more persistently misunderstood,
than any other engagement be-
tween National and so-called
Confederate troops during the
entire rebellion. Correct reports
of the battle have been published,
notably by Sherman, Badeau,
and, in a speech before a meet-
ing of veterans, by General Pren-
tiss ; but all of these appeared
long subsequent to the close of
the rebellion, and after public
opinion had been most erro-
neously formed.
Events had occurred before the battle, and
others subsequent to it, which determined me
to make no report to my then chief, General
Halleck, further than was contained in a let-
ter, written immediately after the battle, in-
forming him that an engagement had been
fought, and announcing the result. The
occurrences alluded to are these : after the
capture of Fort Donelson, with over fifteen
thousand effective men and all their muni-
SHILOH SPRING, IN RAVINE SOUTH OF THE CHAPEL.
[The spring is on the Confederate side of the ravine, the chapel being opposite on the
left. Hard fighting took place here, in the early morning of Sunday, between Sherman's
troops and Hardee's.]
ened promptly. I determined not to miss this
chance. But being only a district commander,
and under the immediate orders of the depart-
ment commander, General Halleck, whose
headquarters were at St. Louis, it was my
duty to communicate to him all I proposed
to do, and to get his approval, if possible. I
did so communicate, and receiving no reply,
acted upon my own judgment. The result
proved that my information was correct, and
Notice. — The entire contents of this magazine are covered by the general copyright, and articles must not
be reprinted without special permission. — The Century Co.
Vol. XXIX.— 57.
594
THE BATTLE OE SHILOH.
BRIGADIER-GENERAL \V. H. L. WALLACE.
sustained my judgment. What, then, was my
surprise, after so much had been accomplished
by the troops under my immediate command,
between the time of leaving Cairo, early in
February, and the 4th of March, to receive
from my chief a dispatch of the latter date,
saying: "You will place Major-General C.
F. Smith in command of expedition, and re-
main yourself at Fort Henry. Why do you
not obey my orders to report strength and
position of your command ? " I was left vir-
tually in arrest on board a steamer, without
even a guard, for about a week, when I was
released and ordered to resume my command.
Again : Shortly after the battle of Shiloh
had been fought, General Halleck moved his
headquarters to Pittsburg Landing, and as-
sumed command of the troops in the field.
Although next to him in rank, and nominally
in command of my old district and army, I
was ignored as much as if I had been at the
most distant point of territory within my juris-
diction ; and although I was in command of
all the troops engaged at Shiloh, I was not
permitted to see one of the reports of General
Buell or his subordinates in that battle, until
they were published by the War Department,
long after the event. In consequence, I never
myself made a full report of this engagement.
When I was restored to my command, on
the 13th of March, I found it on the Ten-
nessee River, part at Savanna and part at
Pittsburg Landing, nine miles above, and on
the opposite or western bank. I generally
spent the day at Pittsburg, and returned by
boat to Savanna in the evening. I was intend-
ing to remove my headquarters to Pittsburg,
where I had sent all the troops immediately
on my reassuming command ; but Buell, with
the Army of the Ohio, had been ordered to re-
enforce me from Columbia, Tennessee. He
was expected daily, and would come in at
Savanna. I remained, therefore, a few days
longer than I otherwise should have done, for
the purpose of meeting him on his arrival.
General Lew Wallace, with a division, had
been placed by General Smith at Crump's
Landing, about five miles farther down the
river than Pittsburg, and also on the west
bank. His position I regarded as so well
chosen that he was not moved from it until
the Confederate attack in force at Shiloh.
The skirmishing in our front had been so
continuous from about the 3d of April up to
the determined attack, that I remained on
the field each night until an hour when I felt
there would be no further danger before morn-
ing. In fact, on Friday, the 4th, I was very
much injured by my horse falling with me and
on me while I was trying to get to the front,
where firing had been heard. The night was
one of impenetrable darkness, with rain pour-
ing down in torrents ; nothing was visible to the
eye except as revealed by the frequent flashes
of lightning. Under these circumstances I
had to trust to the horse, without guidance,
to keep the road. I had not gone far, how-
ever, when I met General W. H. L. Wallace
and General (then Colonel) McPherson com-
ing from the direction of the front. They said
all was quiet so far as the enemy was con-
cerned. On the way back to the boat my
horse's feet slipped from under him, and he
fell with my leg under his body. The extreme
softness of the ground, from the excessive rains
of the few preceding days, no doubt saved me
from a severe injury and protracted lameness.
OUTLINE MAP OF THE SHILOH CAMPAIGN.
THE BATTLE OE SHILOH.
595
PRESENT ASPECT OF PITTSBURG LANDING.
[The central or main landing is here shown. On the hill to the right is seen the flag-staff of the National Cemetery; in the rear and to the
left of the cemetery is the steamboat store and post-office, where the roads from the landings meet.]
As it was, my ankle was very much injured ; so
much so, that my boot had to be cut off. Dur-
ing the battle, and for two or three days after,
I was unable to walk except with crutches.
On the 5th General Nelson, with a division
of BuelPs army, arrived at Savanna, and I or-
dered him to move up the east bank of the
river, to be in a position where he could be
ferried over to Crump's Landing or Pitts-
burg Landing, as occasion required. Ivhad
learned that General Buell himself would
be at Savanna the next day, and desired to
meet me on his arrival. Affairs at Pittsburg
Landing had been such for several days that
I did not want to be away during the day. I
determined, therefore, to take a very early
breakfast and ride out to meet Buell, and thus
save time. He had arrived on the evening of
the 5th, but had not advised me of the fact,
and I was not aware of it until some time
after. While I was at breakfast, however, heavy
firing was heard in the direction of Pittsburg
Landing, and I hastened there, sending a
hurried note to Buell, informing him of the
reason why I could not meet him at Savan-
na. On the way up the river I directed the
dispatch-boat to run in close to Crump's
Landing, so that I could communicate with
General Lew Wallace. I found him waiting
on a boat, apparently expecting to see me,
and I directed him to get his troops in line
ready to execute any orders he might receive.
He replied that his troops were already under
arms and prepared to move.
Up to that time I had felt by no means cer-
tain that Crump's Landing might not be the
point of attack. On reaching the front, how-
ever, about 8 a. m.j I found that the attack
on Shiloh was unmistakable, and that noth-
ing more than a small guard to protect our
transports and stores at Crump's was needed.
Captain Baxter, a quartermaster on my staff,
was accordingly directed to go back and
order General Wallace to march immediately
to Pittsburg, by the road nearest the river.
Captain Baxter made a memorandum of his
order. About 1 p. m., not hearing from Wal-
lace, and being much in need of reinforce-
ments, I sent two more of my staff, Colonel
McPherson and Captain Rowley, to bring
him up with his division. They reported
rinding him marching toward Purdy, Bethel,
or some point west from the river, and far-
ther from Pittsburg by several miles than
when he started. I never could see, and do
not now see, why any order was necessary
further than to direct him to come to Pitts-
burg Landing, without specifying by what
route. The road was direct, and near the
river. Between the two points a bridge had
596
THE BATTLE OF SHILOH
MAJOR-GENERAL LEW WALLACE. (FROM A PHOTOGRAPH BY
BRADY.)
been built across Snake Creek by our troops,
at which Wallace's command had assisted, ex-
would be able to come around on the flank
or rear of the enemy, and thus perform an
act of heroism that would redound to the
credit of his command, as well as to the
benefit of his country.
Shiloh was a log meeting-house, some two
or three miles from Pittsburg Landing, and on
the ridge which divides the waters of Snake
and Lick creeks, the former emptying into the
Tennessee just north of Pittsburg Landing,
and the latter south. Shiloh was the key to
our position, and was held by Sherman. His
division was at that time wholly raw, no part
of it ever having been in an engagement;
but I thought this deficiency was more than
made up by the superiority of the commander.
McClernand was on Sherman's left, with
troops that had been engaged at Forts Henry
and Donelson, and were therefore veterans
so far as Western troops had become such at
that stage of the war. Next to McClernand
came Prentiss, with a raw division, and on
the extreme left, Stuart, with one brigade of
Sherman's division. Hurlbut was in rear of
Prentiss, massed, and in reserve at the time
of the onset. The division of General C. F.
Smith was on the right, and in reserve. Gen-
eral Smith was sick in bed at Savanna, some
pressly to enable the troops at the two places nine miles below, but in hearing of our guns.
to support each other in case of need. Wal
lace did not arrive in time to take part in the
first day's fight. General Wallace has since
claimed that the order delivered to him by
Captain Baxter was simply to join the right
of the army, and that the
road over which he march-
ed would have taken him
to the road from Pittsburg
to Purdy, where it crosses
Owl Creek, on the right of
Sherman ; but this is not
where I had ordered him
nor where I wanted him
to go. Even if he were
correct as to the wording
of the order, it was still a
very unmilitary proceed-
ing to join the right of the
army from the flank in-
stead of from the base.
His was one of three vet-
eran divisions that had
been in battle, and its ab-
sence was severely felt.
Later in the war, General
Wallace would never have
made the mistake that he
committed on the 6th of
April, 1862. I presume
his idea was that by tak-
ing the route he did, he
His services on those two eventful days would
no doubt have been of inestimable value had
his health permitted his presence. The com-
mand of his division devolved upon Brigadier-
General W. H. L. Wallace, a most estimable
WMf:M:';V ■■/'■;'
THE LANDING AT SAVANNA, NINE MILES BELOW (NuRTH OF) PITTSBURG LANDING.
[General Grant's headquarters were in the Cherry mansion, on the right; the portico has since
been added. The building on the left is a new hotel. The town lies about a quarter of a mile back from
the bluff, and is much changed since the war.]
THE BATTLE OE SHILOH.
597
and able officer, — a veteran, too, for he had also considerable underbrush. A number of
served a year in the Mexican war, and had attempts were made by the enemy to turn our
been with his command at Henry and Donel- right flank, where Sherman was posted, but
son. Wallace was mortally wounded in the every effort was repulsed with heavy loss. But
the front attack was
kept up so vigorously
that, to prevent the
success of these at-
tempts to get on our
flanks, the Federal
troops were com-
pelled several times
to take positions to
the rear, nearer Pitts-
burg Landing. When
the firing ceased at
night, the Federal line
was more than a mile
MRS. CRUMPS HOUSE. — LAND-
ING BELOW THE HOUSE.
[Crump's Landing is, by river,
about five miles below ( north of )
Pittsburg Landing. Here one of
General Lew Wallace's three bri-
gades was encamped on the morn-
ing of the battle, another brigade
being two miles back, on the road
to Purdy, and a third brigade half
a mile farther advanced. The
Widow Crump's house is about a
quarter of a mile above the land-
ing.]
first day's engagement, and with the change
of commanders thus necessarily effected in the
heat of battle, the efficiency of his division
was much weakened.
The position of our troops, as here de-
scribed, made a continuous line from Lick
Creek, on the left, to Owl Creek, a branch
of Snake Creek, on the right, facing nearly
south, and possibly a little west. The water
in all these streams was very high at the time,
and contributed to protect our flanks. The
enemy was compelled, therefore, to attack
directly in front. This he did with great vigor,
inflicting heavy losses on the Federal side, but
suffering much heavier on his own.
The Confederate assaults were made with
such disregard of losses on their own side,
that our line of tents soon fell into their hands.
The ground on which the battle was fought
was undulating, heavily timbered, with scat-
tered clearings, the woods giving some protec-
tion to the troops on both sides. There was
in rear of the position it had occupied in the
morning.
In one of the backward moves, on the 6th,
the division commanded by General Prentiss
did not fall back with the others. This left his
flanks exposed, which enabled the enemy to
capture him, with about 2200 of his officers
and men. General Badeau gives four o'clock
of the 6th as about the time this capture took
place. He may be right as to the time, but
my recollection is that the hour was later.
General Prentiss himself gave the hour as
5:30. I was with him, as I was with each
of the division commanders that day, several
times, and my recollection is that the last
time I was with him was about half-past four,
when his division was standing up firmly, and
the general was as cool as if he had been ex-
pecting victory. But no matter whether it was
four or later, the story that he and his com-
mand were surprised and captured in their
camps is without any foundation whatever.
59»
THE BATTLE OF SHILOH.
If it had been true, as currently reported at the
time, and yet believed by thousands of peo-
ple, that Prentiss and his division had been cap-
tured in their beds, there would not have been
an all-day struggle, with the loss of thousands
killed and wounded on the Confederate side.
With this single exception, for a few
minutes, after the capture of Prentiss, a
continuous and unbroken line was main-
tained all day from Snake Creek or its tribu-
taries on the right to Lick Creek or the Ten-
nessee on the left, above Pittsburg. There
was no hour during the day when there was not
heavy firing and generally hard fighting at some
point on the line, but seldom at all points at
the same time. It was a case of Southern
dash against Northern pluck and endurance.
Three of the five divisions engaged the first
day at Shiloh were entirely raw, and many
of them had only received their arms on the
way from their States to the field. Many
of them had arrived but a day or two before,
and were hardly able to load their muskets
according to the manual. Their officers were
equally ignorant of their duties. Under these
circumstances, it is not astonishing that many
of the regiments broke at the first fire. In
two cases, as I now remember, the colonels
led their regiments from the field on first hear-
ing the whistle of the enemy's bullets. In
these cases the colonels were constitutional
cowards, unfit for any military position. But
not so the officers and men led out of danger
by them. Better troops never went upon a
battle-field than many of these officers and
men afterward proved themselves to be, who
fled, panic-stricken, at the first whistle of
bullets and shell at Shiloh.
During the whole of the first day I was
continuously engaged in passing from one
part of the field to another, giving directions
to division commanders. In thus moving
along the line, however, I never deemed it
important to stay long with Sherman. Al-
though his troops were then under fire for the
first time, their commander, by his constant
presence with them, inspired a confidence in
officers and men that enabled them to render
services on that bloody battle-field worthy of
the best of veterans. McClernand was next
to Sherman, and the hardest fighting was in
front of these two divisions. McClernand
told me himself on that day, the 6th, that he
profited much by having so able a comman-
der supporting him. A casualty to Sherman
that would have taken him from the field that
day would have been a sad one for the troops
engaged at Shiloh. And how near we came
to this ! On the 6th Sherman was shot twice,
once in the hand, once in the shoulder, the
/' ■. '■■■/.'»";*?■.*
Hi H%i ii
'Mr" A
f
i ' i- i
)!! 1 III x 111 ' ' -
ill ' ill ftifc,:; ' , < «
Hs'^c
u«,
BRIDGE OVER SNAKE CREEK BY WHICH GENERAL LEW WALLACE'S TROOPS REACHED THE FIELD SUNDAY EVENING.
[Pittsburg Landing is nearly two miles to the left. Owl Creek empties from the left into Snake Creek, a short distance above the bridge. J
THE BATTLE OE SHILOH.
TOPOGRAPHICAL PLAN OF THE BATTLE-FIELD, FROM THE OFFICIAL MAP.
[The original of this map was made immediately after the battle from surveys and information obtained by Chief of Topo-
graphical Engineers George Thorn (of Halleck's staff) and his assistants, while the troops were still encamped on, and near, the
battle-field. The positions of the troops were indicated in accordance with information furnished at that time by Generals Grant,
Buell, and Sherman.
The Confederates moved to the attack in three lines of battle : (i.) Hardee's three brigades and Gladden's brigade of Bragg's
corps forming the advance line, reaching from Sherman's right to beyond Prentiss's left; (2.) Bragg's remaining five brigades
about eight hundred yards in rear of Hardee's line, and bearing off more to the right, as far as Stuart; (3.) Polk's four brigades
and Breckinridge's three brigades disposed left and right as reserves, — Polk's, first to be drawn upon.
Hardee's line carried the first Federal position, and, with the assistance of Bragg's line, fought the Federals back nearly a mile,
where, at 10:30 o'clock, the Federal line extended, in general, from what is indicated as McCook's position on the morning of the
second day, across to what was Sherman's position the morning of the second day. This Federal line was maintained until after
four o'clock in the afternoon. Attacking that line, Polk's brigades were, for the most part, on the right of Hardee, who was
then commanding the Confederate left; Bragg directed the attack on Polk's right; and two of Breckinridge's three brigades
were in the main hotly engaged on the Confederate right.
Toward evening the Confederates were arrayed opposite the Federal line, as indicated for the evening of April 6.
The center of the Federal left on the middle line of defense (which was held from 10:30 till after four o'clock) was called by the
Confederates "The Hornets' Nest." (See page 625.) It was, approximately, the ground indicated as having been held by
McCook on the morning of April 7 ; on April 6 it was defended by Prentiss, assisted on his right by W. H. L. Wallace, and on his
left by Hurlbut. Prentiss was not far from the Hornets' Nest when he was captured.
General Johnston was killed at 2:30, Sunday afternoon, on the ground indicated as having been held by Crittenden on
the morning of April 7. — Ed.]
6oo
THE BATTLE OE SHILOH.
ball cutting his coat and making a slight
wound, and a third ball passed through his
hat. In addition to this he had several horses
shot during the day.
The nature of this battle was such that
cavalry could not be used in front; I therefore
formed ours into line, in rear, to stop strag-
glers, of whom there were many. When there
would be enough of them to make a show,
and after they had recovered from their fright,
they would be sent to reenforce some part of
the line which needed support, without regard
to their companies, regiments, or brigades.
On one occasion during the day, I rode
back as far as the river and met General
Buell, who had just arrived; I do not remem-
ber the hour of the day, but at that time
there probably were as many as four or five
thousand stragglers lying under cover of the
river bluff, panic-stricken, most of whom
would have been shot where they lay, with-
out resistance, before they would have taken
muskets and marched to the front to protect
themselves. The meeting between General
Buell and myself was on the dispatch-boat used
to run between the landing and Savanna. It
was but brief, and related specially to his get-
ting his troops over the river. As we left the
boat together, Buell's attention was attracted
by the men lying under cover of the river bank.
I saw him berating them and trying to shame
them into joining their regiments. He even
threatened them with shells from the gun-
boats near by. But it was all to no effect.
Most of these men afterward proved them-
selves as gallant as any of those who saved
the battle from which they had deserted. I
have no doubt that this sight impressed Gen-
eral Buell with the idea that a line of retreat
would be a good thing just then. If he had
come in by the front instead of through the
stragglers in the rear, he would have thought
and felt differently. Could he have come
through the Confederate rear, he would have
witnessed there a scene similar to that at our
own. The distant rear of an army engaged
CONFEDERATE CHARGE UPON PRENTISS S CAMP ON SUNDAY MORNING.
[Of the capture of General Prentiss's camp, Colonel Francis Quinn (Twelfth Michigan Infantry) says in his official report dated April 9:
" About daylight the dead and wounded began to be brought in. The firing grew closer and closer, till it became manifest a heavy force of the enemy
was upon us. The division was ordered into line of battle by General Prentiss, and immediately advanced in line about one-quarter of a mile from the
tents, where the enemy were met in short-firing distance. Volley after volley was given and returned, and many fell on both sides, but their numbers
were too heavy for our forces. I could see to the right and left. They were visible in line, and every hill-top in the rear was covered with them. It
was manifest they were advancing, in not only one, but several lines of battle. The whole division fell back to their tents and again rallied, and,
although no regular line was formed, yet from behind every tree a deadly fire was poured out upon the enemy, which held them in check for about
one half-hour, when reinforcements coming to their assistance, they advanced furiously upon our camp, and we were forced again to give way. At
this time we lost four pieces of artillery. The division fell back about one half-mile, very much scattered and broken. Here we were posted, being;
drawn up in line behind a dense clump of bushes." — ED.]
THE BATTLE OE SHILOH.
60 1
'■'■■/M.^- ''
$-M:. rj^a,
in battle is not the best place from which to
judge correctly what is going on in front. In
fact, later in the war, while occupying the
country between the Tennessee and the Mis-
sissippi, I learned that the panic in the Con-
federate lines had not differed much from that
within our own. Some of the country peo-
ple estimated the stragglers from Johnston's
army as high as 20,000. Of course, this was
an exaggeration.
The situation at the close of the first day was
as follows : Extending from the top of the bluff
Vol. XXIX.— 58.
just south of the log-house which stood at
Pittsburg Landing, Colonel J. D. Webster, of
my staff, had arranged twenty or more pieces
of artillery facing south, or up the river. This
line of artillery was on the crest of a hill over-
looking a deep ravine opening into the Ten-
nessee. Hurlbut, with his division intact, was
on the right of this artillery, extending west
and possibly a little north. McClernand came
next in the general line, looking more to the
west. His division was complete in its organ-
ization and ready for any duty. Sherman came
6o2
THE BATTLE OF SHILOH.
BRIGADIER-GENERAL JOHN C. BRECKINRIDGE.
GRAPH BY GEO. S. COOK.)
(FROM PHOTO*
next, his right extending to Snake Creek. His
command, like the other two, was complete in
its organization and ready, like its chief, for
any service it might be called upon to render.
All three divisions were, as a matter of course,
more or less shattered and depleted in num-
bers from the terrible battle of the day. The
division of W. H. L. Wallace, as much from the
disorder arising from changes of division and
brigade commanders, under heavy fire, as from
any other cause, had lost its organization, and
did not occupy a place in the line as a division.
Prentiss's command was gone as a division,
many of its members having been killed,
wounded, or captured. But it had rendered
valiant service before its final dispersal, and
had contributed a good share to the defense
of Shiloh.
There was, I have said, a deep ravine in
front of our left. The Tennessee River was
very high at that time, and there was water
to a considerable depth in the ravine. Here
the enemy made a last desperate effort to
turn our flank, but were repelled. The gun-
boats Tyler and Lexington, Gwin and Shirk
commanding, with the artillery under Webster,
aided the army and effectually checked their
further progress. Before any of Buell's
troops had reached the west bank of the
Tennessee, firing had almost entirely ceased ;
anything like an attempt on the part of
the enemy to advance had absolutely ceased.
There was some artillery firing from an un-
seen enemy, some of his shells passing be-
yond us ; but I do not remember that there
was the whistle of a single musket-ball heard>
As Buell's troops arrived in the dusk, General
Buell marched several of his regiments part
way down the face of the hill, where they fired
briskly for some minutes, but I do not think
a single man engaged in this firing received
an injury ; the attack had spent its force.
General Lew Wallace arrived after firing
had ceased for the day, and was placed on the
right. Thus night came, Wallace came, and
the advance of Nelson's division came, but
none — except night — in time to be of material
service to the gallant men who saved Shiloh
on that first day, against large odds. Buell's
loss on the first day was two men killed and
one wounded, all members of the Thirty-sixth
Indiana infantry. The presence of two or three
regiments of his army on the west bank before
firing ceased had not the slightest effect in
preventing the capture of Pittsburg Landing.
So confident was I before firing had ceased
on the 6th that the next day would bring
victory to our arms if we could only take the
initiative, that I visited each division com-
mander in person before any reinforcements
had reached the field. I directed them to throw
out heavy lines of skirmishers in the morning
as soon as they could see, and push them
forward until they found the enemy, follow-
ing with their entire divisions in supporting
distance, and to engage the enemy as soon as
found. To Sherman I told the story of the
assault at Fort Donelson, and said that the
same tactics would win at Shiloh. Victory
was assured when Wallace arrived with his
division of five thousand effective veterans,
even if there had been no other support. The
enemy received no reinforcements. He had
suffered heavy losses in killed, wounded, and
straggling, and his commander, General Albert
Sidney Johnston, was dead. I was glad, how-
ever, to see the reinforcements of Buell and
credit them with doing all there was for them to
do. During the night of the 6th the remainder
of Nelson's division, Buell's army, crossed
the river, and were ready to advance in the
morning, forming the left wing. Two other
divisions, Crittenden's and McCook's, came
up the river from Savanna in the transports,
and were on the west bank early on the 7th.
Buell commanded them in person. My com-
mand was thus nearly doubled in numbers
and efficiency.
During the night rain fell in torrents, and
our troops were exposed to the storm without
shelter. I made my headquarters under a tree
a few hundred yards back from the river bank.
My ankle was so much swollen from the fall of
THE BATTLE OF SHILOH.
603
my horse the Friday night preceding, and the
bruise was so painful, that I could get no rest.
The drenching rain would have precluded the
possibility of sleep, without this additional
cause. Some time after midnight, growing
restive under the storm and the contin-
uous pain, I moved back to the log-house
on the bank. This had been taken as a hos-
pital, and all night wounded men were be-
ing brought in, their wounds dressed, a leg
upon them by the gun-boats every fifteen
minutes during the night.
The position of the Federal troops on the
morning of the 7th was as follows : General
Lew AVallace on the right, Sherman to his
left ; then McClernand, and then Hurlbut.
Nelson, of Buell's army, was on our extreme
left, next to the river; Crittenden was next
in line after Nelson, and on his right; McCook
followed, and formed the extreme right of
FORD WHERE THE HAMBURGH ROAD CROSSES LICK CREEK, LOOKING FROM COLONEL STUART S POSITION ON THE FEDERAL LEFT.
[Lick Creek at this point was fordable on the first day of the battle, but the rains on Sunday night rendered it impassable on the second day.]
or an arm amputated, as the case might
require, and everything being done to save
life or alleviate suffering. The sight was
more unendurable than encountering the
rebel fire, and I returned to my tree in the
rain.
The advance on the morning of the 7th
developed the enemy in the camps occupied
by our troops before the battle began, more
than a mile back from the most advanced
position of the Confederates on the day before.
It is known now that the enemy had not yet
become informed of the arrival of Buell's com-
mand. Possibly they fell back to get the shel-
ter of our tents during the rain, and also to
get away from the shells that were dropped
Buell's command. My old command thus
formed the right wing, while the troops di-
rectly under Buell constituted the left wing
of the army. These relative positions were re-
tained during the entire day, or until the
enemy was driven from the field.
In a very short time the battle became
general all along the line. This day every-
thing was favorable to the Federal side. We
now had become the attacking party. The
enemy was driven back all day, as we had
been the day before, until finally he beat a
precipitate retreat. The last point held by
him was near the road from the landing
to Corinth, on the left of Sherman and
right of McClernand. About three o'clock,
604
THE BATTLE OF SHILOH.
being near that point, and seeing that the
enemy was giving way everywhere else, I
gathered up a couple of regiments, or parts
of regiments, from troops near by, formed
them in line of battle and marched them
forward, going in front myself to prevent
premature or long-range firing. At this point
there was a clearing between us and the en-
emy favorable for charging, although ex-
posed. I knew the enemy were ready to break,
and only wanted a little encouragement from
us to go quickly and join their friends who
had started earlier. After marching to within
musket-range, I stopped and let the troops
pass. The command, Charge, was given, and
was executed with loud cheers, and with a run,
when the last of the enemy broke.
During this second day I had been moving
from right to left and back, to see for myself
the progress made. In the early part of the
afternoon, while riding with Colonel Mc-
Pherson and Major Hawkins, then my chief
commissary, we got beyond the left of our
troops. We were moving along the northern
edge of a clearing, very leisurely, toward the
river above the landing. There did not ap-
pear to be an enemy to our right, until sud-
denly a battery with musketry opened upon
us from the edge of the woods on the other
side of the clearing. The shells and balls
whistled about our ears very fast for about a
minute. I do not think it took us longer than
that to get out of range and out of sight. In
the sudden start we made, Major Hawkins
lost his hat. He did not stop to pick it up.
When we arrived at a perfectly safe position
we halted to take an account of damages.
McPherson's horse was panting as if ready
to drop. On examination it was found that
a ball had struck him forward of the flank
just back of the saddle, and had gone entirely
through. In a few minutes the poor beast
dropped dead; he had given no sign of injury
until we came to a stop. A ball had struck the
metal scabbard of my sword, just below the
hilt, and broken it nearly off; before the battle
was over, it had broken off entirely. There
were three of us : one had lost a horse, killed,
one a hat, and one a sword-scabbard. All
were thankful that it was no worse.
A FEDERAL BATTERY SURPRISED WHILE RETIRING IN GOOD ORDER. (SEE PAGE 633.)
THE BATTLE OF SHILOH.
605
ml, m a& -
''Wf
PRESENT ASPECT OF THE OLD HAMBURGH ROAD (TO THE LEFT OF THE NEW ROAD) WHICH LED UP TO "THE HORNETS*
NEST." — SEE NOTE UNDER MAP, PAGE 599; ALSO SEE PAGE 625.
After the rain of the night before and the
frequent and heavy rains for some days pre-
vious, the roads were almost impassable. The
enemy, carrying his artillery and supply trains
over them in his retreat, made them^ still
worse for troops following. I wanted to pur-
sue, but had not the heart to order the men
who had fought desperately for two days, ly-
ing in the mud and rain whenever not fight-
ing, and I did not feel disposed to positively
order Buell, or any part of his command, to
pursue. Although the senior in rank at the
time, I had been so only a few weeks. Buell
was, and had been for some time past, a
department commander, while I only com-
manded a district. I did not meet Buell in
person until too late to get troops ready and
pursue with effect ; but had I seen him at the
moment of the last charge, I should have at
least requested him to follow.
The enemy had hardly started in retreat
from his last position, when, looking back
toward the river, I saw a division of troops
coming up in beautiful order, as if going on
parade or review. The commander was at
the head of the column, and the staff seemed
to be disposed about as they would have
been had they been going on parade. When
the head of the column came near where I
was standing, it was halted, and the com-
manding officer, General A. McD. McCook,
rode up to where I was and appealed to me
not to send his division any farther, saying
that they were worn out with marching and
fighting. This division had marched on the
6th from a point ten or twelve miles east of
Savanna, over bad roads. The men had also
lost rest during the night while crossing the
Tennessee, and had been engaged in the battle
of the 7th. It was not, however, the rank and
file or the junior officers who asked to be ex-
cused, but the division commander. I rode
forward several miles the day after the bat-
tle, and found that the enemy had dropped
much, if not all, of their provisions, some am-
munition, and the extra wheels of their cais-
sons, lightening their loads to enable them to
get off their guns. About five miles out we
found their field hospital abandoned. An im-
mediate pursuit must have resulted in the cap-
6o6
THE BATTLE OE SHILOH.
ture of a considerable number of prisoners and
probably some guns.
Shiloh was the most severe battle fought at
the West during the war, and but few in the
East equaled it for hard, determined righting.
I saw an open held, in our possession on the
second day, over which the Confederates had
made repeated charges the day before, so
covered with dead that it would have been
possible to walk across the clearing, in any
direction, stepping on dead bodies, without a
foot touching the ground. On our side Fed-
eral and Confederate were mingled together in
about equal proportions ; but on the remain-
der of the field nearly all were Confederates.
On one part, which had evidently not been
plowed for several years, probably because
the land was poor, bushes had grown up,
some to the height of eight or ten feet. There
was not one of these left standing unpierced
by bullets. The smaller ones were all cut
down.
Contrary to all my experience up to that
time, and to the experience of the army I was
then commanding, we were on the defensive.
We were without intrenchments or defensive
advantages of any sort, and more than half
the army engaged the first day was without
experience or even drill as soldiers. The offi-
cers with them, except the division command-
ers, and possibly two or three of the brigade
commanders, were equally inexperienced in
war. The result was a Union victory that gave
the men who achieved it great confidence in
themselves ever after.
The enemy fought bravely, but they had
started out to defeat and destroy an army
and capture a position. They failed in both,
with very heavy loss in killed and wounded,
and must have gone back discouraged and
convinced that the " Yankee " was not an
enemy to be despised.
After the battle I gave verbal instructions
to division commanders to let the regiments
send out parties to bury their own dead, and
to detail parties, under commissioned officers
from each division, to bury the Confederate
dead in their respective fronts, and to report
the numbers so buried. The latter part of
these instructions was not carried out by all ;
but they were by those sent from Sherman's
division, and by some of the parties sent out
;;
STRAGGLERS ON THE WAY TO THE LANDING, AND AMMUNITION WAGONS GOING TO THE FRONT.
THE BATTLE OF SHTLOH.
607
CHECKING THE CONFEDERATE ADVANCE ON THE EVENING OF THE FIRST DAY.
[Above this ravine, near the Landing, the Federal reserve artillery was posted, and it was on this line the Confederate advance was checked,
about sunset, Sunday evening. The Confederates then fell back, and bivouacked in the Federal camps.— See page 601.]
by McClernand. The heaviest loss sustained
by the enemy was in front of these two divis-
ions.
The criticism has often been made that the
Union troops should have been intrenched
at Shiloh. But up to that time the pick and
spade had been but little resorted to at the
West. I had, however, taken this subject un-
der consideration soon after reassuming com-
mand in the field. McPherson, my only military
engineer, had been directed to lay out a line
to intrench. He did so, but reported that it
would have to be made in rear of the line of
encampment as it then ran. The new line,
while it would be nearer the river, was yet
too far away from the Tennessee, or even
from the creeks, to be easily supplied with
water from them ; and in case of attack, these
creeks would be in the hands of the enemy.
But, besides this, the troops with me, officers
and men, needed discipline and drill more
than they did experience with the pick,
shovel, and axe. Reinforcements were arriv-
ing almost daily, composed of troops that
had been hastily thrown together into com-
panies and regiments — fragments of incom-
plete organizations, the men and officers
strangers to each other. Under all these circum-
stances I concluded that drill and discipline
were worth more to our men than fortifications.
General Buell was a brave, intelligent offi-
cer, with as much professional pride and am-
bition of a commendable sort as I ever knew.
I had been two years at West Point with
him, and had served with him afterward, in
garrison and in the Mexican war, several years
MAJOR-GENERAL W. J. HARDEE.
6o8
THE BATTLE OE SHILOH.
more. He was not given in early life or in ma- had his opinion about the manner in which
ture years to forming intimate acquaintances, the war had been conducted ; who among
He was studious by habit, and commanded the the generals had failed, how, and why. Cor-
confidence and respect of all who knew him. respondents of the press were ever on hand
He was a strict disciplinarian, and perhaps to hear every word dropped, and were not
did not distinguish sufficiently the difference always disposed to report correctly what
between the volunteer who " enlisted for the did not confirm their preconceived notions,
war " and the soldier who serves in time of either about the conduct of the war or
peace. One system embraced men who risked the individuals concerned in it. The oppor-
life for a principle, and often men of social tunity frequently occurred for me to defend
standing, competence, or wealth, and inde- General Buell against what I believed to
pendence of character. The other includes, be most unjust charges. On one occasion
as a rule, only men who could not do as well a correspondent put in my mouth the very
in any other occupation. General Buell be- charge I had so often refuted — of disloyalty,
came an object of harsh criticism later, some This brought from General Buell a very se-
going so far as to challenge his loyalty. No vere retort, which I saw in the New York
one who knew him ever believed him capable " World " some time before I received the
of a dishonorable act, and nothing could be letter itself. I could very well understand his
more dishonorable than to accept high rank grievance at seeing untrue and disgraceful
and command in war and then betray his charges apparently sustained by an officer
trust. When I came into command of the who, at the time, was at the head of the army,
army, in 1864, I requested the Secretary of I replied to him, but not through the press. I
War to restore General Buell to duty. kept no copy of my letter, nor did I ever see
After the war, during the summer of 1865, it in print, neither did I receive an answer.
I travel- General Albert Sidney J ohnston commanded
ed con- the Confederate forces until disabled by a
siderably wound in the afternoon of the first day.
through His wound, as I understood afterward, was not
the North necessarily fatal, or even dangerous. But he
and was was a man who would not abandon what he
every- deemed an important trust in the face of dan-
where ger, and consequently continued in the sad-
m e t by die, commanding, until so exhausted by the
large loss of blood that he had to be taken from
numbers his horse, and soon after died. The news
of peo- was not long in reaching our side, and, I
pie. Ev- suppose, was quite an encouragement to the
ery one Federal soldiers. I had known Johnston
slightly in the Mexican
war, and later as an
officer in the regular
army. He was a man
of high character and
ability. His contem-
poraries at West Point,
and officers generally
who came to know
him personally later,
and who remained on
our side, expected him
to prove the most for-
midable man to meet,
that the Confederacy
would produce. Noth-
ing occurred in his
brief command of an
army to prove or dis-
prove the high esti-
mate that had been
placed upon his mili-
tary ability.
DUELL S TROOPS DEBARKING AT PITTSBURG LANDING, SUNDAY NIGHT.
THE BATTLE OE SHILOH.
609
General Beauregard .was next in rank to
Johnston, and succeeded to the command,
which he retained to the close of the battle
and during the subsequent retreat on Cor-
eventual defeat of the enemy, although I was
disappointed that reinforcements so near at
hand did not arrive at an earlier hour.
The Confederates fought with courage at
BIVOUAC OF THE FEDERAL TROOPS SUNDAY NIGHT.
inth, as well as in the siege of that place. His
tactics have been severely criticised by Con-
federate writers, but I do not believe his fallen
chief could have done any better under the
circumstances. Some of these critics claim
that Shiloh was won when Johnston fell, and
that if he had not fallen the army under me
would have been annihilated or captured. Ifs
defeated the Confederates at Shiloh. There is
little doubt that we should have been disgrace-
fully beaten if all the shells and bullets fired by
us had passed harmlessly over the enemy, and
if all of theirs had taken effect. Command-
ing generals are liable to be killed during en-
gagements ; and the fact that when he was
shot Johnston was leading a brigade to induce
it to make a charge which had been repeat-
edly ordered, is evidence that there was neither
the universal demoralization on our side nor
the unbounded confidence on theirs which
has been claimed. There was, in fact, no
hour during the day when I doubted the
Vol. XXIX.— 59.
Shiloh, but the particular skill claimed 1 could
not, and still cannot, see ; though there is
nothing to criticise except the claims put for-
ward for it since. But the Confederate claim-
ants for superiority in strategy, superiority in
generalship, and superiority in dash and prow-
ess are not so unjust to the Federal troops
engaged at Shiloh as are many Northern writ-
ers. The troops on both sides were American,
and united they need not fear any foreign foe.
It is possible that the Southern man started in
with a little more dash than his Northern broth-
er; but he was correspondingly less enduring.
The endeavor of the enemy on the first day
was simply to hurl their men against ours —
first at one point, then at another, sometimes
at several points at once. This they did with
daring and energy, until at night the rebel
troops were worn out. Our effort during the
same time was to be prepared to resist assaults
wherever made. The object of the Confeder-
ates on the second day was to get away with
6io
THE BATTLE OF SHILOH.
v;1 "WfiLl/
THE LAST STAND MADE BY THE CONFEDERATE LINE.
[General Beauregard at Shiloh Chapel sending- his aides to the corps commanders with orders to begin the retreat. This was at two o'clock
on Monday (see page 633). The tents are part of Sherman's camp which was reoccupied by him Monday evening.]
as much of their army and material as possi-
ble. Ours then was to drive them from our
front, and to capture or destroy as great a
part as possible of their men and material.
We were successful in driving them back, but
not so successful in captures as if further pur-
suit could have been made. But as it was,
we captured or recaptured on the second day
about as much artillery as we lost on the first;
and, leaving out the one great capture of
Prentiss, we took more prisoners on Monday
than the enemy gained from us on Sunday.
On the 6th Sherman lost seven pieces of
artillery, McClernand six, Prentiss eight, and
Hurlbut two batteries. On the 7th Sherman
captured seven guns, McClernand three, and
the Army of the Ohio twenty.
The effective strength of the Union force
on the morning of the 6th was 33,000 at
Shiloh. Lew Wallace brought 5000 more after
nightfall. Beauregard reported the enemy's
strength at 40,955. According to the custom
THE BATTLE OF SHILOH.
6n
(FROM PHOTOGRAPH TAKEN BY GEORGE S. COOK, 1863.)
of enumeration in the South, this number prob-
ably excluded every man enlisted as musician,
or detailed as guard or nurse, and all com-
missioned officers, — everybody who did not
carry a musket or serve a cannon. With us
everybody in the field receiving pay from the
Government is counted. Excluding the troops
who fled, panic-stricken, before they had fired
a shot, there was not a time during the
6th when we had more than 25,000 men
in line. On the 7th Buell brought 20,000
more. Of his remaining two divisions,
Thomas's did not reach the field during
the engagement • Wood's arrived before
6l2
THE BATTLE OE SHILOH.
firing had ceased, but not in time to be of
much service.
Our loss in the two-days' fight was 1754
killed, 8408 wounded, and 2885 missing.
Of these, 2103 were in the army of the Ohio.
Beauregard reported a total loss of 10,699,
of whom 1728 were killed, 8012 wounded,
and 957 missing. This estimate must be in-
correct. We buried, by actual count, more of
the enemy's dead in front of the divisions of
McClernand and Sherman alone than here re-
ported, and 4000 was the estimate of the
burial parties for the whole field. Beauregard
reports the Confederate force on the 6th at
over 40,000, and their total loss during the
two days at 10,699; an(^ at the same time
declares that he could put only 20,000 men
in battle on the morning of the 7th.
The navy gave a hearty support to the
army at Shiloh, as indeed it always did, both
before and subsequently, when I was in com-
mand. The nature of the ground was such,
however, that on this occasion it could do
nothing in aid of the troops until sundown
on the first day. The country was broken
and heavily timbered, cutting off all view of
the battle from the river, so that friends
would be as much in danger from fire from
the gun-boats as the foe. But about sun-
down, when the Federal troops were back
in their last position, the right of the enemy
was near the river and exposed to the fire
of the two gun-boats, which was delivered
with vigor and effect. After nightfall, when
firing had entirely ceased on land, the com-
mander of the fleet informed himself, proxi-
mately, of the position of our troops, and
suggested the idea of dropping a shell within
the lines of the enemy every fifteen minutes
during the night. This was done with effect,
as is proved by the Confederate reports.
Up to the battle of Shiloh, I, as well as
thousands of other citizens, believed that the
rebellion against the Government would col-
lapse suddenly and soon if a decisive victory
could be gained over any of its armies. Donel-
son and Henry were such victories. An army
of more than 25,000 men was captured or
destroyed. Bowling Green, Columbus, and
Hickman, Kentucky, fell in consequence;
Clarkesville and Nashville, Tennessee, with
an immense amount of stores, also fell into
CAPTURE OF A CONFEDERATE BATTERY.
Colonel Robert H. Sturgess (Eighth Illinois Infantry) says in his official report that while awaiting orders on the Purdy road, during the morn-
ing of the second day's fight, " General Crittenden ordered the Eighth and Eighteenth (Illinois) to take a rebel battery which some regiment had
endeavored to capture, but had been driven back with heavy loss. The men received the order with a cheer, and charged on a double-quick.
The enemy, after firing a few shots, abandoned his guns and retreated to the woods. My color-bearer rushed up and planted his colors on one of
the guns, and the color-bearer of the Eighteenth took possession of another."
THE BATTLE OE SHILOH.
613
our hands. The Tennessee and Cumberland
rivers, from their mouths to the head of navi-
gation, were secured. But when Confederate
armies were collected which not only attempted
to hold a line farther south, from Memphis to
which we expected to continue to hold. But
such supplies within the reach of Confederate
armies I regarded as much contraband as
arms or ordnance stores. Their destruction
was accomplished without bloodshed, and
GENERAL LEONIDAS POLK, BISHOP OF LOUISIANA — KILLED NEAR KENESAW MOUNTAIN, IN JUNE, iE
(FROM A PHOTOGRAPH BY MORSE.)
Chattanooga, and Knoxville, and on to\he
Atlantic, but assumed the offensive, and made
such a gallant effort to regain what had been
lost, then, indeed, I gave up all idea of saving
the Union except by complete conquest. Up
to that time it had been the policy of our army,
certainly of that portion commanded by me,
to protect the property of the citizens whose
territory was invaded, without regard to their
sentiments, whether Union or Secession. After
this, however, I regarded it as humane to both
sides to protect the persons of those found at
their homes, but to consume everything that
could be used to support or supply armies.
Protection was still continued over such sup-
plies as were within lines held by us, and
tended to the same result as the destruction
of armies. I continued this policy to the close
of the war. Promiscuous pillaging, however,
was discouraged and punished. Instructions
were always given to take provisions and forage
under the direction of commissioned officers,
who should give receipts to owners, if at home,
and turn the property over to officers of the
quartermaster or commissary departments ; to
be issued as if furnished from our Northern
depots. But much was destroyed without re-
ceipts to owners, which could not be brought
within our lines, and would otherwise have
gone to the support of secession and rebellion.
This policy, I believe, exercised a material
influence in hastening the end.
U. S. Grant.
ALBERT SIDNEY JOHNSTON AND THE SHILOH CAMPAIGN.*
ALBERT SIDNEY JOHNSTON AT THE AGE OF 35.
FROM A MINIATURE BY THOMAS CAMPBELL, PAINTED IN
LOUISVILLE, KY., IN 1838 OR 1839.
THE appearance of General Johnston
before the war is described as both
commanding and attractive. In some respects
the bust of Alexander Hamilton is the best
extant likeness of him, a resemblance very
frequently remarked. His cheek-bones were
rather high, and his nose gave him a Scotch
look. His chin was delicate and handsome;
his teeth white and regular; and his mouth
square and firm. In the portrait by Bush taken
about this time, his lips seem rather full, but
as they are best remembered, they were some-
what thin and very firmly set. Light-brown
hair clustered over a noble forehead, and from
under heavy brows his deep-set but clear,
steady eyes looked straight at you with a
regard kind and sincere, yet penetrating. In
repose his eyes were as blue as the sky, but
in excitement they flashed to a steel-gray,
and exerted a remarkable power over men.
He was six feet and an inch in height, of
about one hundred and eighty pounds weight,
straight as an arrow, with broad, square shoul-
ders and a massive chest. He was strong and
active, and his bearing was essentially military.
During the angry political strife which
preceded the contest of arms, General John-
ston remained silent, stern, and sorrowful. He
determined to stand at his post in San Fran-
cisco, performing his full duty as an officer of
the United States, until events should require
a decision as to his course. When Texas — his
adopted State — passed the ordinance of seces-
sion from the Union, the alternative was pre-
sented, and, on the day he heard the news, he
resigned his commission in the army. He kept
the fact concealed, however, lest it might stir
up disaffection among the turbulent population
of the Pacific coast. He said, " I shall do my
duty to the last, and when absolved, shall take
my course." All honest and competent wit-
nesses now accord that he carried out this pur-
pose in letter and spirit. General Sumner, who
relieved him, reported that he found him
" carrying out the orders of the Government."
Mr. Lincoln's administration treated Gen-
eral Johnston with a distrust which wounded
his pride to the quick, but afterward made such
amends as it could, by sending him a major-
general's commission. He was also assured
through confidential sources that he would
receive the highest command in the Federal
army. (See p. 634. — Ed.) But he declined
to take part against his own people, and
retired to Los Angeles with the inten-
tion of farming. There he was subjected
to an irritating surveillance; while at the
* 1. General Johnston was of New England descent, though both he and his mother were of pioneer stock,
and natives of Kentucky. His father was the village physician. He was born February 3d, 1803, in Mason
County, Kentucky. He was " a handsome, proud, manly, earnest, and self-reliant boy," " grave and thought-
ful." His early education was desultory, but was continued at Transylvania and at West Point, where he
evinced superior talents for mathematics, and was graduated in 1826. He was a lieutenant of the Sixth Infantry
from 1827 to "1834, when he resigned. His only active service during this period was in the Black Hawk war,
where he won considerable distinction. In 1829 he married Miss Henrietta Preston, who died in 1835.
In 1836 he joined the army of the young republic of Texas, and rapidly rose to the chief command. In 1839 he
was secretary of war, and expelled the intruding United States Indians, after two battles on the River Neches.
He served one campaign in Mexico under General Taylor, and was recommended by that commander as a
brigadier-general for his conduct at Monterey, but was allowed no command by the Administration. In 1843
he married Miss Eliza Griffin, and retired to a plantation in Brazoria County, Texas, where he spent
three years in seclusion and straitened circumstances. In 1849 he was appointed a paymaster by
President Taylor, and served in Texas until 1S55, when he was made Colonel of the Second Cavalry by Pres-
ident Pierce. In 1857 he conducted the remarkable expedition to Utah, in which he saved the American
army there from a frightful disaster by his prudence and executive ability. He remained in command in Utah
until the summer of i860, which he passed with his family in Kentucky. In December of that year, he was
assigned to the command of the Pacific Coast.
2. For more extended treatment of this subject, see " The Life of General Albert Sidney Johnston," by
William Preston Johnston (New York : D. Appleton & Co. 1880. Pp. 755.), upon which Colonel Johnston
has drawn freely in the preparation of this paper. The map on page 621 is reprinted from the same work.
ALBERT SIDNEY JOHNSTON AND THE SHILOH CAMPAIGN 615
same time there came across mountain
and desert the voice of the Southern people
calling to him for help in their extremity.
His heart and intellect both recognized their
claim upon his services, and he obeyed. At
this time he wrote, " No one could feel more
sensibly the calamitous condition of our coun-
try than myself, and whatever part I may take
hereafter, it will always be a subject of gratu-
lation with me that no act of mine ever con-
tributed to bring it about. I suppose the dif-
ficulties now will only be adjusted by the
sword. In my humble judgment, that was not
the remedy."
When he arrived in the new Confederacy,
his coming was welcomed with a spontaneous
outburst of popular enthusiasm, and deputa-
tions from the West preceded him to Rich-
mond, entreating his assignment to that
department. President Davis said that he
regarded his coming as of more worth than
the accession of an army of 10,000 men;
and on the 10th of September, 1861, he
was intrusted with the defense of that part
of the Confederate States which lay west
of the Alleghany Mountains, except the Gulf
Coast. His command was imperial in extent,
and his powers and discretion as large as the
theory of the Confederate Government per-
mitted. He lacked nothing except men,
munitions of war, and the means of obtaining
them. He had the right to ask for anything,
and the State Executives had the power to
withhold everything.
The Mississippi River divided his depart-
ment into two distinct theaters of war. AVest
of the river, Fremont held Missouri with a
force of from 60,000 to 80,000 Federals,
confronted by Price and McCulloch in the
extreme south-west corner of the State with
6000 men, and by Hardee in north-east-
ern Arkansas, with about as many raw
recruits down with camp disease and unable
to move. East of the Mississippi, the northern
boundary of Tennessee was barely in his pos-
session,* and was held under sufferance from
an enemy who, for various reasons, hesitated
to advance. The Mississippi opened the way to
a ruinous naval invasion unless it could be de-
fended and held. Grant was at Cairo and Pad-
ucah with 20,000 men; and Polk had seized
Columbus, Ky., with about 11,000 Confeder-
ates, and fortified it to oppose his invasion.
Tennessee was twice divided : first by the Ten-
nessee River and then by the Cumberland, both
of which invited the advance of a hostile force.
Some small pretense of fortifications had been
made on both rivers at Forts Henry and
Donelson, near the boundary line, but prac-
tically there was nothing to prevent the
Federal army from capturing Nashville, then
the most important depot of supplies west
of the Alleghanies. Hence the immediate and
pressing question for General Johnston was
the defense of the Tennessee border. The
mock neutrality of Kentucky, which had
served as a paper barrier, was terminated, on
the 13th of September, by a formal defiance
from the Union Legislature of Kentucky.
The United States Government had about
34,000 volunteers and about 6000 Kentucky
HDrae Guards assembled in the State under
General Robert Anderson, of Fort Sumter
fame, who had with him such enterprising
corps commanders as Sherman, Thomas, and
Nelson.
The Confederacy had some 4000 ill-armed
and ill-equipped troops at Cumberland Gap
under General Zollicoffer, guarding the only
line of railroad communication between Vir-
ginia and Tennessee, and overawing the
Union population of East Tennessee. This
hostile section penetrated the heart of the
Confederacy like a wedge and flanked and
weakened General Johnston's line of defense,
requiring, as it did, constant vigilance and
repression.
Besides Zollicoffer's force, General Johnston
found only 4000 men available to protect
his whole line against 40,000 Federal troops.
There were, it is true, some 4000 more raw
recruits in camps of instruction, but they
were sick and not half armed. Of course he
might have abandoned the Mississippi River
to Grant and brought Polk to his aid, but
he had no thought of this; that would have
been all that the Federals could have asked.
The boldest policy seemed to him the best, and
he resolved on a daring step. On September
17th he threw forward his whole force of 4000
men under General Buckner by rail into Ken-
tucky and seized Bowling Green. It was a mere
skirmish line to mask his own weakness. But if
he could maintain it, even temporarily, it gave
him immense strategic and political advant-
ages, and, most of all, time, — a prime factor
in the problem, — time to collect or create
an army. And then (in spite of some dilettante
criticism) it gave him a formidable line, with
Cumberland Gap and Columbus as the ex-
tremities and Bowling Green as the salient.
The result more than answered his expec-
tations. Buckner's advance produced the
wildest consternation in the Federal lines.
Even Sherman, writing thirteen years later,
speaks of a picket which burned a bridge
thirty miles from Louisville as a " division."
As late as November 10, 1861, he said: " If
Johnston chooses, he could march into Louis-
ville any day." The effect of the movement
* See map on page 618.
J^
[FROM A PHOTOGRAPH AT THE AGE OF 57, TAKEN IN SALT LAKE CITY IN i860. THE AUTOGRAPH WAS WRITTEN INSIDE
THE COVER OF GENERAL JOHNSTON'S POCKET-MAP OF TENNESSEE, THREE DAYS BEFORE THE BATTLE OF
SHILOH. THIS WAS PROBABLY HIS LAST AUTOGRAPH.]
ALBERT SIDNEY JOHNSTON AND THE SHILOH CAMPAIGN. 617
was for a time to paralyze the Federal army
and put it on the defensive.
General Johnston had made the opportu-
nity required by the South, if it meant seri-
ously to maintain its independence. He had
secured time for preparation ; but it neglected
the chance, and never recovered it. He at
once strongly fortified Bowling Green, and
used every measure to stir up and rally the
Kentuckians to his standard. He brought
Hardee with 4000 men from Arkansas, and
kept his little force in such constant motion
as to produce the impression of a large army
menacing an attack. Even before Buckner
advanced, General Johnston had sent to the
Southern governors an appeal for arms and a
call for 50,000 men. Harris, of Tennessee,
alone responded heartily, and the Govern-
ment at Richmond seemed unable to reenforce
him or to arm the troops he had. Many diffi-
culties embarrassed it, and not half his men
were armed that winter ; while up to the mid-
dle of November he received only three new
regiments. General Johnston realized the
magnitude of the struggle, but the people of
the South only awoke to it when it was too
late. Calamity then stirred them to an inef-
fectual resistance, the heroism of which re-
moved the reproach of their early vainglory
and apathy. General Johnston never was
able to assemble more than 22,000 men at
Bowling Green, to confront the 100,000
troops opposed to him on that line.
The only battle of note that occurred that
fall was at Belmont, opposite Columbus, in
which Polk scored a victory over Grant.
General Johnston wrote as follows to the Sec-
retary of War, on Christmas- day, from Bowl-
ing Green : " The position of General Zolli-
coffer on the Cumberland holds in check the
meditated invasion and hoped-for revolt in
East Tennessee; but I can neither order
Zollicoffer to join me here nor withdraw any
more force from Columbus without imperil-
ing our communications toward Richmond
or endangering Tennessee and the Mississippi
Valley. This I have resolved not to do, but
have chosen, on the contrary, to post my in-
adequate force in such a manner as to hold the
enemy in check, guard the frontier, and hold
the Barren [ River j till the winter terminates
the campaign ; or, if any fault in his movements
is committed, or his line becomes exposed
when his force is developed, to attack him as
opportunity offers." This sums the situation.
In January, 1862, General Johnston found
himself confronted by Halleck in the West,
and by Buell, who had succeeded Anderson,in
Kentucky. With the exception of the army un-
der Curtis in Missouri, about 12,000 strong,
the whole resources of the North-west, from
Pennsylvania to the Plains, were turned against
General Johnston's lines in Kentucky. Hal-
leck, with armies at Cairo and Paducah, un-
der Grant and C. F. Smith, threatened equally
Columbus, the key of the Mississippi River,
and the water-lines of the Cumberland and
Tennessee, with their defenses, at Forts Donel-
son and Henry.* Buell's right wing also men-
aced Donelson and Henry, while his center was
directed against Bowling Green, and his left was
advancing against Zollicoffer at Mill Spring,
on the upper Cumberland. If this last-named
position could be forced, the way seemed open
to East Tennessee on the one hand, and to
Nashville on the other.
The campaign opened with the defeat of
the Confederates under Crittenden and Zolli-
coffer, January 19, 1862, by General Thomas
at Mill Spring. The fighting was forced by the
Confederates, but the whole affair was in dis-
regard of General Johnston's orders. The loss
was not severe, but it ended in a rout which
left General Johnston's right flank exposed.
There has been much discussion as to who
originated the movement up the Tennessee
River. Grant made it, and it made Grant. It
was obvious enough to all the leaders on both
sides. Great efforts were made to guard against
it, but the popular fatuity and apathy pre-
vented adequate preparations. It was only
one of a number of possible and equally fatal
movements, which could not have been prop-
erly met and resisted except by a larger force
than was to be had.
As soon as General Johnston learned of
the movement against Fort Henry he resolved
to fall back to the line of the Cumberland,
and make the defense of Nashville at Donelson.
Buell was in his front with 90,000 men, and
to save Nashville — Buell's objective point —
he had to fall back upon it with part of his
army. He kept for this purpose 14,000 men,
including his sick, — only 8500 effectives in all,
— to confront Buell's 90,000 men, and con-
centrated at Fort Donelson 17,000 men un-
der Floyd, Pillow, and Buckner, his three
most experienced generals, to meet Grant,
who had 28,000 troops, but was reported as
having only 12,000. He certainly reserved
for himself the more difficult task, the place
of greater hazard, leaving the chance of glory
to others. The proposition that he should
have left Nashville open to capture by Buell,
and should have taken all his troops to Donel-
son, could not have been seriously considered
For descriptions of the military and naval engagements which opened these three rivers, see " The Capture
of Fort Donelson," by Major-General Lew Wallace, and " Operations of the Western Flotilla," by Rear-Ad-
miral Henry Walke, in The Century for December, 1884, and January, 1885, respectively.— Ed.
Vol. XXIX.— 60.
618 ALBERT SIDNEY JOHNSTON AND THE SHILOH CAMPAIGN.
Struthers, Servoss'i Co., Eugr'*»> N, Y,
MAP OF KENTUCKY AND TENNESSEE, INCLUDING FIELD OF OPERATIONS IN THE SHILOH CAMPAIGN.
by any general of even moderate military ca-
pacity. The answer to any criticism as to the
loss of the army at Donelson is that it ought
not to have been lost. That is all there is of it.
At midnight of February 15-16 General
Johnston received a telegram announcing a
great victory at Donelson, and before daylight
information that it would be surrendered. His
last troops were then arriving at Nashville from
Bowling Green. His first words were : " I must
save this army." He at once determined to
abandon the line of the Cumberland, and con-
centrate all available forces at Corinth, Missis-
sippi, for a renewed struggle. He had indi-
cated this as a probable event to several
distinguished officers some time previous. It
was now to be carried into effect. He had
remaining only his little army from Bowling
Green, together with the fragments of Critten-
den's army, and the fugitives from Donelson.
These he reorganized at Murfreesboro within
a week. He saved the most of his valuable
stores and munitions, which fully absorbed
his railroad transportation to Stevenson, Ala-
bama, and moved his men over the mud
roads to Corinth, Mississippi, by way of Deca-
tur, in a wet and stormy season. Nevertheless,
he assembled his army — 20,000 effectives — at
Corinth, on the 25th day of March, full of
enthusiasm and the spirit of combat. In the
mean time the Confederate Government lent
him all the aid in its power, reenforcing him
with an army 10,000 strong, from the South-
ern coast, under General Braxton Bragg, and
with such arms as could be procured.
When the capture of Fort Henry separated
Tennessee into two distinct theaters of war,
General Johnston assigned the district west
of the Tennessee River to General Beaure-
gard, who had been sent to him for duty.
This officer had suddenly acquired a high
reputation by the battle of Bull Run, and
General Johnston naturally intrusted him
with a large discretion. He sent him with
instructions to concentrate all available forces
near Corinth, a movement previously begun.
His own plan was to defend Columbus to the
last extremity with a reduced garrison, and
withdraw Polk and his army for active move-
ments. Beauregard made the mistake, how-
ever, of evacuating Columbus, and making I
his defense of the Mississippi River at Island
Number Ten, which proved untenable and
soon surrendered with a garrison of 6000 or ,■
7000 men. He was ill most of the time and
intrusted the actual command to Bragg, but [
did what he could from his sick-bed.
Besides the reinforcements brought by j
Bragg, General Beauregard found in the west- j
ern district 17,500 effectives under Polk, and j
at or near Corinth 5000 men under Pope |
Walker and Chalmers, and 3000 under Rug- j
gles, sent from Louisiana by Lovell. He j
made eloquent appeals, which brought him
several regiments more. Thus he had nearly j
40,000 men collected for him, 10,000 of whom j
ALBERT SIDNEY JOHNSTON AND THE SHILOH CAMPAIGN. 619
he disposed for river defenses, and the re-
mainder to protect the railroads from Grant's
force which was concentrating at Pittsburg
Landing. General Johnston's arrival increased
the force at Corinth to about 50,000 men,
nearly 40,000 of whom were effectives.
After the surrender at Donelson, the South,
but especially the important State of Tennes-
see, was in a delirium of rage and terror. As
the retreat from Nashville to the Tennessee
River went on, the popular fury rose to a
storm everywhere. The people who had re-
fused to listen to his warnings, or answer his
appeals for aid, now denounced General
Johnston as an idiot, coward, and traitor.
Demagogues joined in the wild hunt for a
victim, and deputations waited on President
Davis to demand his removal. To such a
committee of Congressmen he replied : " If
Sidney Johnston is not a general, I have
none." General Johnston was too calm, too
just, and too magnanimous to misapprehend
so natural a manifestation. His whole life
had been a training for this occasion. To en-
counter suddenly and etadure calmly the
obloquy of a whole nation is, to any man, a
great burden. To do this with a serenity
that shall not only not falter in duty, but
restore confidence and organize victory, is
conclusive proof of greatness of soul.
But while the storm of execration raged
around him, the men who came into immedi-
ate contact with General Johnston never for a
moment doubted his ability to perform all that
was possible to man. To a friend who urged
him to publish an explanation of his course he
replied : " I cannot correspond with the people.
What the people want is a battle and a vic-
tory. That is the best explanation I can make.
I require no vindication. I trust that to the
future." In his much quoted letter of March
1 8th to President Davis, written at Decatur,
he said, in regard to the loss of Donelson :
" I observed silence, as it seemed to me to be the best
way to serve the cause and the country. The facts
were not fully known, discontent prevailed, and criti-
cism or condemnation was more likely to augment
than to cure the evil. I refrained, well knowing
that heavy censures would fall upon me, but convinced
that it was better to endure them for the present, and
defer for a more propitious time an investigation of
! the conduct of the generals ; for in the mean time their
I services were required, and their influence was useful.
. . . The test of merit in my profession with the people
is success. It is a hard rule, but I think it is right. If
I join this corps to the forces of Beauregard (I confess
j a hazardous experiment), then those who are now de-
claiming against me will be without an argument."
General Johnston's plan of campaign may
be summed up in a phrase. It was to con-
centrate at Corinth and interpose his whole
force in front of the great bend of the Ten-
nessee, the natural base of the Federal army :
this effected, to crush Grant in battle before
the arrival of Buell. This meant immediate
and decisive action. The army he had brought
from Nashville was ready for the contest, but
Generals Beauregard and Bragg represented
to him that the troops collected by them were
unable to move without thorough reorganiza-
tion. Ten days were consumed in this work
of reorganization. Moments were precious,
but there was the hope of reenforcement by
Van Dorn's army, which might arrive before
Buell joined Grant, and which did arrive only a
day or two later. But Buell's movements were
closely watched, and, hearing of his approach
on the 2d of April, General Johnston re-
solved- to delay no longer, but strike at once a
decisive blow.
In the reorganization of the army, he as-
signed General Bragg as chief of staff, with
command of a corps. To Beauregard he ten-
dered the immediate command of the army
in the impending battle. Though General
Beauregard declined the offer, he evidently
misinterpreted its spirit and intention. He
imagined it was a confession of inadequacy
for the duty, in which case he ought to have
accepted it. The truth was that, coming into
this district which he had assigned to Beau-
regard, Johnston felt disinclined to deprive
him of any reputation he might acquire from
a victory. He had not the slightest idea, how-
ever, of abdicating the supreme command, and
said to friends who remonstrated with him :
" I will be there to see that all goes right."
He was willing to yield to another the glory,
if thereby anything was added to the chance
of victory. The offer was rather quixotic, but
characteristic. He then gave General Beau-
regard the position of second in command,
without special assignment. Indeed, as is
shown by his own frequent statements, General
Beauregard was, from severe and protracted ill-
health, inadequate to any more serious duty.
General Grant's army had been moved up
the Tennessee River by boat, and had taken
position on its left bank at Pittsburg Land-
ing. It had been landed by divisions, and
Bragg had proposed to Beauregard to attack
Grant before he assembled his whole force.
Beauregard forbade this, intending to await
events, and attack him away from his base
if possible. Grant's first object was to destroy
the railroads which centered at Corinth, and,
indeed, to capture that place if he could. But
his advance was only part of a grand plan
for a combined movement of his own and
Buell's army. With Pittsburg Landing as a
base, this army was to occupy North Missis-
sippi and Alabama, command the entire rail-
road system of that section, and take Memphis
in the rear, while Halleck forced his way down
62o ALBERT SIDNEY JOHNSTON AND THE SHILOH CAMPAIGN.
the Mississippi River. General Johnston di-
vined the movement before it was begun, and
was there to frustrate it. Indeed, Grant was
at Pittsburg Landing only one week before
Johnston completed the concentration.
Grant has been severely criticised for plac-
ing his army with the river at its back. But
he was there to take the initiative. He had
the larger army, under cover, too, of his gun-
boats ; he was expecting Buell daily ; and
the ground was admirable for defense. In-
deed, his position was a natural stronghold.
Flanked by Owl and Lick creeks, with their
marshy margins, and with his front protected
by a swampy valley, he occupied a quadrilat-
eral of great strength. His troops were sta-
tioned on wooded heights, generally screened
by heavy undergrowth and approached across
boggy ravines or open fields. Each camp was
a fortress in itself, and the line of retreat af-
forded at each step some like point to rally
on. He did not fortify his camps, it is true ;
but he was not there for defense, but for at-
tack. It must be admitted that he undervalued
his enemy's daring and celerity ; but he was
a young general, exultant in his overwhelm-
ing victory at Donelson ; and his generals and
army shared his sense of security. He had
an army of 58,000 men in camp, nearly
50,000 of whom were effectives. Buell was
near at hand with 37,000 more, and Mitchel
was moving against the railroad at Florence,
Alabama, not far distant, with an additional
force of 18,000. In all Grant had 105,000 ef-
fectives. Opposed to him were 50,000 Con-
federate troops, less than 40,000 of whom
were available for combat. General Johnston's
aggregate was 60,000 men, opposed to about
200,000 Federals in all, but the effective forces
were as above.
Such was the position on April 2d, when
General Johnston, learning that Buell was
rapidly approaching, resolved to advance next
day, and attack Grant before his arrival. His
general plan was very simple in outline. It
seems to have been to march out and attack
the Federals by columns of corps, to make the
battle a decisive test, and to crush Grant
utterly or lose all in the attempt ; this ef-
fected, to contend with Buell for the pos-
session of Tennessee, Kentucky, and possibly
the North-west.
General Beauregard also, it seems, had a
plan, which, however, must have differed
widely from that of General Johnston, as it
was evidently tentative in its nature, — "a recon-
naissance in force," with a retreat on Corinth
as one of its features, — and which admitted the
possibility of finishing on Monday a battle
which had to be won on Sunday or never.
This was not in any sense General Johnston's
plan, and much useless discussion has arisen
from a confusion of the two. But, as General
Johnston intended to fight, and did fight, on his
own plan as long as he lived, the battle may
be considered his until Beauregard's order of
retreat, about five o'clock Sunday evening,
substituted " the reconnaissance in force " in
place of the decisive test of victory or defeat.
General Beauregard had been on the ground
some six weeks, and his prestige as an engi-
neer and as the victor of Bull Run warranted
General Johnston in committing to him the
elaboration of the details of the march and
order of battle. Unfortunately he changed
what seems evidently General Johnston's orig-
inal purpose of an assault by columns of
corps into an array in three parallel lines of
battle, which produced extreme confusion
when the second and third lines advanced to
support the first and intermingled with it.
General Johnston's plan is summed up in the
following dispatch to President Davis :
" Corinth, April 3, 1862.
" General Buell in motion 30,000 strong, rapidly
from Columbia by Clifton to Savannah. Mitchel be-
hind him with 10,000. Confederate forces — 40,000 —
ordered forward to offer battle near Pittsburg. Divi-
sion from Bethel, main body from Corinth, reserve
from Burnsville, converging to-morrow near Monterey
on Pittsburg. Beauregard second in command, Polk
the left, Bragg the center, Hardee the right wing,
Breckenridge the reserve. Hope engagement before
Bziell can form junction."
In the original dispatch, the words italicized
are in General Johnston's own handwriting.
Moreover, owing to ignorance of the coun-
try, the march was so ordered that the corps
interfered with each other in their advance,
and by a detention the battle was delayed
an entire day, an almost fatal loss of time.
If it be asked why General Johnston ac-
cepted and issued an order of march and bat-
tle which he had not contemplated, the reply
is that it had been prepared by his second in
command, who was presumably more familiar
with the country and the roads than himself,
and hence with the necessities of the case.
But the overruling reason was the question of
time. Buell was at hand, and Johnston's plan
was not to manoeuvre, but to attack ; and any
plan which put him front to front with Grant
was better than the best two days later.
He did not undervalue the importance of
details. No man regarded more closely all
the details subsidiary to a great result than
General Johnston. But important as were the
preliminaries, — the maps, the roads, the meth-
ods of putting his army face to face with the
enemy, which General Johnston had to take
on trust, — he knew chat the chief strategy of
the battle was in the decision to fight. Once in
the presence of the enemy, he knew that the re-
ALBERT SIDNEY JOHNSTON AND THE SHILOH CAMPAIGN 621
suit would depend on the way in which his troops
were handled. This was his part of the work,
and he felt full confidence in his own ability to
carry it out successfully. He issued the order
as presented by Beauregard, and moved his
army against the enemy, April 3d, 1862. Gen-
eral Bragg, commenting on these facts, says :
" The details of that plan, arranged after
General Sidney Johnston decided on deliver-
ing battle, and had given his instructions, were
made up and published in full from the adju-
tant-general's office. My first knowledge of
them was derived from this general order, the
authorship of which has been claimed^by
General Beauregard. ... In this case, as
I understood then, and still believe, Johnston
gave verbal instructions for the general move-
ment. . . . Over Colonel Jordan's (the adju-
tant-general) signature, they reached the army.
The general plan (General Johnston's) was
admirable — the elaboration simply execrable.
" When the time arrived for execution, you
know what occurred. In spite of opposition and
prediction of failure, Johnston firmly and de-
cidedly ordered and led the attack in the execu-
tion of his general plan, and, notwithstanding
the faulty arrangement of the troops, was emi-
nently successful up to the moment of his fall.
The victory was won. How it was lost, the official
reports will show, and history has recorded."
General Johnston gave orders about one
o'clock on the night of Wednesday, the 2d
of April, for the advance. But their elabora-
tion seems to have required some time, and
the troops did not
receive them from
the adjutant-gen-
eral's office until
the next after-
noon. When the
soldiers learned
that they were
going out to fight,
the long-restrain-
ed ardor burst in-
to a blaze of
enthusiasm, and
they did all that
was possible for
inexperienced
troops in both
marching and
fighting. Some
of the arms were
distributed that
afternoon. With
hasty prepara-
tions the move-
ment began, and
Hardee's corps
was at Mickey's,
within four or five miles of Pittsburg, next morn-
ing. But some of the troops did not move until
the morning of Saturday, the 5th, owing to a still
further delay in the delivery of orders by the
adjutant-general's office, and all were impeded
by«the heavy condition of the roads, through a
dense forest, and across sloughs and marshes.
The order was to attack at three o'clock on
the morning of Saturday, the 5th ; but the
troops were not in position until late that
afternoon. All day Friday the advancing
columns had pushed on over the tangled,
miry roads, hindered and embarrassed by a
pelting rain. After midnight a violent storm
broke upon them as they stood under arms in
the pitch darkness, with no shelter but the
trees. From detention by the rain, ignorance
of the roads, and a confusion produced by the
order of march, some divisions failed to get
into line, and the day was wasted.
As they were waiting the disposition of
troops late Saturday afternoon, a council of
war occurred, in which Johnston, Beauregard,
Bragg, Polk, and Breckenridge took part, and
which added greatly to General Johnston's
responsibilities, and the heavy burden he had
already incurred by his experiment of concen-
tration and his resolve to fight a pitched bat-
tle. The Confederate army was in full battle
array, within two miles of Shiloh Church and
Grant's line, when General Beauregard sud-
denly proposed that the army should be with-
drawn and retreat to Corinth. He maintained
that the delay and noise must have given
622 ALBERT SIDNEY JOHNSTON AND THE SHILOH CAMPAIGN.
the enemy notice, and that they would be
found intrenched and ready for attack. Gen-
eral Johnston seemed to be much surprised at
the suggestion. Polk and Bragg differed with
Beauregard, and a warm discussion ensued
between him and Polk, in which General John-
ston took little part, but closed it with the
simple remark, " Gentlemen, we shall attack
at daylight to-morrow," which he uttered with
great decision. Turning to one of his staff-
officers, he said : " I would fight them if they
were a million. They can present no greater
front between these two creeks than we can,
and the more men they crowd in there, the
worse we can make it for them. Polk is a
true soldier and a friend."
General Bragg says : " The meeting then
dispersed upon an invitation of the com-
manding general to meet at his tent that even-
ing. At that meeting a further discussion
elicited the same views, and the same firm,
decided determination. The next morning,
about dawn of day, the 6th, as the troops
were being put in motion, several generals
again met at the camp-fire of the general-in-
chief. The discussion was renewed, General
Beauregard again expressing his dissent,
when, rapid firing in the front indicating that
the attack had commenced, General Johnston
closed the discussion by remarking, ' The bat-
tle has opened, gentlemen ; it is too late to
change our dispositions.' He proposed to
move to the front, and his subordinates
promptly joined their respective commands,
inspired by his coolness, confidence, and deter-
mination. Few men have equaled him in the
possession and display at the proper time of
these great qualities of the soldier."
It will readily be perceived how much
General Beauregard's urgent opposition to
fighting must have added to the weight of
General Johnston's responsibility. Beaure-
gard was in the full tide of popular favor,
while Johnston was laboring under the load
of public obloquy and odium. Nothing short
of complete and overwhelming victory would
vindicate him in differing with so famous a
general. A reverse, even a merely partial
success, would leave him under condemna-
tion. Nevertheless, without a moment's hesi-
tation, he resolved to fight.
The sun set on Saturday evening in a
cloudless sky, and night fell calm, clear, and
beautiful. Long before dawn the forest was
alive with silent preparations for the ensuing
contest, and day broke upon a scene so fair
that it left its memory on thousands of hearts.
The sky was clear overhead, the air fresh,
and when the sun rose in full splendor, the ad-
vancing host passed the word from lip to lip
that it was the " sun of Austerlitz."
General Johnston, usually so self-contained,
felt the inspiration of the scene, and welcomed
with exultant joy the long-desired day. His
presence inspired all who came near him.
His sentences, sharp, terse, and clear, had
the ring of victory in them. Turning to his
staff, as he mounted, he exclaimed : " To-
night we will water our horses in the Tennes-
see River." It was thus that he formulated his
plan of battle. It must not stop short of entire
victory. To Randall L. Gibson, who was com-
manding a Louisiana brigade, he said: " I hope
you may get through safely to-day, but we must
win a victory." To Colonel John S. Marma-
duke, who had served under him in Utah, he
said, placing his hand on his shoulder : " My
son, we must this day conquer or perish." To
the ambitious Hindman, who had been in the
vanguard from the beginning, he said : " You
have earned 'your spurs as a major-general. Let
this day's work win them." With such words,
as he rode from point to point, he raised a spirit
in that host which swept away the serried
lines of the conquerors of Donelson. Friend
and foe alike testify to the enthusiastic courage
and ardor of the Southern soldiers that day.
General Johnston's strategy was com-
pleted. He was face to face with his foe,
and that foe all unaware of his coming.
His front line, composed of the Third Corps
and Gladden's brigade, was under Hardee,
and extended from Owl Creek to Lick Creek,
more than three miles. (See maps.) Hind-
man's division of two brigades occupied the
center, Cleburne's brigade had the left, and
Gladden's the right wing — an effective total
in the front line of 9024. Bragg commanded
the second line. He had two divisions :
Withers's, of two brigades, on the right, and
Ruggles's, of three brigades, on the left. The
brigades were, in order from right to left, as
follows : Chalmers, Jackson, Gibson, Ander-
son, Pond. This second line was 10,731
strong. The third line, or reserve, was com-
posed of the First Corps, under Polk, and
three brigades under Breckenridge. Polk's
command was massed in columns of brigades
on the Bark road near Mickey's, and Breck-
enridge's on the road from Monterey toward
the same point. Polk was to advance on the
left of the Bark road, at an interval of about
eight hundred paces from Bragg's line; and
Breckenridge, to the right of that road, was
to give support wherever it should become
necessary. Polk's corps, 9136 strong in infan-
try and artillery, was composed of two divis-
ions : Cheatham's on the left, made up of Bush-
rod R. Johnson's and Stephens' brigades, and
Clark's on his right, formed of A. P. Stewart's
and Russell's brigades. It followed Bragg's
line at about eight hundred yards distance.
ALBERT SIDNEY JOHNSTON AND THE SHILOH CAMPAIGN 623
Breckenridge's reserve was composed of Tra-
bue's, Bowen's, and Statham's brigades, with a
total, infantry and artillery, of 6439. The cav~
airy, about 4300 strong, guarded the flanks or
was detached on outpost duty ; but, both from
the newness and imperfections of their organ-
ization, equipment, and drill, and from the
rough and wooded character of the ground,
they could do little service that day. The effec-
tives of all arms that marched out to battle
were 38,773, or, exclusive of cavalry, 35,330.
The Federal army numbered present 49, 2 3 2 ,
and present for duty 41,543. But at Crump's
Landing, five or six miles distant, was Gen-
eral Lew Wallace's division with 8820 pre-
sent, and 7771 men present for duty. Gen-
eral Nelson's division of Buell's army had
arrived at Savannah on Saturday morning,
and was now about five miles distant ;
Crittenden's division also had arrived on
the morning of the 6th. So that Grant, with
these three divisions, may be considered as
having about 22,000 men in immediate re-
serve, without counting the remainder of
Buell's army, which was near by.
As General Johnston and his staff were
taking their coffee, the first gun of the battle
sounded. " Note the hour, if you please,
gentlemen," said General Johnston. It was
fourteen minutes past five. They immedi-
ately mounted and galloped to the front.
Some skirmishing on Friday between the
Confederate cavalry and the Federal out-
posts, in which a few men were killed,
wounded, and captured on both sides, had
aroused the vigilance of the Northern com-
manders to some extent. Sherman reported
on the 5th to Grant that two regiments of
infantry and one of cavalry were in his front,
and added : " I have no doubt that nothing
will occur to-day more than some picket "fir-
ing. ... I do not apprehend anything like
an attack on our position." In his " Memoirs "
he says : " I did not believe they designed
anything but a strong demonstration." He
said to Major Ricker that an advance of
Beauregard's army " could not be possible.
Beauregard was not such a fool as to leave
his base of operations and attack us in ours,
— mere reconnaissance in force." This shows a
curious coincidence with the actual state of
General Beauregard's mind on that day. And
Grant telegraphed Halleck on Saturday night:
I The main force of the enemy is at Corinth.
. . . One division of Buell's column arrived
yesterday. ... I have scarcely the faint-
est idea of an attack (general one) being made
upon us."
Nevertheless, some apprehension was lelt
among the officers and men of the Federal
army, and General Prentiss had thrown for-
ward Colonel Moore, with the Twenty-first
Missouri Regiment, on the Corinth road.
Moore, feeling his way cautiously, encoun-
tered Hardee's skirmish-line under Major
Hardcastle, and, thinking it an outpost, as-
sailed it vigorously. Thus really the Federals
began the fight. The struggle was brief, but
spirited. The Eighth and Ninth Arkansas
came up. * Moore fell wounded. The Missou-
rians gave way, and Shaver's brigade pursued
them. Hindman's whole division moved on,
following the ridge and drifting to the right,
and drove in the grand guards and outposts
until they struck Prentiss's camps. Into these
they burst, overthrowing all before them.
To appreciate the suddenness and violence
of the blow, one must read the testimony
of eye-witnesses. General Bragg says, in a
sketch of Shiloh made for the writer : " Con-
trary to the views of such as urged an aban-
donment of the attack, the enemy was found
utterly unprepared, many being surprised and
captured in their tents, and others, though on
the outside, in costumes better fitted to the
bedchamber than to the battle-field." General
Preston says : " General Johnston then went to
the camp assailed, which was carried between
7 and 8 o'clock. The enemy were evidently
surprised. The breakfasts were on the mess
tables, the baggage unpacked, the knapsacks,
stores, colors, and ammunition abandoned."
The essential feature of General Johnston's
strategy had been to get at his enemy as
quickly as possible, and in as good order. In
this he had succeeded. His plan of battle was
as simple as his strategy. It had been made
known in his order of battle, and was thor-
oughly understood by every brigade com-
mander. The orders of the 3d of April were,
that " every effort should be made to turn the
left flank of the enemy, so as to cut off his line
of retreat to the Tennessee River and throw
him back on Owl Creek, where he will be
obliged to surrender." It is seen that, from the
first, these orders were carried out in letter and
spirit; and, as long as General Johnston lived,
the success of this movement was complete.
The battle was fought precisely as it was planned.
The instructions delivered to General John-
ston's subordinates on the previous day were
found sufficient for their conduct on the battle-
field. But, to accomplish this, his own personal
presence and inspiration and direction were
often necessary with these enthusiastic but
raw troops. He had personal conference on
the field with most of his generals, and led
several brigades into battle. The criticism
upon this conduct, that he exposed himself
unnecessarily, is absurd to those who know
how important rapid decision and instanta-
neous action are in the crisis of conflict.
624 ALBERT SIDNEY JOHNSTON AND THE SHILOH CAMPAIGN
His lines of battle were pushed rapidly to
the front, and as gaps widened in the first
lines, they were filled by brigades of the
second and third. One of Breckenridge's
brigades was sent to the left to support Cle-
burne, and the other two were led to the
extreme right, only Chalmers being beyond
them. Gladden, who was on Hindman's right,
and had a longer distance to traverse to strike
some of Prentiss's brigades further to the left,
found them better prepared, but, after a san-
guinary resistance, drove them from their
camps. In this bitter struggle Gladden fell
mortally wounded. Chalmers's brigade, of
Bragg's line, came in on Gladden's right, and
his Mississippians drove the enemy with the
bayonet half a mile. He was about to charge
again, when General Johnston came up, and
moved him to the right, and brought John
K. Jackson's brigade into the interval. Pren-
tiss's left retreated sullenly, not routed, but
badly hammered.
With Hindman as a pivot, the turning
movement began from the moment of the
overthrow of Prentiss's camps. While the front
attacks were made all along the line with a
desperate courage which would have swept
any ordinary resistance from the field, and
with a loss which told fearfully on the assail-
ants, they were seconded by assaults in flank
which invariably resulted in crushing the
Federal line with destructive force and strew-
ing the field with the wounded and the dead.
The Federal reports complain that they were
flanked and outnumbered, which is true ; for,
though fewer, the Confederates were prob-
ably stronger at every given point throughout
the day except at the Hornets' Nest, where
the Federals eventually massed nearly two
divisions. The iron flail of war beat upon
the Federal front and right flank with
the regular and ponderous pulsations of
some great engine, and these assaults resulted
in a crumbling process which was continually
but slowly going on, as regiment and brigade
and division yielded to the continuous and
successive blows. There has been criticism
that there were no grand assaults by divisions
and corps. The fact is that there were but
few lulls in the contest. The fighting was a
grapple and a death-struggle all day long,
and, as one brigade after another wilted be-
fore the deadly fire of the stubborn Federals,
still another was pushed into the combat and
kept up the fierce assault. A breathing-spell,
and the shattered command would gather itself
up and resume its work of destruction. These
were the general aspects of the battle.
When the battle began Hindman, following
the ridge, had easy ground to traverse; but
Cleburne's large brigade, on his left, with its
supports, moving over a more difficult coun-
try, was slower in getting upon Sherman's
front. That general and his command, aroused
by the long roll, the advancing musketry,
and the rush of troops to his left, got his
division in line of battle and was ready for
the assault of Cleburne, which was made
about eight o'clock. General Johnston, who
had followed close after Hindman, urging on
his attack, saw Cleburne's brigade begin its
advance, and then returned to where Hindman
was gathering his force for another assault.
Hardee said of Cleburne that he " moved
quickly through the fields, and, though far
outflanked by the enemy on our left, rushed
forward under a terrific fire from the serried
ranks drawn up in front of the camp. A mo-
rass covered his front, and, being difficult to
pass, caused a break in this brigade. Deadly
volleys were poured upon the men from be-
hind bales of hay and other defenses, as they
advanced; and after a series of desperate
charges, they were compelled to fall back. . . .
Supported by the arrival of the second line,
Cleburne with the remainder of his troops
again advanced, and entered the enemy's en-
campment, which had been forced on the
center and right by the dashing charges of
Gladden's, Wood's, and Hindman's brigades."
While Sherman was repelling Cleburne's
attack, McClernand sent up three Illinois
regiments to reenforce his left. But General
Polk led forward Bushrod R. Johnson's bri-
gade, and Major-General Clark Russell's bri-
gade, against Sherman's left, while General
Johnston himself put A. P. Stewart's bri-
gade in position on their right. Supported by
part of Cleburne's line, they attacked Sher-
man and McClernand fiercely. Polk said :
" The resistance at this point was as stubborn
as at any other point on the field." Clark and
Bushrod R. Johnson fell badly wounded.
Hildebrand's Federal brigade was swept from
the field, losing in the onslaught 300 killed
and wounded, and 94 missing.
Wood's brigade, of Hindman's division,
joined in this charge on the right. As they
hesitated at the crest of a hill, General John-
ston came to the front and urged them to the
attack. They rushed forward with the inspir-
ing " Rebel yell," and with Stewart's brigade
enveloped the Illinois troops. In ten minutes
the latter melted away under the fire, and were
forced from the field. In this engagement
John A. McDowell's and Veatch's Federal
brigades, as well as Hildebrand's, were demol-
ished and heard of no more. Buckland re-
treated and took position with McClernand.
In these attacks Anderson's and Pond's Con-
federate brigades joined with great vigor and
severe loss, but with unequal fortune. The
ALBERT SIDNEY JOHNSTON AND THE SHILOH CAMPAIGN 625
SCENE OF GEN. JOHNSTON S DEATH.
former
had one success
after another ;
the latter suffered a
series of disasters
and yet an equal cour-
age animated them. Glad-
den's brigade made a final
desperate and successful
charge on Prentiss's line.
The whole Federal front, which had been
broken here and there, and was getting ragged,
gave way under this hammering process on
front and flank, and fell back across a ravine to
another strong position behind the Hamburg
and Purdy road in rear of Shiloh. Sherman's
route of retreat was marked by the thick-strewn
corpses of his soldiers. At last, pressed back
toward both Owl Creek and the river, Sherman
and McClernand found safety by the interposi-
tion on their left flank of W. H. L. Wallace's
fresh division. Hurlbut and Wallace had ad-
brigades,
was now
crowded on a
shorter line, a mile
or more to the rear of
its first position. The
new line of battle was
established before ten
o'clock. All the Confederate
troops were then in the front line,
except two of Breckenridge's
Bowen and Statham, which were
moving to the Confederate right, and soon
occupied the interval between Chalmers and
Jackson. Hardee, with Cleburne and Pond,
was pressing Sherman slowly but steadily back.
Bragg and Polk met about half-past ten o'clock,
and by agreement Polk led his troops against
McClernand, while Bragg directed the opera-
tions against the Federal center. A gigantic
contest now began which lasted more than five
hours. In the impetuous rush forward of regi-
ments to fill the gaps in the front line, even the
vanced about eight o'clock, so that Prentiss's brigade organization was broken ; but, though
command found a refuge in the intervals of
the new and formidable Federal line, with
Stuart on the left and Sherman's shattered
division on the right.
General Johnston had pushed Chalmers to
[the right and front, sweeping down the left
bank of Lick Creek, driving in pickets, until
he encountered Stuart's Federal brigade on
jthe Pittsburg and Hamburg road. Stuart
was strongly posted on a steep hill near the
I river, covered with thick undergrowth, and
I with an open field in front. Mc Arthur was to
ihis right and rear in the woods. Jackson at-
tacked Mc Arthur, who fell back; and Chal-
mers went at Stuart's brigade. This command
i reserved its fire until Chalmers's men were
'within forty yards, and then delivered a heavy
land destructive volley ; but, after a hard fight,
jthe Federals were driven back. Chalmers's
right rested on the Tennessee River bot-
tom-lands, and he fought down the bank
toward Pittsburg Landing. The enemy's left
was completely turned, and the Federal army
Vol. XXIX.— 61.
there was dislocation of commands, there was
little loss of effective force. The Confederate as-
saults were made byrapid and often unconnect-
ed charges along the line. They were repeat-
edly checked, and often repulsed. Sometimes
counter-charges drove them back for short dis-
tances ; but, whether in assault or recoil, both
sides saw their bravest soldiers fall in frightful
numbers. The Confederates came on in mot-
ley garb, varying from the favorite gray and
domestic " butternut " to the blue of certain
Louisiana regiments, which paid dearly the
penalty of doubtful colors. Over them waved
flags and pennons as various as their uniforms.
At each charge there went up a wild yell, heard
above the roar of artillery ; only the Kentuck-
ians, advancing with measured step, sang in
chorus their war-song : " Cheer, boys, cheer ;
we'll march away to battle."
On the Federal left center W. H. L. Wal-
lace and Hurlbut were massed, with Prentiss's
fragments, in a position so impregnable, and
thronged with such fierce defenders, that it
626 ALBERT SIDNEY JOHNSTON AND THE SHILOH CAMPAIGN.
won from the Confederates the memorable title
of the "Hornets' Nest." (Seepage 605.) Here,
behind a dense thicket on the crest of a hill,was
posted a strong force of as hardy troops as
ever fought, almost perfectly protected by the
conformation of the ground, and by logs and
other rude and hastily prepared defenses. To
assail it an open field had to be passed, en-
filaded by the fire of its batteries. No figure
of speech would be too strong to express the
deadly peril of assault upon this natural for-
tress. For five hours brigade after brigade was
led against it. Hindman's brigades, which
earlier had swept everything before them, were
reduced to fragments, and paralyzed for the
remainder of the day. A. P. Stewart's regi-
ments made fruitless assaults. Then Bragg
ordered up Gibson's brigade. Gibson himself,
a knightly soldier, was aided by colonels three
of whom afterward became generals. The
brigade made a gallant charge ; but, like the
others, recoiled from the fire it encountered.
Under a cross-fire of artillery and musketry it
at last fell back with very heavy loss. Gibson
asked for artillery to be sent him ; but it was
not at hand, and Bragg sent orders to charge
again. The colonels thought it hopeless ; but
Gibson led them again to the attack, and again
they suffered a bloody repulse.
The brigade was four times repulsed, but
maintained its ground steadily, until W. H. L.
Wallace's position was turned, when, renewing
its forward movement in conjunction with
Cheatham's command, it helped to drive back
its stout opponents. Cheatham, charging on
Gibson's right, across an open field, was caught
under a murderous cross-fire, but fell back in
good order, and, later in the day, came in on
Breckenridge's left in the last assault when
Prentiss was captured. This bloody fray lasted
till nearly four o'clock, without making any vis-
ible impression on the Federal center. But when
its flanks were turned, these assaulting columns,
crowding in on its front, aided in its capture.
General Johnston was with Statham's bri-
gade, confronting Hurlbut's left, which was
behind the crest of a hill, with a depression
filled with chaparral in its front. The Con-
federates held the parallel ridge in easy mus-
ket-range ; and " as heavy fire as I ever saw
during the war," says Governor Harris, was
kept up on both sides for an hour or more.
It was necessary to cross the valley raked by
this deadly ambuscade and assail the opposite
ridge in order to drive the enemy from his
stronghold. When General Johnston came
up and saw the situation, he said to his staff:
" They are offering stubborn resistance here.
I shall have to put the bayonet to them." It
was the crisis of the conflict. The Federal
key was in his front. If his assault were suc-
cessful, their left would be completely turned,
and the victory won. He determined to
charge. He sent Governor Harris, of his
staff, to lead a Tennessee regiment; and,
after a brief conference with Breckenridge,
whom he loved and admired, that officer, fol-
lowed by his staff, appealed to the soldiers.
As he encouraged them with his fine voice
and manly bearing, General Johnston rode
out in front and slowly down the line. His
hat was off. His sword rested in its scab-
bard. In his right hand he held a little tin
cup, the memorial of an incident that had oc-
curred earlier in the day. Passing through a
captured camp, he had taken this toy, saying,
" Let this be my share of the spoils to-day."
It was this plaything which, holding it be-
tween two fingers, he employed more effect-
ively in his natural and simple gesticulation
than most men could have used a sword.
His presence was full of inspiration. He sat
his. thorough-bred bay, " Fire-eater," with
easy command. His voice was persuasive,
encouraging, and compelling. His words
were few ; he said : " Men ! they are stubborn ;
we must use the bayonet." When he reached
the center of the line, he turned. " I will
lead you ! " he cried, and moved toward the
enemy. The line was already thrilling and
trembling with that irresistible ardor which in
battle decides the day. With a mighty shout
the line moved forward at a charge. A sheet
of flame and a mighty roar burst from the Fed-
eral stronghold. The Confederate line with-
ered ; but there was not an instant's pause. The
crest was gained. The enemy were in flight.
General Johnston had passed through the
ordeal seemingly unhurt. His horse was shot
in four places; his clothes were pierced by
missiles ; his boot-sole was cut and torn by a
minie; but if he himself had received any
severe wound, he did not know it. At this
moment Governor Harris rode up from the
right. After a few words, General Johnston
sent him with an order to Colonel Statham,
which having delivered, he speedily returned.
In the mean time, knots and groups of Fed-
eral soldiers kept up a desultory fire as they
retreated upon their supports, and their last
line, now yielding, delivered volley after vol-
ley as they sullenly retired. By the chance of
war, a minie-ball from one of these did its
fatal work. As he sat there, after his wound,
Captain Wickham says that Colonel O'Hara,
of his staff, rode up, and General Johnston
said to him, " We must go to the left, where
the firing is heaviest," and then gave him an
order, which O'Hara rode off to obey. Gov-
ernor Harris returned, and, finding him very
pale, asked him," General, are you wounded ?"
He answered, in a very deliberate and em-
ALBERT SIDNEY JOHNSTON AND THE SHILOH CAMPAIGN 627
phatic tone : " Yes, and, I fear, seriously."
These were his last words. Harris and Wick-
ham led his horse back under cover of the hill,
and lifted him from it. They searched at ran-
dom for the wound, which had cut an artery in
his leg, the blood flowing into his boot. When
his brother-in-law, Preston, lifted his head, and
addressed him with passionate grief, he smiled
faintly, but uttered no word. His life rapidly
ebbed away, and in a few moments he was dead.
His wound was not necessarily fatal. Gen-
eral Johnston's own knowledge of military
surgery was adequate for its control by an ex-
temporized tourniquet, had he been aware or
regardful of its nature. Dr. D. W. Yandell,
his surgeon, had attended his person during
most of the morning ; but, finding a large
number of wounded men, including many
Federals, at one point, General Johnston or-
dered Yandell to stop there, establish a hos-
pital, and give them his services. He said to
Yandell: " These men were our enemies a
moment ago ; they are prisoners now. Take
care of them." Yandell remonstrated against
leaving him, but he was peremptory. Had
Yandell remained with him, he would have
had little difficulty with the wound.
Governor Harris, and others of General
Johnston's staff, promptly informed General
Beauregard of his death, and General Beaure-
gard assumed command, remaining at Shiloh
Church, awaiting the issue of events.
Up to the moment of the death of the com-
mander-in-chief, in spite of the dislocation of
the commands, there was the most perfect
regularity in the development of the plan of
battle. In all the seeming confusion there was
the predominance of intelligent design ; a
master mind, keeping in clear view its purpose,
sought the weak point in the defense, and,
finding it on the enemy's left, kept turning
that flank. With the disadvantage of inferior
numbers, General Johnston brought to bear
a superior force on each particular point, and,
by a series of rapid and powerful blows, broke
the Federal army to pieces.
Now was the time for the Confederates to
push their advantage, and, closing in on the
rear of Prentiss and Wallace, to finish the battle.
But, on the contrary, there came a lull in the
conflict on the right, lasting more than an
hour from half-past two, the time at which
General Johnston fell. It is true that the Fed-
erals fell back and left the field, and the Con-
federates went forward deliberately, occupying
their positions, and thus helping to envelop
the Federal center. But there was no further
general direction or concerted movement.
The determinate purpose to capture Grant
that day was lost sight of. The strong arm
was withdrawn, and the bow remained un-
bent. Elsewhere there were bloody desultory
combats, but they tended to nothing.
About half-past three the contest, which
had throbbed with fitful violence for five
hours, was renewed with the utmost fury.
While an ineffectual struggle was going on at
the center, a number of batteries opened
upon Prentiss's right flank, the center of what
remained of the Federals. The opening of
so heavy a fire, and the simultaneous though
unconcerted advance of the whole Confed-
erate line, resulted at first in the confusion
of the enemy, and then in the death of W.
H. L. Wallace and the surrender of Prentiss.
These generals have received scant justice
for their stubborn defense. They agreed to
hold their position at all odds, and did so until
Wallace received his fatal wound and Prentiss
was surrounded and captured with nearly 3000
men. This delay was the salvation of Grant's
army.
Breckenridge's command closed in on the
Federal left and rear; Polk crushed their right
by the violence of his assault, and in personr
with Marshall J. Smith's Crescent regiment, re-
ceived the surrender of many troops. Prentiss
gave up his sword to Colonel Russell. Bragg's
troops, wrestling at the front, poured in over
the Hornets' Nest, and shared in the triumph.
Polk ordered his cavalry to charge the fleeing
enemy, and Colonel Miller rode down and cap-
tured a six-gun battery. His men " watered
their horses in the Tennessee River." All now
felt that the victory was won. Bragg, Polk, H ar-
dee, Breckenridge, all the corps commanders,
were at the front, and in communication. Their
generals were around them. The hand that had
launched the thunder-bolt of war was cold, but
its influence still nerved this host and its com-
manders. A line of battle was formed, and all
was ready for the last fell swoop, to compel an
" unconditional surrender " by General Grant.
The only position on the high grounds left
to the Federals was held by Colonel Webster,
of Grant's staff, who had collected some twenty
guns and manned them with volunteers. Soon
after four o'clock Chalmers and Jackson, pro-
ceeding down the river-bank while Prentiss's
surrender was going on, came upon this posi-
tion. The approaches were bad from that
direction : nevertheless, they attacked reso-
lutely, and, though repeatedly repulsed, kept
up their assaults till nightfall. At one time
they drove some gunners from their guns, and
their attack has been generally mistaken by
Federal writers for the final assault of the
Confederate army — which was never made.
The Federal generals and writers attribute
their salvation to the repulse of Chalmers, and
the honor is claimed respectively for Webster's
artillery and for Amraen's brigade of Buell's
c»28 ALBERT SIDNEY JOHNSTON AND THE SHILOH CAMPAIGN.
army, which came up at the last moment.
But neither they nor all that was left of the
Federal army could have withstood five min-
utes the united advance of the Confederate line,
which was at hand and ready to deal the death-
stroke. Their salvation came from a different
quarter. General Bragg gives the following
account of the close of the battle : " Con-
curring testimony, especially that of the pris-
oners on both sides, — our captured being
present and witnesses to the demoralization
of the enemy, and their eagerness to escape
or avoid further slaughter by surrender, — left
no doubt but that a persistent, energetic as-
sault would soon have been crowned by a
general yielding of his whole force. About
one hour of daylight was left to us. The
enemy's gun-boats, his last hope, took posi-
tion opposite us in the river, and commenced
a furious cannonade at our supposed position.
From the elevation necessary to reach the
high bluff on which we were operating, this
proved 'all sound and fury signifying noth-
ing,' and did not in the slightest degree mar
our prospects or our progress. Not so, how-
ever, in our rear, where these heavy shells fell
among the reserves and stragglers; and, to the
utter dismay of the commanders on the field,
the troops were seen to abandon their inspir-
ing work, and to retire sullenly from the con-
test when danger was almost past, and victory,
so dearly purchased, was almost certain."
Polk, Hardee, Breckenridge,Withers, Gibson,
Gilmer, and all who were there confirm this
statement. General Buell says of Grant's army
that there were " not more than 5000 men in
ranks and available on the battle-field at night-
fall. . . . The rest were either killed, wounded,
captured, or scatteredin inextricable and hope-
less confusion for miles along the banks of the
river." General Nelson describes them as
" cowering under the river-bank, . . . frantic
with fright and utterly demoralized."
At this crisis came from General
gard an order for the withdrawal
troops, of which his chief of staff says
eral Beauregard, in the mean time, observing
the exhausted, widely scattered condition of
his army, directed it to be brought out of
battle, collected, and restored to order as far
as practicable, and to occupy for the night the
captured encampments of the enemy. This,
however, had been done in chief part by the
officers in immediate command of the troops
before the order was generally distributed."
For this last allegation, or that the army was
exhausted, there is not the slightest warrant.
The concurrent testimony of the generals
and soldiers at the front is at one on all
essential points. General Beauregard at Shiloh,
two miles in the rear, with the debris of the
Beaure-
of the
" Gen-
army surging back upon him, the shells burst-
ing around him, sick with his two months'
previous malady, pictured in his imagination
a wreck at the front, totally different from the
actual condition there. Had this officer been
with Bragg, and not greatly prostrated and
suffering from severe sickness, I firmly believe
his order would have been to advance, not to
retire. And this in spite of his theory of his plan
of battle, which he sums up as follows, and
which is so different from General Johnston's:
" By a rapid and vigorous attack on General
Grant, it was expected he would be beaten
back into his transports and the river, or cap-
tured in time to enable us to profit by the vic-
tory, and remove to the rear all the stores and
munitions that would fall into our hands in
such an event before the arrival of General
Buell's army on the scene. It was never con-
templated, however, to retain the position
thus gained and abandon Corinth, the stra-
tegic point of the campaign." Why, then, did"
General Beauregard stop short in his career ?
Sunday evening it was not a question of
retaining, but of gaining, Pittsburg Landing.
Complete victory was in his grasp, and he
threw it away. General Gibson says : " Gen-
eral Johnston's death was a tremendous catas-
trophe. There are no words adequate to express
my own conception of the immensity of the loss
to our country. Sometimes the hopes of mill-
ions of people depend upon one head and one
arm. The West perished with Albert Sidney
Johnston, and the Southern country followed."
Monday was General Beauregard's battle,
and it was well fought. But in recalling his
troops from the heights which commanded
the enemy's landing, he gave away a position
which during the night was occupied by
Buell's 20,000 fresh troops, who thus regained
the high grounds that had been won at such
a cost. Lew Wallace, too, had come up 6500
strong. Moreover, the orders had been con-
veyed by Beauregard's staff to brigades and
even regiments to withdraw, and the troops
wandered back over the field, without cohe-
rence, direction, or purpose, and encamped
where chance provided for them. All array
was lost, and, in the morning, they met the
attack of nearly 30,000 fresh and organized
troops, with no hope of success except from
their native valor and the indomitable pur-
pose roused by the triumph of Sunday. Their
fortitude, their courage, and the free offering
of their lives were equal to the day before.
But it was a retreat, not an assault. They
retired slowly and sullenly, shattered, but not
overthrown, to Corinth, the strategic point of
General Beauregard's campaign.
William Preston Johnston.
L
NOTES OF A CONFEDERATE STAFF-OFFICER AT SHILOH.
AFTER ten o'clock at
night, on the 2d of
April, 1862, while in my
office as adjutant-gen-
eral of the Confederate
army assembled at Cor-
inth, a telegram was
brought to me from Gen-
eral Cheatham, com-
manding an outpost on
our left flank at Bethel,
on the Mobile and Ohio railway, some twenty
odd miles northward of Corinth. General
Cheatham had addressed it to General Polk,
his corps commander, informing him that a
Federal division, under General Lew Wallace,
had been manoeuvring in his proximity dur-
ing the day. General Polk had in due course
sent the message to General Beauregard,
from whom it came to me with his signed
indorsement, and addressed to General A. S.
Johnston, the substance of the indorsement
being : " Now is the time to advance upon
Pittsburg Landing." And below were these
words, in effect, if not literally : " Colonel
Jordan had better carry this in person to
General Johnston and explain the military
situation.— G. T. B."
At the time Colonel Jacob Thompson, for-
merly Secretary of the Interior of the United
States, was in my office as my guest. I read the
telegram aloud to him and immediately there-
after repaired to General Johnston's quarters,
nearly a quarter of a mile distant, where I
found him surrounded by his personal staff, in
the room which the latter habitually occupied.
I handed him the open dispatch, and he read it
and the indorsements without comment ; asked
me several questions about matters wholly ir-
relevant to the dispatch or what might natu-
rally grow out of it, and rose, saying that he
would cross the street to see General Bragg. I
asked if I should accompany him. " Cer-
tainly," was his answer. We found that General
Bragghad already gone to bed, but he received
us in dishabille, General Johnston handing
him the dispatch at once, without remark.
Bragg, having read it,. immediately expressed
his agreement with Beauregard's advisement.
General Johnston thereupon very clearly stated
some strong objections, chiefly to the effect
that as yet our troops were too raw and in-
completely equipped for an offensive enter-
prise, such as an onset upon the Federal army
in a position of their own choosing, and also
that he did not see from what quarter a proper
reserve could be assembled in time.
As General Beauregard had discussed with
me repeatedly within a week the details of
such an offensive operation in all its features,
and the necessity for it before the Federal
army was itself ready to take the offensive, I
was able to answer satisfactorily the objections
raised by General Johnston, including the
supposed difficulty about a reserve — for which
use I pointed out that the Confederate forces
posted under General Breckenridge at sev-
eral points along the line of the Memphis
and Charleston railroad, to the eastward of
Corinth, could be quickly concentrated at
Burnsville, and be moved thence direct to
Monterey, and there effect a junction with
our main force. General Johnston at last
assented to the undertaking. Whereupon I
turned to a table in General Bragg's chamber,
and wrote a circular order to the three corps
commanders, Major- Generals Polk, Bragg,
and Hardee, directing that each should hold
his corps under arms by 1 2 Meridian on the 3d
of April, ready to march, with forty rounds of
ammunition in their cartridge-boxes, and sixty
rounds for each man to be carried as a reserve ;
three days' cooked provisions per man in their
haversacks, with three more to be transported
in wagons. This circular also prescribed the
ammunition for the artillery, and the number
of wagons each regiment would be provided
with ; all of which was approved by General
Johnston when I read the rough draught
of it. Afterward the copies were made by an
aid-de-camp on the staff of General Bragg.
These orders were delivered to Generals
Polk and Hardee at 1:40 a. m., as shown by
their receipts, which I required to be taken.
The orders to General Breckenridge were
given by telegraph, he having been called by
me to the military telegraph office nearest his
headquarters to receive them and to answer
queries regarding his command.* Thus did
it happen that the Confederate army was
brought to undertake the offensive against
General Grant upon Pittsburg Landing.
* As I find from a paper officially signed by me April 21, 1862, this reserve consisted of 6436 rank
and file effectives. ("Official Record War of the Rebellion," Series I., volume X., page 396.)
630 NOTES OF A CONFEDERATE STAFF-OFFICER AT SHILOH.
ii.
Upcn quitting General Bragg's quarters I
proceeded immediately to the tent of Colonel
A. R. Chisholm, aid-de-camp to General Beau-
regard, separated from my office by some thirty
or forty yards, roused him from sleep, and
asked him to inform the general at daylight
that the order to advance at midday had been
issued.
Soon after sunrise I was called to the quar-
ters of General Beauregard, whom I found
with the notes of the plan of operations and
orders of engagement. These, I may add, had
just been copied by Colonel Chisholm from
the backs of telegrams and envelopes upon
which the general had made them during the
night while in bed. Taking these notes and
the general's sketch-map of the roads lead-
ing from all surrounding quarters to Mon-
terey and thence upon Pittsburg Landing, I
returned and began to draw up the order,
which will be found in the " Records of the
War of the Rebellion," Series I., volume X.,
pages 392~395*
Called to my breakfast before the order could
be framed, I met General Johnston en route
for General Beauregard's quarters, where I said
I would meet him as quickly as possible, and
where I did soon join him. General Beaure-
gard was explaining the details as to the roads
by which the several corps would have to
move through the somewhat difficult, heavily
wooded country, both before and after leav-
ing Monterey; and to make this clear, as
I had from General Beauregard the only
sketch extant, General Beauregard drew a
rough sketch on his camp-table top. Mean-
while, first General Bragg and afterward
Generals Polk and Hardee had joined the
conference. As I remarked that it would
take me some time to formulate the order and
issue all the requisite copies, General Beaure-
gard explained orally to the three generals
their routes of march for the first day, so that
they might not wait for receipt of the written
orders, which would be in all proper hands
before night. Accordingly, these explanations
were carefully made, and the corps com-
manders went away with distinct instructions
to begin the movement at midday, as pre-
scribed in the written orders subsequently
issued. Pursuant to the terms of the circular
order which I had written and issued from
General Bragg's headquarters the night before,
the troops were brought under arms before
noon, by which time the streets and all ap-
proaches to the railway station, as well as the
roads leading from Corinth, were densely^
packed with troops, wagons, and field-batteries
ready for the march. But no movement was
made; General Polk's corps in some way
blocked the line of march. This having been
reported to General Beauregard at a late hour
in the afternoon by General Hardee in person,
an aid-de-camp was sent to General Polk,
when, to the surprise of all, General Polk ex-
plained that he had kept his corps at a stand
awaiting the written order. Thus it was so late
before the movement actually began, that it
really cost the Confederate army a whole day
and their arrival in the near presence of their
adversary twenty-four hours later than was
intended, as, by reason of this tardiness, it
was not until the late afternoon of the 5th
of April that the head of the Confederate
column reached a point within less than two
miles of the Federal lines instead of on the
4th, in which case the battle would have been
fought with General Grant alone, or without
the material and moral help derived from the
advent of Buell on the field, as on the night
of the 6th and the morning of the 7th of April.
in.
General Beauregard with his staff left
Corinth the afternoon of the 4th of April, and
reaching Monterey, eleven miles distant, found
the Confederate corps massed in that quarter.
He was hardly encouraged, however, by the
manner in which they had been handled to that
stage in the operation. General Johnston and
his staff were already at the same point, in oc-
cupation of a house at which we dismounted
just as some cavalry brought from the front
a soldierly young Federal volunteer officer,
Major Crockett, of the Seventy-ninth Ohio,
who had just been captured a few hours before
in a skirmish in close proximity to the Federal
lines brought on by a Confederate recon-
noitering force pressed most indiscreetly
from General Bragg's- corps almost upon the
Federal front line. As this officer rode
beside his captors through the mass of
Confederate infantry and batteries, and his
eyes rested intelligently on the warlike
spectacle, he exclaimed, "This means a bat-
tle"; and he involuntarily added, "They
don't expect anything of this kind back
yonder." He was taken in charge by myself,
and, assisted by Major Gilmer, chief engineer
on the staff, I interrogated him with the
least possible semblance of so doing, with the
result of satisfying me, as I reported to
Generals Johnston and Beauregard, that we
* As I framed this order, I had before me Napoleon's order for the battle of Waterloo, and, in attention to
ante-battle details, took those of such soldiers as Napoleon and Soult for model — a fact which I here
mention because the ante-Shiloh order has been hypercriticised.
NOTES OF A CONFEDERATE STAFF-OFFICER AT SHILOH. 631
should have no earth- works to encounter,
and an enemy wholly unaware of what was
so near at hand.
IV.
It has been more than once represented with
pencil as well as with pen, that there was a
somewhat dramatic conference of the Con-
federate generals around the camp-fire the
night before the battle of the 6th of April.
The simple fact is this: Hardee, whose
corps was to be in the advance in the attack,
having reached a point known to be some-
what less than two miles from our adversary,
was halted and deployed in line of battle
across the Pittsburg road to await the arrival
and formation in his rear of the rest of
the army as prescribed in the battle order.
As this was not effected until after three
o'clock, it was too late to make the attack that
day. As a matter of course in such a contin-
gency, the corps commanders were called to
meet Generals Johnston and Beauregard, who,
having gone from Monterey together with the
general staff and their respective personal staffs,
had taken a position, dismounted, on the Pitts-
burg road, somewhat to the rear of Hardee's
corps. The meeting took place about four
o'clock. General Polk now reported that his
men were almost destitute of provisions, hav-
ing either already consumed or thrown them
away. General Bragg reported that his own
men had been more provident, and therefore
could spare enough for the emergency. Deeply
dissatisfied with the inexplicable manner in
which both Bragg's and Polk's corps had been
delayed, both before reaching and after leaving
Monterey, as well as by the injudicious man-
ner in which a reconnaissance had been made
with such aggressiveness and use of artillery
as ought to have apprised any sharp-sighted
enemy than an offensive army was not far
distant, General Beauregard — though it had
been upon his urgent instance that the advance
had been made — did not hesitate to say that,
inasmuch as it was scarcely possible for the
enemy to be unaware of our presence and
purpose, should we attack next morning we
should find the Federals intrenched to the
eyes and ready for us ; that the whole suc-
cess of the movement had depended on our
ability to assail our enemy unexpectedly and
unprepared. Therefore, he advised the return
of the Confederate army to Corinth, as it
assuredly was not in a condition to attack
an army superior in numbers and behind the
intrenchments that would be now thrown up
in expectation of an onset.
General Johnston listened attentively to
what General Beauregard said, and at length
replied in substance that he recognized its
weight; nevertheless, as he hoped the enemy
was not suspecting our proximity, he felt
bound, as he had put the army in motion for
a battle, to venture the hazard. Whereupon
the officers rapidly dispersed to their respect-
ive commands for that venture. As I have
seen it intimated, among others by General
Bragg, that this conference was a mere
casual or " partly accidental meeting of gen-
eral officers," it may not be amiss to recall
that such a conference was the inevitable
consequence of the arrival of the Confederate
army at the point from which it was to spring
upon the enemy, as it were from an ambush.
Naturally , moreover, by a conference with their
corps commanders, Johnston and Beauregard
could best ascertain the condition of all the
troops and determine the best course to be
pursued. It was after the reports thus made
and the mutual blame of each other of two
of the corps commanders for the delay, that
Beauregard had been confirmed in his appre-
hension that the campaign had miscarried,
and therefore its objective should be given
up, — much as Wellington once, in Spain,
after taking the field to attack Massena,
finding the latter more strongly posted and
prepared than he had been misled to believe,
had not hesitated to retire without fighting.
v.
That night, soon after supper, an aid-de-
camp from General Johnston informed me
of the general's desire to see me, and guided
me to where he was bivouacking in the open
air. I was wanted to issue the order for the
immediate transfer of Maney's regiment of
Tennessee infantry from a brigade in Bragg's
corps to a certain brigade in Polk's corps,
of which Colonel Maney would have the
command as senior officer, which order I
wrote, in the absence of any table or other
convenience, outstretched upon General
Johnston's blankets, which were spread at the
foot of a tree. After this was done, and the
order dispatched by a special courier so that
the transfer might be made in time to place
Colonel Maney at the head of the brigade in
the coming battle, something led us to talk
of the Pacific coast, in which quarter I had
served eight years. Having been at Wash-
ington during the momentous winter of 1860-
61, I spoke of the fact that when Colonel
Sumner had been sent via the Isthmus
of Panama to supersede him (Johnston) in
the command of the Department of the Pa-
cific in April, 1861, Sumner's berth in the
steamer had been taken under an assumed
name, so that the newspapers might not get
632 NOTES OF A CONFEDERATE STAFF-OFFICER AT SHILOH.
and divulge the fact of his departure on that
errand in time for intelligence of it to reach
the Pacific coast by the overland route, and
lead General Johnston to act with a supposed
powerful disunion party in California in a
revolt against the Federal authority before
Sumner's arrival. " Yes," answered the gen-
eral, with much quiet feeling in his man-
ner, " while distrusting me sufficiently to act
thus toward me, my former adjutant-general,
Fitz John Porter, was induced to write me
of their great confidence in me, and to say
that it was their purpose to place me in com-
mand of the Federal army, immediately next
to General Scott." He had evidently been
deeply hurt that his personal character had
not shielded him from the suspicion of doing
aught while holding a commission that could
lead his superiors to suppose it necessary to un-
dertake his supersedure by stealth. (Seep. 634.)
VI.
The next morning, as the Confederate army,
deployed in the three lines prescribed in the
order of march and battle, moved before sun-
rise down the gentle wooded slope toward
Shiloh Chapel, Generals Johnston and Beaure-
gard, with the general staff as well as aids-de-
camp, stood upon a slight eminence, delighted
with the evident alacrity, animated faces, and
elastic gait with which all moved forward into
action. Hardly had the last line passed them
before the rattle of musketry announced that
Hardee's corps was engaged. General John-
ston now informed General Beauregard that
he would go to the front with the troops en-
gaged, leaving General Beauregard to take
the proper central position from which to
direct the movement as the exigencies of the
battle might require. Then General Johnston
rode of! with his personal staff exclusively,
except possibly Major Gilmer, the chief en-
gineer. Soon the sound of the battle became
general ; and as during the battle of Manas-
sas I had been left at headquarters to send
reinforcements into action as they came up
by rail, I reminded General Beauregard of the
fact, and requested to be dispatched to join
General Johnston. He assented, and I set
off, accompanied by my friend Colonel Jacob
Thompson. In a little time I found that the
corps commanders were ahead of or separated
from a material part of their troops, whom I
repeatedly found halted for want of orders.
In all such cases, assuming the authority of my
position, I gave the orders in the name of
General Johnston. At one time I had with
me the chiefs-of-staff of Polk, Bragg, and
Hardee, Colonel David Urquhart, the chief
aid-de-camp of Bragg, and Colonel William
Preston, the chief aid-de-camp of General
Johnston, all of whom I employed in assisting
to press the Confederate troops toward the
heaviest firing, and to keep the batteries ad-
vancing. Colonels Preston and Urquhart re-
mained with me the longer time and assisted
greatly. Finally, however, Urquhart, learning
from some of the troops encountered that
he was in proximity to his chief, General
Bragg, left me to join him, while I, accom-
panied by Colonel Preston, rode to the right
wing in the direction of sharp battle. Soon
we came in near view of a deserted Fed-
eral encampment in an open field, with a
Federal battery of four or six guns unlimbered
and horseless, while in advance of it were to
be seen a brigade of Confederate troops at a
halt. Urquhart now galloped up and informed
me that, having found Bragg, that officer had
sent him with the request that I should find
some troops, and employ them to turn and
capture some batteries just in his front which
obstructed his advance. I at once pushed
across a deep ravine with Urquhart and Preston
to the troops in view, which proved to be
Statham's brigade of the reserve under Gen-
eral Breckenridge ; but because it belonged
to the reserve, I hesitated to take the respon-
sibility to employ it, and said so ; however,
asking Colonel Preston — the brother-in-law
as well as aid-de-camp of General Johnston —
the hour, he replied, from his watch, twenty
minutes after two o'clock. I then said the
battle ought to be won by that time, and " I
think the reserve should be used." Colonel
Preston expressed his agreement with me,
and I rode at once to General Breckenridge,
who was not far to the rear of his troops,
surrounded by a number of officers. Accost-
ing him, I said, " General, it is General John-
ston's order that you advance and turn and
take those batteries," pointing in the direction
indicated by Urquhart, and where was to
be heard the din of their discharges. As the
order was given, General Breckenridge, clad
in a well-fitting blouse of dark-colored Ken-
tucky jeans, straightened himself in his stir-
rups. His dark eyes seemed to illuminate his
swarthy, regular features, and as he sat in his
saddle he seemed to me altogether the most
impressive-looking man I ever saw.
I then turned, accompanied both by
Urquhart and Preston, with the purpose of
going to the camp and battery previously
mentioned, and from that point to observe the
movement. On reaching the ravine, which
we had crossed, Colonel Preston, who possi-
bly had just heard from some of the officers
of the command just set in motion of Gen-
eral Johnston's recent presence with them,
said to me, " 1 believe I will make another
NOTES OF A CONFEDERATE STAFF-OFFICER AT SHILOH. 633
attempt to find General Johnston," and rode
down the ravine to the leftward, and as it so
happened, did find General Johnston, but
already unconscious, if not dead. He had re-
ceived his death-wound with the very troops
I had found standing at ordered arms, but who
were unaware of it, and therefore were not,
as has been written, brought to a stand-still
by reason of it, and who were put in effective
forward movement by me within twenty min-
utes after his wounding.
A striking incident of the first day's battle
may be here mentioned for its novelty on
battle-fields. A completely equipped Federal
battery was so suddenly turned and environed
by the Confederates, that it was captured with
all the guns limbered up en regie for move-
ment as upon drill, before its officers could
possibly unlimber and use its guns in self-de-
fense. The drivers were in their saddles, the
gunners seated side by side in their places
upon the ammunition-boxes of the caissons,
grinning over the situation, and the officers
with their swords drawn mounted on their
horses. Not a horse had been disabled.
VII.
At the time of the reception of the order
given late in the afternoon of the 6th of
April by General Beauregard for his greatly
disorganized advanced troops to withdraw
from action and reorganize for the next day's
operation, I had reached a point very close to
the Tennessee River where it was densely
wooded. The large ordnance of the gun-
boats were raking this position with their
heavy projectiles, creating more noise, how-
ever, than harm to the Confederates, as they
tore and crashed in all directions through the
heavy forest. Riding slowly backward to the
point at which I understood I should find
General Beauregard, it was after sunset when
I dismounted at the tent of a Federal officer,
before which the general was standing with
some of his staff and an officer in the uniform
of a Federal general, to whom I was intro-
duced. It was General Prentiss. Several hours
previously a telegraphic dispatch addressed by
Colonel Helm to General Johnston, as well
as I now remember, from the direction of
Athens, in Tennessee, was brought me from
Corinth by a courier, reporting that scouts
employed in observing General BuelPs move-
ments reported him to be marching not toward
a junction with Grant, but in the direction of
Decatur, North Alabama. This assuring dis-
patch I handed to General Beauregard, and
then, at his order, I wrote a telegraphic report
to the Confederate adjutant-general, Cooper,
at Richmond, announcing the results of the
day, including the death of General Johnston.
Meanwhile, it had become so dark that
I could barely see to write, and it was quite
dark by the time that Generals Hardee and
Breckenridge came to see General Beauregard
for orders for the next day's operations.
General Bragg, who had also come from the
front, had taken up his quarters for the night
in a tent which General Sherman had previ-
ously occupied near the Shiloh Chapel. This
chapel was a rude log-hut of one story, only
two or three hundred yards distant from the
spot at which I had found General Beaure-
gard. Leaving General Prentiss in my charge,
General Beauregard soon after dark took up
his quarters for the night with General Bragg.
The corps commanders had meanwhile been
personally directed to assemble their respect-
ive commands at the earliest possible moment
in the morning to be ready for the final stroke.
Colonel Thompson and myself shared, with
General Prentiss sandwiched between us, a
rough makeshift of a bed made up of tents
and captured blankets. Prentiss and Thomp-
son had been old acquaintances, and the former
talked freely of the battle, as also of the war,
with a good deal of intelligence and good
temper. With a laugh, he said : " You gentle-
men have had your way to-day, but it will
be very different to-morrow. You'll see ! Buell
will effect a junction with Grant to-night, and
we'll turn the tables on you in the morning."
This was said evidently with sincerity, and
was answered in the same spirit of good tem-
per. I showed him the dispatch that had
reached me on the field. He insisted, how-
ever, that it was a mistake, as we would see.
Tired as we were with the day's work, sleep
soon overtook and held us all until early
dawn, when the firing first of musketry and
then of field artillery roused us, and General
Prentiss exclaimed : " Ah ! Didn't I tell you
so ! That is Buell, you'll find ! " And so it
proved.
VIII.
Up to half-past two o'clock on the 7th of
April, or second day's conflict, General Beau-
regard had his headquarters at the Shiloh
Chapel or immediately at Sherman's former
headquarters. The Confederate troops, now
hardly 20,000 men, were all either directly in
advance of that position or, on right and left
of it, somewhat in advance, hotly engaged,
only having receded from the places occupied
during the night sufficiently to be better
massed and organized for fighting. But our
losses were swelling, and the straggling was
growing more difficult to restrain. A little
634
MEMORANDA ON THE CIVIL WAR.
after two o'clock, Governor Harris of Tennes-
see, who, after the death of General Johnston,
had joined the staff of Beauregard in action,
taking me aside, asked if I did not regard the
day as going against us irremediably, and
whether there was not danger in tarrying so
long in the field as to be unable to withdraw
in good order. I answered that I thought it
would soon be our proper course to retreat.
Having an opportunity a moment later to
speak to General Beauregard in private, I
brought the subject before him in almost these
words :
" General, do you not think our troops are
very much in the condition of a lump of sugar
thoroughly soaked with water, but yet pre-
serving its original shape, though ready to
dissolve ? Would it not be judicious to get
away with what we have ? "
" I intend to withdraw in a few moments,"
was his reply.
Calling upon his aids-de-camp present, he
dispatched them with orders to the several
corps commanders to begin the rearward move-
ment. He also directed me to collect as many
of the broken organizations as I could, — both
of infantry and artillery, — post them in the
best position I might find, and hold it until
the whole army had passed rearward of it.
Such a position I quickly found on an ele-
vated ridge in full view of the chapel and
the ground to the right and left of it, and also
somewhat more elevated, rising abruptly to-
ward the enemy and receding gently toward
Corinth. There I collected and posted some
two thousand infantry, making them lie down
and rest. I also placed in battery some twelve
or fifteen guns, so as to sweep the approach
from the direction of the enemy. There also
I remained until after four o'clock, or until all
the Confederate forces had retired, General
Breckenridge's troops being the last, and with-
out seeing a single Federal soldier. I then
retired, carrying from the field the caissons
loaded down with muskets and rifles picked
from the field.
Thomas Jordan.
MEMORANDA ON THE CIVIL WAR.
The Offer of Union Command to General A. S.Johnston.
[The following statement was written in response
to an inquiry by us as to the details of the offer of
high command referred to in the two foregoing pa-
pers.— Ed.]
The circumstances which gave rise to the expressed
desire of the administration in 1861 to retain General
Albert Sidney Johnston in the Federal army were as
follows :
Early in April, 1861, while on duty in the adjutant-
general's office in Washington, I learned that Colonel
Sumner had been dispatched incog, to California, with
secret orders to assume command of the department
of the Pacific, and that this unusual course had been
prompted by the fear that the forts and arsenals and
garrisons on that coast would be placed in the hands
of the secessionists by General Johnston, the then com-
mander, who was reported to be arranging to do so.
I had just received a letter from General Johnston
expressing his pleasure at the large and handsome
parade of State troops in San Francisco, on February
22d, and at the undoubted loyalty to the Union cause
of the whole Pacific coast, and also his earnest hope
that the patriotic spirit manifested in California existed
as strongly in all other States, and would as surely be
maintained by them as it would be in the Pacific States
in case of attempted secession.
Fearing the effect of the superseding orders upon a
high-toned and sensitive officer, one whom I esteemed
as a brother, and earnestly desired to be secured to our
cause, I induced Major McDowell to show the letter to
Secretary Cameron, and to urge every effort to keep
General Johnston from leaving the service. His
superior qualifications, his influence among prominent
citizens at the South, and especially among his rel-
atives in his native State, Kentucky, — which it was
exceedingly desirable to keep in the Union, — were
strong inducements to these efforts. My desire was
met as cordially and earnestly as it existed, and I
was authorized to send, as I did through my friend
" Ben Holliday," in New York, for transmission by
telegraph to St. Louis, and thence by his " pony ex-
press " to San Francisco, the following message : " I
take the greatest pleasure in assuring you, for the
Secretary of War, that he has the utmost confidence in
you, and will give you the most important command
and trust on your arrival here. Sidney is appointed
to the Military Academy." This message reached
General Johnston after the arrival of Colonel Sumner*
In response to the above, and by the same channel
of communication, I received this message : " I thank
you and my friends for efforts in my behalf. I have
resigned and resolved to follow the fortunes of my
State." His letter of resignation was soon received,
and put an end to all hope, especially as Texas —
which had then seceded — was his adopted State.
I felt in 1861, as I now know, that the assertion that
General Johnston intended to turn over to the seces-
sionists the defenses of California, or any part of the
regular army, was false and absurd. Under no cir-
cumstances, even if intended, could such a plan have
succeeded, especially with the regular army. But no
such breach of trust was intended, nor would any grad-
uate of West Point in the army have committed or
permitted it. It had no better foundation than the
statement of Senator Conness of California, who three
years later urged and secured the assignment of Gen-
TOPICS OF THE TIME.
&3S
eral McDowell to command on the Pacific coast, on
the ground that after the war for the Union should
have ended there would be in California a more pow-
erful rebellion than that then existing among the South-
ern States.
Fitz John Porter.
New York, December 8, 1884.
General Robert Patterson and the Battle of Bull Run.
Appended to General Beauregard's paper in the
November Century, on " The Battle of Bull Run,"
is the following foot-note :
"It was Patterson upon whom the Government
at Washington depended to neutralize Johnston as
an element in McDowell's contest with Beauregard.
But, whether from the faultiness of Scott's instruc-
tions or of Patterson's understanding of them, or from
his failure or inability to execute them, — all of which
is matter of controversy, — Patterson neither held
Johnston nor reenforced McDowell. — Ed."
General Patterson's duty was to assist in carrying
out the plans of the general-in-chief when they were
made known to him. There is no official record that
General Scott gave any order to General Patterson to
reenforce General McDowell.
Some nineteen years ago General Patterson, having
sought justice in vain through every official channel,
published his " Narrative of the Campaign in the Val-
ley of the Shenandoah in 1861," in which he thus
summarizes his defense :
"(1) That I have already courted an investigation
of any charge that could be brought against me ; (2)
that my whole course was entirely approved by the
officers attached to my command, whom I was in-
structed to consult ; (3) that I complied with every
order issued to me ; (4) that I kept Johnston from
joining Beauregard, not only on the day I was di-
rected to do so, but for five days afterward; (5) that
I was never informed that the battle had not been
fought, at the time indicated, though within reach of
a telegraph, but on the contrary, the only dispatch re-
ceived convinced me that the battle had been fought ;
(6) that for the delay in fighting it I was in no wise
responsible; (7) that the general-in-chief, when Ltold
him I was not strong enough, in my opinion, to attack
Johnston, could have ordered me to do so, if he differed
from me, as I told him all the circumstances, and
asked, ' Shall I attack ? ' (8) that I informed him
that Johnston had gone to General Beauregard, and
he himself, in his comments on my testimony (see page
241, vol. II., ' Conduct of the War '), admits that he
knew it before delivering battle on the 21st of July."
After a long and useful life, wherein he never hesi-
tated to obey his country's call, General Patterson has
passed away. His son now speaks for him.
Robert E. Patterson.
United Service Club, Philadelphia, Nov. 10, 1884.
[While we gladly give place to the above commu-
nication, it is proper to say that the object of the
foot-note was to make clear to the reader the impor-
tance of certain events in the campaign of Bull Run,
and not to assign responsibility for those events ; and
it was to guard against such an inference that we
expressly stated this responsibility to be matter of
controversy. — Ed.]
Uniform of the Highlanders at Bull Run.
In a foot-note to the " Recollections of a Private "
in the November Century, it is said that the Sev-
enty-ninth New York wore the Highland dress at the
battle of Bull Run. If by that is meant the "kilts," it
is an error. It is true that all the officers and many
of the men did wear that uniform when we left the city
in June, 1861, and on dress-parade occasions in Wash-
ington. But when we went into Virginia, it was laid
aside, together with the plaid trowsers worn by all the
men on ordinary occasions, and we donned the ordi-
nary blue. Captain was the only one who
insisted on wearing the kilts on the march to Bull
Run, claiming that as the Highlanders wore that dress
in India, it would be quite as comfortable in Virginia;
but while chasing a pig, the day before we reached
Centreville, the kilts were the cause of his drawing
upon himself the ridicule of the whole regiment.
When we started for the battle-field on that Sunday
morning- he, also, appeared in ordinary blue uniform.
William Todd,
Company B, Seventy-ninth New York (Highlanders).
TOPICS OF THE TIME.
Some Practicable Reforms.
The experience of the recent Presidential campaign
illuminates the path of political reform with respect to
two or three matters of great importance, concerning
which there should be no difference of opinion.
The first is the separation, in a few of the States, of
the State and Congressional elections from the Presi-
dential election. Twenty years ago the State elections
were held separately in many of the States ; but the
number of these separate elections has been gradually
reduced, until the only Northern States now holding
elections before November are Vermont, Maine, and
Ohio. Pennsylvania was once the " Keystone State "
of the political arch, but its citizens grew weary
of that distinction, and transferred their State contest
to November. Indiana was a "pivotal" State four
years ago, but the experience of that campaign suf-
ficed for Indiana, and the October election was abol-
ished. In West Virginia the same change was made at
the last election. The remaining States may well follow
the good example. The fewer these preliminary elec-
tions become, the greater will be the injury suffered by
the States that retain them. The people of these States
636
TOPICS OF THE TIME.
can do themselves and the whole country a great
service by simply changing the date of their State
elections. These remarks will apply to all the States,
North and South, that still maintain the separate con-
test ; but they are especially applicable to Ohio, which,
from its central position, its large population, and the
evenly matched strength of the two political parlies,
has now become the battle-ground of the politicians.
The Valley of Jezreel in the early ages was no more
the arena of the fighting nations than are the broad and
fertile fields of the great central State, the scene of the
fiercest political struggles of the nation. This is the
fact already, and it is destined to be more and more
true with every succeeding year. No sooner are the
issues between the two parties joined than the eyes
of the leaders are concentrated upon Ohio, and the
campaign opens with activity and even fierceness.
Indeed, the strife begins before the national conven-
tions assemble ; for, in the choice of delegates to these
conventions, the action of the " pivotal " State assumes
a factitious importance, and is discussed with dispro-
portionate zeal. Practically, therefore, Ohio devotes
fully six months of every Presidential year to the ex-
citements of political campaigning. The effect of this
protracted diversion of the energies of the people from
their regular pursuits is injurious in the extreme.
Business is paralyzed; workmen are listless or irreg-
ular; the schools are invaded by the frenzy; the
churches are hindered in their work. The additional
cost of the October election to the people of Ohio
must be very large. The merchants and professional
men of both parties complain bitterly of the tribute
exacted of them for campaign purposes ; and one who
observes the amount of money expended in every
city and town for bands and torches and fireworks
and uniforms, and all the various campaign devices,
can easily believe that these levies must be severe.
But these are the smallest of the evils entailed upon
the October States by the October elections. The
needless protraction of the excitement must affect in-
juriously the health of multitudes. The young men
who spend so many weeks in almost nightly parades,
exposing themselves to all kinds of weather, depriving
themselves of needful rest, and keeping their nerves in
constant tension, must suffer serious and, in many
cases, permanent physical injury. The bitterness en-
gendered by these fierce and long-continued contests
even disturbs the pleasant relations of neighbors, and
mars the peace of society. Above all, the occurrence
of these early elections affords to the partisans and
the corruptionists of both parties their opportunity.
All the political rascality of the country stands ready
to contribute its services and its resources to carry the
principal October State. Arrangements are made for
colonizing voters from the neighboring States ; money
in large amounts is poured into the State for the cor-
ruption of the franchise. If Ohio is a " pivotal " State,
it will be the opinion of the average political machinist
that the pivot must be well lubricated. Thus, upon the
October States, and especially upon Ohio, are concen-
trated the worst political influences of the whole coun-
try. And although the injurious effect is chiefly felt
in Ohio, the whole country* suffers to a considerable
extent from the disturbance of business interests and
the uncertainty and anxiety occasioned by the early
elections.
If the States in which the local elections are now
separate from the Presidential election would amend
their constitutions so that hereafter all the elections
should occur in November, a great and valuable re-
form would be secured. There would still be close
and heated contests, and the ills of which mention has
been made would be cured but in part ; but it is per-
fectly evident that a very large part of them would be
abated by this simple remedy. We are not aware of
any reasons for continuing the present order in these
States that could have any force when compared with
the obvious reasons which have been suggested for
the change. It is gratifying to hear that the people of
Ohio are fully awake to the importance of this reform,
and that a movement to secure it is receiving the sup-
port of the best men of both parties. It is to be hoped
that Ohio will spare itself and the nation the curse of
another October election in the Presidential year.
In most of the large cities, and notably in the city
of New York, it would be well to separate the munici-
pal elections from both the State and the national
elections, in order to prevent the trading which is al-
ways practiced in the interest of local candidates.
There is no good reason why party lines should not be
ignored in municipal contests. It makes not the slight-
est difference whether the mayor of New York is a
Democrat or a Republican, if he is only a man of
sound character, clever judgment, and firm will. The
complete divorce of municipal affairs from party poli-
tics, and the hearty cooperation of all good citizens to
secure clean and economical government, are greatly
to be desired.
Another perfectly feasible reform is the postpone-
ment of the nominating conventions of the political
parties. The time now occurring between the nomina-
tions and the election is much longer than is neces-
sary for a fair canvass of the questions at issue and a
thorough investigation of the merits of candidates. If
the conventions were not held before the first of Au-
gust, the campaign would be quite long enough for all
practical purposes. If the elections occur once in four
years, and if the campaign be protracted through five
or six months of the year, the time devoted to these
contests is certainly excessive. A strain so frequent
and so long-continued upon the industrial and the
moral interests of the nation is intolerable. If we can-
not have the Presidential term extended, the next best
thing to do is to shorten the campaign. And this will
be done if the business men of the country resolutely
demand it at the hands of the politicians.
Still another most salutary reform would be the
holding of the nominating conventions in halls barely
large enough to contain the delegates and the represent-
atives of the press. The conventions could then be,
what none of them has been of late, deliberative bod-
ies, and could exercise some judgment in the choice
of candidates. The presence in the convention of a
mob of heelers and strikers, from all parts of the coun-
try, to shout for their favorite candidates and to over-
power the assembly by sheer brute force, is a most
discreditable spectacle, and it has proved to be a mis-
chievous appendage to our political machinery. The
gentlemen of the national committees can put an end
to this if they will ; and it is to be hoped that a clear
expression of public opinion will make plain to them
the path of duty.
TOPICS OF THE TIME.
637
Three Comments on the Stage.
By a mere accident, three interesting comments on
the modern stage have been made by contributors to
The Century within a very brief period. In January
Dr. Gladden and Mr. Towse made some severe criti-
cisms ; in this number of The Century one of Mr.
Howells's characters speaks his mind on the subject.
The general tone of these three utterances is neither
complimentary nor reassuring. Dr. Gladden merely
suggests an offset to the lower influences of the stage,
while Mr. Howells's man expresses a passing, but very
positive opinion. Mr. Towse alone goes into the ques-
tion of direct remedies, and his remarks are worthy of
serious consideration, for he is, especially, a " friend of
the stage," and by profession a student and critic of it.
We have often thought that if the habitual de-
nouncers of the stage and its associations really knew
their subject, they could prepare a much more telling
bill of indictment against it than any we have yet
seen from such sources. In proportion as they do
know their subject, are their criticisms effective and
useful. But the usual perfunctory " attack upon the
theater " is apt to be a vague, rather ignorant and in-
discriminating essay, which offends persons of knowl-
edge and common sense, and naturally infuriates the
actors of every grade and standing.
The fact is that the modern stage is probably a little
worse and certainly much better than its customary
condemners have any idea of. The mistake they make
is to suppose that the whole thing is corrupt, objec-
tionable, and removable. Acting may be called the old-
est art, as it is the most popular — and, at its best,
one of the most useful and commendable. It came a
great while ago, and will doubtless stay as long as
this globe is habitable. It is, moreover, a very trying
profession, — we are inclined to think the most trying.
Some of the worst people in the world are on the stage,
or in some way or other connected with it, — some of
the most ignorant, vicious, and pernicious, — and also,
we verily believe, some of the best.
We heartily wish that literature were better, all the
way through, than it is. There are many very good
books and periodicals in the world ; but there are a
great many abominable ones, and their number in-
creases year by year ; they are sold cheap, circulate
widely, and do no end of harm. We heartily wish that
the stage were better than it is, all the way through; but
we know of no medicine that is sure to work its per-
fect cure. Every one in any way associated with it,
whether behind or in front of the foot-lights, should do
his part toward '• improving its condition," for its con-
dition, as reflected in the three comments we have
printed, is evidently in great need of improvement.
The present tendency of some of our best writers of
fiction to write plays for actual presentation is a hope-
ful sign of the times. As for ourselves, if sticking pins
in here and there, and speaking an encouraging word
now and then, in the future as in the past, will do
any good, the stage is welcome to our services !
In suggesting, as above, a comparison between lit-
erature and the stage, we do not mean to imply that
the theater and general literature are in every way com-
parable. The theater should rather be compared with
the literature of amusement — say with fiction. Even
as thus compared we fear that it would be at a disad-
vantage. While there may be more that is degrading
in current fiction, there is perhaps less that is elevat-
ing in the stage of to-day. In other words, take to-
gether the bad and the good of current fiction, — while
the bad may sink lower than anything one is likely to
see on the stage, the average of fictional literature
would probably be found to be better and more elevat-
ing than the average of theatrical entertainment. One
cause of the vulgarizing tendency of much of the amuse-
ment offered in our theaters maybe found in the double
nature of dramatic representation. The stage is com-
pounded of two arts — that of the author and that of the
actor. Even when the author does worthy and refined
work, ten chances to one his characters will be debased
by actors without culture of mind, soul, or manners.
Authors, actors, and managers are alike under ob-
ligation to the public to give better entertainment than
is now the rule ; as Mr. Towse has shown, they can-
not throw their own personal responsibility upon the
public shoulders, for there is no " art, profession, or
business in which public credulity, ignorance, or folly
is accepted as a valid excuse for non-performance of
duty." But neither can the public rest blameless if it
accepts without protest an inferior article.
After all, the surest way to "elevate the stage" is to
elevate the audience. The stage, like the press and
like literature generally, will be apt to take its tone
from the community to which its appeal is made. If
the community will demand a better class of theatrical
representation it will get it.
Overmuch Wisdom.
A story is told of a conservative clergyman who
was present at a woman-suffrage convention when
a terrible thunder-storm arose, and who made haste
to interpret the storm as an expression of the wrath
of God against the " infamous work " in which the
reformers were engaged. Thereupon the aged negress
known as Sojourner Truth is said to have retorted :
" You ain't acquainted with God." The parson was
silenced, of course ; what reply could be made to such
a challenge ? " Answer a fool according to his folly,"
says the wise man. The reply of Sojourner was a good
specimen of this style of controversy. Does the wise
man mean that none but a fool can effectually answer
a fool ? Certainly we do encounter, now and then, ex-
amples of unreason so gross that it seems useless to
attempt any rational response. The clerical expounder
of the thunder-storm furnishes a specimen of this stu-
pidity. None but a densely ignorant person would
have ventured thus to declare the final cause of a nat-
ural phenomenon of this nature. A " Master in Israel "
who knows no more than to assign moral reasons for
particular meteorological changes has not yet learned
the alphabet of Christ's religion. Such reasons there
may be ; but the power to discover and reveal them
does not belong to man, and he who undertakes to ex-
ercise such power makes an enormous assumption.
Knowledge of this kind could only be derived from an
immediate prophetic revelation. Respecting the gen-
eral course of nature, we may be able to affirm con-
fidently that it is under divine guidance, and that the
outcome of all its forces is good. Strauss himself as-
serts that " order and law, reason and goodness " are
the soul of the universe; and Matthew Arnold declares
638
BRIC-A-BRAC.
the statement that all things work together for moral
ends to be a verifiable statement. But although as
much as this may be said concerning the divine Prov-
idence, considered in its larger relations and in its
ultimate results, it is impossible to explain any single
natural phenomenon or any particular event of history.
The great results which we confidently predict are pro-
duced by the interworking of a vast number of causes ;
the process is one that no man can understand ; the
relation of any given fact to the grand result no man
can explain ; nothing short of omniscience can dis-
cern the moral meanings of particular events, as they
are combined in the divine purpose, and he who un-
dertakes, as the clergyman in question did, to declare
the intent of Providence in any particular occurrence
assumes omniscience.
The readiness to expound Providence is a sure
mark of mental obtuseness. Those who know the
least are the readiest to undertake it. The barbarian
always judges that an unexpected calamity or a vio-
lent or unusual death is a proof of the displeasure of
the gods. That was the opinion of Eliphaz the Te-
manite and Bildad the Shuhite and Zophar the Naa-
mathite, enforced at great length in the Book of Job.
" Who ever perished being innocent, or when were the
righteous cut off ? " Against this judgment the good
Sheik sturdily remonstrates, and the argument of the
book vindicates his protest.
When the boiler of a ferry-boat exploded on a Sun-
day in New York harbor, those were not wanting
who expounded the accident as a divine testimony
against Sabbath-breaking. The fact that a score
or more of innocent children suffered in the catas-
trophe caused these expounders no trouble ; the God
whom they worship would seem to be a being who
deals out his penalties without much discrimination.
When a theater was burned in Brooklyn, these inter-
preters made haste to announce that it was a sign of
God's displeasure against theater-going. But when
casualties of the same description have occurred in
churches, they have not been so swift with their ex-
planations. A good woman in the West was killed by
lightning while praying with her children during a thun-
der-storm. If she had been playing some innocent
game with them, certain good people who disapprove
of diversion would have regarded her death as a testi-
mony against that particular game. Occurring as it did,
they would be slow to assert that it was a testimony
against prayer. The simple truth is, that providential
evils, like providential benefits, are visited on the just
and on the unjust, and they are wise who refuse to ex-
pound them. It is singular that any man who reads the
daily newspapers should venture on such an exposition.
" Let us Have Peace ! "
As this magazine has not hesitated to bring to the
notice of the country whatever social and political
evils were supposed to exist in any part of it, and as it
has especially given attention to the condition of the
freedmen in the Southern States, we will not now be
regarded as writing in a partisan spirit when we dep-
recate and denounce the narrow, sectional, and em-
bittered tone of comment which still lingers in certain
quarters of the North. That this tone is less frequent
than it was a few years ago is a token of the mellowing
of feeling which takes place as the Civil War, with its
animosities, moves farther and farther back into his-
tory ; it is a sign, also, of the improved condition and
spirit of the South, and of the new era of common
interests and mutual sympathy and respect.
It is something worthy of remark that at the pres-
ent moment, whenever the old note of sectional hatred
is struck, it has a jarring and unwelcome sound in the
North itself. The true lover of the whole country — un-
divided and indivisible — is shocked and pained when
this note is sounded, — a note that was not sounded
by Lincoln or by Grant even in the thick of the fight.
It is further noticeable that it is to " the fury of the
non-combatant" that we generally owe this note of
discord ; while the men who did the fighting did it
" with malice toward none, with charity for all." Our
men of war have proved indeed the true friends of
peace, and not its enemies. " Both read the same
Bible," said Lincoln, "and pray to the same God, . .
let us judge not that we be not judged." It was Grant
who stipulated that not one sword should be handed
to the conquerors at Appomattox.
While the questions of slavery and secession are for-
ever settled, there are still to be approached grave and
delicate problems growing out of changed social and po-
litical relations. These require the most conscientious,
cool, wise, and brave consideration. This is the time not
for the demagogue, not for the reckless agitator, but for
the philanthropist and statesman. In our day the politi-
cian who wears the" bloody shirt " will be buried with it.
Note. — In justice to the author, we should mention that an accidental omission in the January installment
of "The Knight of the Black Forest" was not discovered until the present installment had gone to press.
We mention this to explain the abruptness of the beginning of chapter IX. In the omitted portion are elabo-
rated the points of difference between Lois and Prentiss. Prentiss's gattcheries of manner and lack of aesthetic
appreciation are made more evident, as well as his genuine kindness of heart ; while the essential rudeness
of the more polished Von Lindenfels is shown by his compliments to Lois during a walk taken by the party
in the neighboring woods.
BRIC-A-BRAC.
Uncle Esek's Wisdom.
There are people who will argue with you half an
hour to prove that two and two make four.
All majorities are of the nature of a mob; when
mankind gets into a tight place it always looks to the
minority for relief.
Rhubarb and sugar is just as good physic as rhu-
barb and salt, and it is a heap more pleasant to take.
The top round of the ladder is an imaginary one ;
no man ever reached it yet.
I never judge a man by the length of his creed, but
by the breadth of it.
Uncle Esek.
640
BRIC-A-BRAC.
Two Valentines.
Plantation Memories.
Awake, awake, O gracious heart,
There's some one knocking at the door:
The chilling breezes make him smart;
His little feet are tired and sore.
Arise, and welcome him before
Adown his cheeks the big tears start :
Awake, awake, O gracious heart,
There's some one knocking at the door !
'Tis Cupid come with loving art
To honor, worship, and implore ;
And lest, unwelcomed, he depart
With all his wise, mysterious lore,
Awake, awake, O gracious heart,
There's some one knocking at the door !
FOR SAYNTE VALENTYNE, HIS DAYE.
Goe, little Rhyme, & greete Her,
Goe, tel Her y* I thinke
Things infinitely sweeter
Yn I maie putt in Inke :
Ye Musick of ye meter
Shal linger on ye Aire
Ye whiles She turns ye Leaves & learns
Ye Secrett hidden there.
Flye, little Leafe of Paper,
Flye, merrie-hearted Bird,
& lett your Fancie shape Her
Some dear & simple Word,
Soe sweete it sha'n't escape Her
& if a Blushe you see
Steale upp & chase across Her face,
Return & counsell me.
Haste, little God ! I send Her,
Bye You, ys MS,
Wch hopefull Love has penned Her
Withe quill in Honie dipt;
Haste ; bidd Her Heart be tender
Unto ye lightesome Line
Where I in maske have come to aske
To be Her Valentyne !
Frank Dempster Sherman.
Aphorisms from the Quarters.
Light cotton-bale mighty often take mo' baggin'
dan de heavy one.
Long ha'r don't hide de brand on de horse.
New-grounds take de toughness out de beefsteak.
It's was'in' time to cook de batter-cake on bofe
sides.
Muddy road calls de mile-pos' a liar.
'Tis hard to make clo'es fit a miserbul man.
Coaxin' some folks is like coolin' quicklime wid a
cup o' water.
De stopper gits de longes' res' in de empty jug.
Horseshoe ober de do' don't dribe orf de tax col-
lector.
De church-bells sometimes do better wuk dan dc
sermon.
Some o' de wus lookin' animals at de county fa'r
got to pay to git in.
De cleanes' paf is de wus one to lay down in.
De wus skeered man is ap' to miss de safes' place.
Talkin' to some folks is same as warmin' your
fingers by a piece o' fox-fire.
J. A. Macon.
OH, JULY — DIS LONG TIME !
(Putnam County, Georgia, 1858.)
Mr. Coon, Mr. Coon, he rack mighty fas',
Mr. Coon, Mr. Coon, he slip froo de grass -
En yit Mr. Coon gits kotch at las' !
Oh, July! Dis long time!
Dis long time ! Oh, July !
Oh, July ! Dis strong time !
Dis strong time ! Oh, July! *
Mr. Rabbit, Mr. Rabbit, he run en squot,
He HP he foot lak de groun' mighty hot-
En yit Mr. Rabbit lan's safe in de pot!
Oh, July ! Dis strong time !
Dis strong time ! Oh, July !
Oh, July ! Mighty long time !
Mighty long time ! Oh, July !
Mr. Fox, Mr. Fox, he git over groun',
He run cross-ways en he run all 'roun' —
En yit Mr. Fox will be run down !
Oh, July ! Dis long time !
Dis long time ! Oh, July !
Oh, July! Dis wrong time!
Dis wrong time ! Oh, July !
Mr. Mink, Mr. Mink, he slicker dan sin,
He make 'im a hole en den he slip in —
En yit Mr. Mink will lose he skin!
Oh, July ! Mighty wrong time !
Mighty wrong time ! Oh, July !
Oh, July ! Mighty long time !
Mighty long time ! Oh, July !
WALK-A CHALK.
(In and around Sapelo, Georgia Coast.)
'E walk-a Chalk, da honkry man,
'E eat um rice, 'e sop um pan ;
'E sop um pan, 'e lick um dry,
'E smack 'e mout', 'e roll 'e y-eye:
Ki! Walk-a Chalk!
Da' honkry man, 'e Walk-a Chalk,
'E mout' so full 'e no kin talk,
'E shed 'e y-eye, 'e wuk um jaw,
'E no kin talk, 'e chaw um chaw:
Hi ! Walk-a Chalk !
'E wipe 'e mout', 'e shed 'e y-eye,
'E 'tretch um out, lak gwan fer die,
'E flup 'e head smack in da pan,
'E dream 'e yerry da buckra-man ! t
'E Walk-a Chalk!
Joel Chandler Harris.
*This refrain chorus belongs to a dozen different songs. _ Its
meaning must be taken literally. July is a long time, a hot time,
and a strong time to those who work in the sun.
t The white man ; the overseer, or boss.
f*§p
tt»Mff!
:
Sifiiilll^
The Century Magazine
Vol. XXIX.
MARCH, 1885.
No.
THE LAND OF THE FALSE PROPHET.*
In this paper I have endeavored to describe
the Nile route which the British have selected
for their line of advance, the country in which
their operations must be carried on, and the
warlike race they have to encounter. The
Soudan, as any one may see by referring to
the map, is an immense region extending on
both sides of the equator and across the entire
continent of Africa. Its name is derived from
the Arabic aswad, plural suda, black, and Beled-
es-Soudan, as the Arabs call it, means literally
the Land of the Blacks. On the east of the
Nile it extends to the Red Sea, and on the
west it embraces Kordofan and Darfour. Its
capital is Khartoum, at the junction of the
White with the Blue Nile. South of Khar-
toum is Sennaar, bounded on the west by the
White Nile and on the east by Abyssinia.
When General Gordon was Governor- General
of the Soudan in 1873-78, a chain of Egyptian
garrisons, of which Gondokoro was the princi-
pal, reached as far as the great lakes. Egypt
proper extends only from the Mediterranean
to the first cataract.
The Nile, issuing from the lakes near the
equator, is the only source of life for the entire
region. No wonder the ancient Egyptians
worshiped the Nile as a god, for without it
their country would have been a desolate,
sandy waste, like the deserts to the east and
west of it. After a course of 3300 miles (the
last 1700 without a single affluent or tributary)
the Nile separates into two main branches at
the head of the Delta, finally discharging the
greatly diminished volume of its waters into
the Mediterranean through the Rosetta and
Damietta mouths.
Let us imagine ourselves ascending the
stream when it is at its full, in early Sep-
tember. Twelve miles above the apex of
the Delta we arrive in sight of the city of
Cairo. On the eastern bank, on a plain ex-
tending three miles back to the Mokattan
hills, stands the vast Arab city of nearly half
a million of people, with the thousand mina-
rets of its four hundred mosques, its palaces,
and its gardens of waving palm-trees. On
one of the first spurs of the Mokattan, three
hundred feet above the plain, rises the great
citadel founded by Saladin. On the west
bank tower those wonders of the world, the
great pyramids of Gizeh, and beyond them
the Libyan desert stretches without limits
until it merges into the Great Sahara. As we
advance, the ever-shifting kaleidoscope of the
Nile unfolds itself before our eyes. We pass
the site of ancient Memphis and the eleven
pyramids of Sakkara. In the narrow valley,
rarely three miles in width, and generally much
less, is contained all the cultivable land of
Egypt. Excepting a few oases, all the rest is
the desert. At many points the utterly barren
hills of the Arabian and the Libyan chains
come down to the river's edge, and nothing is
seen but the rugged red and yellow cliffs, with
the heated air visibly quivering under the
fierce African sun. Then again, as the hills
recede for a mile or less, sometimes on one
shore alone, sometimes on both, are rich, har-
vests, whitening cotton, green sugar-cane, date-
* The reader will be interested in knowing that General Colston writes out of his knowledge of the
Soudan gained while he was an officer on the general staff of the Egyptian army, in the service of which he
commanded two expeditions of exploration in the Soudan, traveling on all the principal caravan routes,
and spending two years in the towns and among the tribes which are frequently mentioned in connection
with El Mahdi's rebellion. — Ed.
[Copyright, 1885, by The Century Co. All rights reserved.]
644
THE LAND OF THE FALSE PROPHET
laden palms, and native villages with their
quaint pigeon-houses and solitary minarets ;
while here and there under the orange and fig
trees may be seen the white dome over the tomb
of some Mussulman saint. At sunrise and sun-
set long files of veiled women in loose blue robes
come down from the villages to the river's brim ;
then, with their water-jars carefully poised
on their heads, walk away with stately stride.
We pass Denderah, Karnak, Luxor, Thebes,
with their temples, sphinxes, obelisks, and
majestic ruins, before we reach the first
cataract. Our boat, towed by some five hun-
dred naked Nubians, yelling like so many
black demons, is dragged up above the rapids
between great rocks of glistening basalt, and
resumes its course up the river. Passing the
island of Elephantine and the great Ptolemaic
temple of Isis at Philae, the most picturesque
ruin in Egypt, two hundred miles more of
uninterrupted navigation brings us to the won-
derful cliff- excavated temple of Abou-Simbel
and to the second cataract at Wady Haifa.
Here we must leave our boat, which has
carried us nine hundred miles from the sea.
Five great cataracts and many rapids several
miles in length make navigation impracticable,
if not quite impossible, to Berber, a further dis-
tance of seven hundred and fifty miles by water.
It is at and beyond Wady Haifa that the river
expedition will encounter its greatest difficul-
ties ; yet there is nothing within the limits of
possibility that British gold, skill, and pluck
may not accomplish. But too much time has
been lost, for the Nile is as regular as the
course of the seasons. It begins to rise at
Khartoum about June 21st, is at its fullest by
September 1st, and decreases steadily and regu-
larly from October 1st until the next summer
solstice. Instead of wasting months in vacil-
lating about impossible desert routes, the
British authorities should have understood
from the first that the expedition must follow
the Nile, which alone can save it from perish-
ing of thirst. The army should have left
Cairo in August, and have reached Khartoum
in December. Now it is impeded by low
water — the hot season begins in March, and
a summer in the Soudan will cost more lives
than the enemy.
At Wady Haifa ordinary expeditions mount
the desert-ship — the camel — and follow the
western bank of the river. As we ascend the
Nile, the complexions of the natives shade to-
ward black. The fellah of Lower Egypt, no
darker than a Creole, becomes of a deeper hue
with every day's journey. The Nubians above
the first cataract are chocolate in color, but
with straight hair and profile. Next, the Dong-
olawee, more or less mixed ; and after them, the
endless variety of Central African types begins
to prevail, the complexion growing darker, the
profile more prognathous, and the hair more
kinky, yet altogether unlike the woolly headed
negro of the Guinea coast, the parent-stock of
America's colored population. Ruins of great
temples bear witness in these far regions to the
extent of the dominion of ancient Egypt.
At Hannek, near the third cataract, numer-
ous islands of basaltic rock rise to the height of
two or three hundred feet above the bed of the
river. Most of these are crowned with the ruins
of large and imposing castles with lofty towers
and battlements, erected nine or ten hundred
years ago by the dwellers of the Nile Valley as
a refuge against the razzias of the robber tribes.
These ruins, especially at Sarras, are strikingly
like those of the feudal castles on the Rhine.
Above the third cataract we pass the large
and fertile island of Argo on our way to New
Dongola, the place so frequently mentioned
in the daily dispatches. It is the center of a
turbulent and adventurous population, in great
part descended from the old Memlooks who
escaped Mohammed Ali's massacre in 181 1
and fled here for refuge. Among these people,
KHARTOUM.
THE LAND OF THE FALSE PROPHET
645
A CAMEL-DRIVER.
slave-hunters always find an abundance of bend to the south-west at Abou-Hamed, nearly
willing recruits. two hundred miles above. At Debbeh the
Passing Old Dongola, an almost aban- great caravan route to El Obeid and Dar-
doned town on the eastern bank, we reach four leaves the Nile and strikes off to the
Debbeh just at the elbow where the Nile south-west through desolate deserts.* Half-
resumes its northern course after its sharp way between Debbeh and Abou-Hamed is
* A short distance above Debbeh are Ambukol and Korti, which theBritish will make their second base if they
abandon the river route in consequence of the increasing difficulties due to the regular fall of the Nile at this
season. From Ambukol a trail leads across the Bahiouda desert to Shendy, and another to Khartoum (220
and 240 miles) ; but this route presents the same difficulty explained in the September Century as common
to desert routes, i. e., the impossibility of marching several thousand men with their immense trains through
a waterless tract in which the wells, few and far apart, can never supply more than 500 men at one time.
Vol. XXIX.— 63.
646
THE LAND OF THE FALSE PROPHET
the fourth cataract, near Merawi, which ac-
quired a tragic celebrity as the scene of the
massacre of Colonel Stewart and his party in
October last. Abou-Hamed is a miserable
Nile town, memorable for the destruction of a
body of eight hundred Turkish Bashi-Bazouks
(irregular cavalry), who were surprised by the
Bishareens, in 1820. All who escaped from
Bedouin swords and spears were driven into
the river and drowned in the cataracts below.
It derives its only importance from being the
southern terminus of the great Korosko cara-
van route. On the way between Abou-Hamed
and Berber is the fifth cataract, one of the
export trade, which here leaves the no longer
navigable upper river and finds its way by
the great caravan route to Suakim on the
Red Sea.
Here the ascending traveler may take to
the river once more, embarking on one of the
small side- wheel steamers brought in sections
on camel's-back many years ago and put to-
gether at this point. Not over seventy feet in
length, drawing very little water, yet fre-
quently getting aground on sand-banks, they
seem to have been Gordon's chief reliance.
Thirty miles above Berber we pass the mouth
of the Atbara, the last affluent of the Nile,
most picturesque as well as difficult on the
Nile. From several days' observation at two
different times, I believe this cataract to be
quite impassable for ascending boats on ac-
count of the rocks and the extreme velocity of
the water. The crocodile and hippopotamus
abound there, and aquatic birds are found in
great numbers. One hundred and thirty-three
miles above Abou-Hamed is Berber, a town
of ten thousand people, recently shelled and
temporarily recaptured by General Gordon.
It owes its importance to its position, being
the great entrepot of almost all the Soudan
coming down from Abyssinia and flowing
only during the rainy season. In the penin-
sula formed by the Nile and the Atbara, called
by Strabo the' island of Meroe, and just above
the sixth cataract, are wonderful vestiges of
Ethiopian civilization. Besides sphinxes and
ruined temples, I counted no less than forty-
two pyramids, which, though far smaller than
those of Gizeh, would be considered gigantic
in any other land.
A few miles above these ruins is Shendy,
an important market- town, the terminus of
the caravan route from Kassala and Abyssinia,
THE LAND OF THE FALSE PROPHET
647
and also of the intended Soudan
railway, surveyed and mapped
out for the ex- Khedive Ismail Pasha by the
English engineer Fowler, of which only thirty
miles (out of five hundred and fifty-five) above
Wady Haifa are constructed.
Steaming one hundred miles above Shendy,
we reach the point where the Blue Nile, flow-
ing from the mountains of Abyssinia, merges
its limpid stream with the turbid waters of the
White Nile. Just above the angle formed by
the two rivers lies the city of Khartoum, the
capital of the Soudan. It was founded by
Mohammed Ali, a man of great genius and
iron will, who originated all those reforms,
both civil and military, that placed Egypt far
ahead of all other Mussulman countries.
When he had completed the conquest of
Kordofan and the submission of the Bedouin
tribes in 1820, he at once recognized the im-
portance of the commercial and strategic posi-
tion of Khartoum. A palace for the governor,
barracks for a garrison, an arsenal and a ship-
yard were constructed in substantial style, and
the new city soon became the center of a vast
trade in ivory, ostrich feathers, gum arabic,
grain, cattle, and last, though far from least,
slaves. In fact, it always was the point where
slave-traders fitted out their expeditions, ob-
tained their recruits, and found a market for
their human cattle. I was there while Gordon
was Governor-General of the Soudan. He had
received from the Khedive Ismail Pasha the
most stringent orders to suppress the slave-
trade by the sternest exercise of military
power, and the native governors dared not
show any remissness in seconding him ; but
the trade was so interwoven with the ideas
and customs of the people, that very little ef-
fect was produced beyond forcing it to seek
concealment by going around the city instead
of through it. The Austrian consul, Mr. Ros-
sett, a very intelligent gentleman, told me at
the time that the slave-bazaars were closed,
it was true ; but if any one wanted one hun-
dred boys or girls, they could be procured
NEW
DONGOLA.
quietly, within two hours, at the rate of thirty-
five to fifty dollars a head.
Khartoum is a city numbering between
fifty and sixty thousand people. Several Eu-
ropean consuls reside there. The American
consul was Azar Abd-el-Melek, a Christian
Copt from Esneh, and one of the principal
merchants. The European colony is small
and continually changing; for Khartoum is a
perfect grave-yard for Europeans, and in the
rainy season for natives also, the mortality
averaging then from thirty to forty per day,
which implies three thousand to four thou-
sand for the season. Khartoum is the com-
mercial center of the Soudan trade, amounting
altogether to sixty-five million dollars a
year, and carried on by one thousand Euro-
pean and three thousand Egyptian commer-
cial houses. Drafts and bills of exchange
upon Khartoum are as good as gold in Cairo
and Alexandria, and vice versa. From offi-
cial sources I learned that the city con-
tained three thousand and sixty houses, many
of them two-storied, each having from ten to
one hundred and fifty occupants. Stone and
lime are found in abundance, and the build-
ings are, after a fashion, substantial, the houses
belonging to rich merchants being very spa-
cious and comfortable. There are large ba-
zaars, in which is found a much greater variety
of European and Asiatic goods than would
be expected in such distant regions. In the
spacious market-place a brisk trade is carried
on in cattle, horses, camels, asses, and sheep,
as well as grain, fruit, and other agricultural
produce. Many years ago an Austrian Ro-
648
THE LAND OF THE FALSE PROPHET
A DONGOLA GIRL.
man Catholic mission was established and lib-
erally supported by the Emperor of Austria
and by contributions from the entire Catholic
world. It occupies a large parallelogram sur-
rounded by a solid wall. Within this inclos-
ure, in beautiful gardens of palm, fig, pome-
granate, orange, and banana, stand a massive
cathedral, a hospital, and other substantial
buildings. Before the people of Egypt and
the Soudan had been irritated by foreign in-
terference, such was their perfect toleration
and good temper that the priests and nuns,
in their distinctive costumes, were always safe
from molestation, not only at Khartoum, but
even at El Obeidand the neighborhood, where
the majority are Mussulmans and the rest
heathens. It was stated some months ago that
Gordon had abandoned the Governor's palace
and transformed the Catholic mission into a
fortress, its surrounding wall and massive build-
ings rendering it capable of strong resistance.
From Khartoum the Nile is navigable nearly
to the great lakes. Sennaar on the east and
Kordofan on the west of the White Nile are
the most southern provinces of the Egyptian
Soudan, and extend to about the twelfth
degree of latitude, which is also the limit
of Moslem predominance. Beyond are the
heathen tribes known as Shillooks, Denkas,
Doowairs, etc. A little south of the tenth
degree the Sobat falls into the Nile on the
east and the Bahr-el-Gazal on the west.
A few miles above, the Nile Valley expands
into an immense net-work of almost inextri-
cable marshes, over one hundred miles in
breadth. There is no river that presents more
sudden and enormous variations than the
Nile. On one of the little steamers which
have been doing Gordon such good service,
I passed through a gorge of basaltic cliffs,
at Jebel Rowyan, about fifty miles below
Khartoum. There the whole volume of the
Nile flows through a canon just forty yards
in width, but the stream is one hundred and
fifty feet deep at low water. A mile below, the
river is three miles wide, full of islands, and
becomes so shallow that my steamer grounded
five or six times in one day.
THE LAND OF THE FALSE PROPHET.
649
r
■-■-<■ . ■■■■.■•, . ,' ; ■ ."■" ' -^- "■' ' ■ ■ : -.=■ •■■ = "■■■:■■ : '
WADY OLLAKEE. — ANCIENT ARAB CASTLE.
From Khartoum to the lakes, crocodiles
and hippopotami become more and more
plentiful. On a cool day, in December or
January, crocodiles of all sizes are seen sun-
ning themselves on every sand-bank, as thick
as logs after a freshet. Herds of wild buf-
faloes and gigantic antelopes, elephants, and
giraffes come to slake their thirst at the
water's edge, and the night is made lively, if
not hideous, by the lion's roar on the land,
and the continual bellowing of the hippo-
potamus in every pool.
Agriculture is carried on industriously
enough all over the narrow valley of the
Nile, which, from Sennaar to the Mediter-
ranean, including the few oases, contains only
ten thousand square miles of arable land, in-
WADY OLLAKEE. — GOLD MINES OF DEREHIB.
habited by seven or eight millions of people
cultivating the soil and living in towns and
permanent settlements. Even where the cliffs
come down to the river, if a strip of culti-
vable ground only a yard or two in breadth
is left exposed at low Nile, it is made to
bear its tribute of a few rows of beans,
onions, or doura. Wherever water can be
elevated, the land exhibits wonderful fertility ;
and the amount of labor expended upon
merely lifting water to the highest attain-
able level, by means of the most primitive
machines, is absolutely prodigious as well as
continual, for a few hours' intermission would
result in the burning up of the crop. At the line
where the irrigating waters halt the desert
begins, and its limit is as sharply marked as
a gravel walk across a greensward. Ancient
Egypt was the granary of the Roman Empire,
and the soil has lost none of its fertility.
It is impossible to form an accurate estimate
of the savage tribes along the Nile between
the tenth degree and the lakes, but they prob-
ably number two or three millions. They cul-
tivate only a little land, and are herdsmen,
hunters, and robbers.
Such is the valley of the Nile, that myste-
rious river which, the reverse of all others,
THE LAND OF THE FALSE PROPHET.
651
steadily decreases in
volume by irrigation
and enormous evapora-
tion for the last 1700
miles of its course,
and whose fountain-
heads south of the
great lakes have never
yet been ascertained.
THE DESERT.
All the vast spaces
east and west of the
i^ ' ■-- - w>i-«y*-*Kjss> "
Nile Valley between *
the fourteenth degree
and the Mediterranean __.
(over eight hundred V\
thousand square miles)
are The Desert. It would
seem at the first glance to be x
absolutely unfitted for the hab-
itation of man ; but as he continues to live
and multiply amid the ice-floes of the arctic
circle, so he does here in this rainless, barren,
and torrid zone. He who has never traveled
through the desert cannot form a just idea of
that strange and marvelous region, in which
all the ordinary conditions of life are completely
changed. It is essentially a waterless land,
without rivers, creeks, rivulets, or springs.
Once away from the Nile, the only supply of
water is derived from deep wells, few, scanty,
and far apart. Long droughts are frequent.
When I explored the great Arabian Desert
between the Nile and the Red Sea, it had not
rained for three years ; and when I traveled
over the Suakim route and through Kordofan,
no rain had fallen for two years. Between
i the twenty-ninth and the nineteenth degree of
s latitude it never rains at all. Water becomes
I precious to a degree beyond the concep-
| tion of those who have never known its scar-
! city. Members of the Catholic mission at El
I Obeid, where water is much more plentiful
THE SECOND CATARACT.
than in the deserts, assured me that, the
summer before, water had been sold as high as
half a dollar a gallon by the proprietors of
the few wells that had not dried up. When
long droughts occur, the always scanty crop
of doura fails away from the Nile, and the
greater part of the flocks and herds perish,
as well as a considerable part of the popula-
tion. It follows naturally that when under-
taking a journey through the desert, the para-
mount question is water. A supply must be
carried sufficient to last to the next well, be
it one or five days distant. It is usually carried
in goat and ox skins suspended from the
camels' pack-saddles. These are the water-
bottles of Scripture, which become leaky from
wear, and always lose a considerable portion
of their contents by evaporation. The first
thing after reaching a well is to ascertain the
quantity and quality of its water. As to the
former, it may have been exhausted by a pre-
652
THE LAND OF THE FALSE PROPHET
ceding caravan, and hours may be required
for anew supply to ooze in again. As to the qual-
ity, desert water is generally bad, the exception
being when it is worse, though long custom
enables the Bedouins to drink water so brack-
ish as to be intolerable to all except themselves
and their flocks. Well do I remember how at
each well the first skinful was tasted all around
as epicures sip rare wines. Great was the joy
if it was pronounced " moya helwa" sweet
water ; but if the Bedouins said " nwosh tayib"
not good, we might be sure it was a solution of
Epsom salts. The best water is found in nat-
ural rocky reservoirs in deep narrow gorges
where the sun never shines. As to " live springs,"
I never saw more than half a dozen in six
thousand miles' travel.
The desert would be absolutely impassable
without the camel. He was created for it, and
thrives better there than anywhere else. His
broad, soft foot enables him to traverse deep
sands where the horse would sink nearly to
his knees, and would promptly perish. He
lives on almost nothing, the scanty herbage
|. of the desert and the twigs of the thorny mi-
mosa being his favorite food ; but his most
precious quality is his ability to travel five
days without drinking during the fiercest heat
of summer, and much longer at other seasons.
For this reason wells are very rarely more
than five days apart. The African camel
comes from Arabia, and has only one hump.
The best breeds are reared by the Ababdehs
and Bishareens between the Nile and the
great Arabian chain. They are distinguished
by small head, slender neck and limbs, and
short hair. The camel and the dromedary
differ only in breed, just as the dray horse
differs from the racer. The burden camel,
called gamal by the Arabs, never changes his
regular walk of two and a half miles an hour
under a load, which should never exceed three
hundred pounds for a long journey, for his
strength must be estimated by what he can
carry when exhausted by hardship and priva-
tion. The dromedary, or riding camel, called
hageen, is much swifter. With no other load than
his rider, a bag of bread or dates, and a skin of
water, he can travel a hundred miles in one
;
THE LAND OF THE FALSE PROPHET
653
day on an emergency. The walk of the drom-
edary (as of the camel) is the most excruciat-
ing, back-breaking, skin-abrading mode of
locomotion conceivable ; but when pressed
into a pace of five or six miles an hour, which
is his natural gait, a good, high-bred drome-
dary is as comfortable a mount as can be de-
sired ; and I can aver, from personal experi-
ence, that a fairly good horseman will find
himself perfectly at home on camel's-back
and squatty Bongo, about two feet shorter,
and presenting every type of feature and
every variety of color from a dark olive to
the brightest copper and the deepest black.
The natives divide their deserts into two
classes. To the first they apply two names,
eljebel, the mountain, or el barriyeh, the wil-
derness. This is the kind of desert spoken of
in Scripture, where John the Baptist preached
to the multitude who went out to hear him, and
s^Siiis^assssass&issaspsis^M
CAMELS DRINKING.
after two days' practice. One of the most in-
teresting and picturesque sights of the desert
is a caravan of several hundred camels just
from Central Africa. The sheikhs and chief
merchants wear turbans and flowing robes
of various colors ; the camel-drivers and com-
mon people are bare-headed, and with only a
few yards of coarse white cotton around the
loins, but all armed with swords or lances.
The animals are loaded with great bags and
bales of ostrich feathers, gum arabic, hides,
and senna, the chief productions of the Sou-
dan ; while not a few carry four or six ele-
phants' tusks wrapped in raw hides, and looking
like gigantic scythe-blades. On foot is a mot-
ley crowd of almost naked savages from all
the tribes of the Upper Nile, from the lanky
Dinka, nearly seven feet in height, to the fat
Vol. XXIX.— 64.
found supplies of locusts and wild honey. I
never found wild honey, but of the living
locusts, which are sometimes eaten by the
Bedouins, great abundance at times, as well
as of the pods of a species of the locust-tree,
which are edible and are thought by some
commentators to be the locust used as food
by St. John. The wilderness is diversified by
mountains always absolutely bare of all vege-
tation. A Bedouin can hardly believe that
in other lands the mountains are clothed to
their summits with green and luxuriant forests,
and that from their flanks dash down cascades
and rivers of " living waters." Such things he
has never seen or even dreamed of, unless as a
vision of the Moslem paradise. But the val-
leys, or wadies (pronounced waddies), and
some portions of the plains are often com-
654
THE LAND OF THE FALSE PROPHET
paratively well supplied with vegetation.
After every shower of the brief rainy season,
the dry beds in the wadies are converted for
a few hours into furious torrents. The water
disappears, quickly absorbed by the thirsty
soil ; but where an impenetrable stratum lies
parallel and close to the surface, the water is
kept from sinking too deep, and in such spots
will be found trees and herbage, the latter
springing up with magic rapidity after the
first showers. Many kinds of grasses afford
camels, sheep, and goats abundant pasture for
a portion of the year. Wild flowers are seen
in great variety : on the slopes of the Arabian
chain, acres upon acres of heliotrope ; on the
plains, a bush called merk, resembling the
Scotch broom, and bearing small five-pointed
yellow stars of sweetest fragrance. In Sen-
naar and Kordofan are hundreds of square
miles covered with the plant which takes its
name from the former province and supplies
the world with senna. After the first rain the
trees which drop their leaves during the intense
heat of summer are swiftly clad in living green.
Numerous species are found : the heglik ( Ba-
lanites sEgyptiaca), and several kinds of acacia,
among which are the seyal, of considerable
size ; the sount, used for saddles and various
utensils, and its bark for tanning; the small
Acacia mimosa, with its huge thorns, the favor-
ite food of camels ; and in Sennaar and Kordo-
fan the hashab ( Acacia gummif era ) , which pro-
duces the gum arabic of the world. It bears a
small orange-colored button of intense and de-
lightful odor, identical with the "poppinack"
of Carolina and Georgia. The proximity of a
thicket of these trees (the favorite resort of
MODE OF WEARING HAIR BY A DANDY OF SUAKIM.
monkeys and guinea-fowl) is revealed hun-
dreds of yards off by the sweet perfume wafted
upon the breeze ; and at the proper season
lumps of the gum are seen glistening like
icicles all over the limbs. South of the thir-
teenth degree the huge baobab ( Adansonia
digitata) flourishes across the entire African
continent. This is the elephant of the vege-
table kingdom, thin-foliaged, unsightly, from
sixty to seventy feet in circumference, but not
SON OF EX-SULTAN OF THE KOUNGURAS.
over fifty in height. Its trunk, always hollow,
is used in Kordofan and Darfour as a reser-
voir for water, holding from fifteen to twenty
thousand gallons.
From November to February, just after a
good rainy season, the climate is perfection, just
like the brightest and warmest October days
in Virginia. Though the thermometer occa-
sionallv rises into the nineties, and sometimes
higher, the air is perfectly dry, and the morn-
ings and nights are pleasantly cool. Game is
found in proportion to the vegetation : on
the plains, ostriches and countless gazelles
and antelopes ; in the wadies, rock- partridge
and grouse, guinea-fowls and hares ; on
the high ridges, capricorns and wild asses.
Among the fauna of the wilderness are some
unwelcome specimens, locusts, serpents, and
scorpions, the latter quite numerous, and
altogether too fond of nestling on one's
blankets of a cold night, but quite unaggres-
sive if let alone. Add to these the vultures,
which stalk familiarly about the camp, pick-
ing up what they can find, and the jackals
and hyenas, whose howls are heard in the
night. Traveling at this season is perfectly
charming. Everybody is in fine spirits, for
water and pasture are plentiful; laughter and
endless chaff are heard from one end of the
column to the other. A caravan of five hun-
dred camels covers more ground than a large
cavalry regiment, marching with a front of
about one hundred yards where the wadies are
broad, and reducing to single file when crossing
narrow defiles between gates of granite and
basaltic cliffs. When evening comes, camp is
pitched in some pleasant wady, and quickly
dozens of fires illuminate the valley. The
large Soudan sheep, which follow the caravan,
grazing as they go, supply a delicious roast
added to the game killed during the day's
march, and the canned soups, meats, and veg-
etables we used to carry in abundance. After
dinner comes the unequaled coffee, straight
from Mocha, then pipes and pleasant chat,
while all around we hear the laughter and gab-
ble of the good-natured soldiers and Bedouins
mingled with wild an d barbaric songs, accompa-
nied by the viol, called keinengeh. Occasion-
THE LAND OF THE FALSE PROPHET.
655
ROCKS OF KONOSSOO.
ally, of a moonlight night, the Bedouins per-
form their national war-dance, with sword,
lance, and shield, in mock attack and de-
fense, and even their great sheikh, the princely
Mohammed Khalifa, condescends to take part;
while the beating of the darabukas wakes the
echoes of the wady and the answering yells of
the astonished jackals and hyenas.
If the " wilderness " in winter offers many
attractions, it is quite the reverse with the
atmoor, as the Arabs call the utterly barren
kind of desert. This is truly the ideal desert,
consisting mainly of hard gravel plains diver-
sified by zones of deep sand, rocky ridges,
sometimes of considerable altitude, and rug-
ged defiles. It is absolutely destitute of all
vegetation, and consequently of animal life.
Only the ostrich and hyena cross it swiftly
by night, and the vulture hovers over the car-
avans by day. Not a tree, not a bush, not a
blade of grass relieves the glare of the sun-
light upon the yellow sand. No one can re-
sist the solemn impression of deep silence and
infinite space produced by the desert. When
night has come, and the soldiers and Bed-
ouins are asleep in their bivouacs, walk away
under the unequaled African moon beyond
the first ridge of sand or rocks. Around you
stretches a boundless sea-like horizon. The
sand gleams almost as white as snow. Not a
sound falls upon the ear, not the murmur of
a breeze, not the rustle of leaf or grass, not
the hum of the smallest insect. Silence — only
silence — as profound as death, unless it is
broken by the howl of a prowling hyena or
the distant roar of the king of beasts.
Within the limits of Egypt and the Soudan
these desolate atmoors extend over three-
quarters of a million of square miles, never
trodden by the foot of man. Only a few car-
avan trails cross them in their narrowest parts,
with scanty wells at long intervals; and the
necessities of trade can alone account for their
being penetrated at all. They are like oceans,
where caravans pass each other in haste, like
vessels at sea. The marches are perfectly ter-
rible, and yet it is worse to halt during the
day than to keep in motion, for the heat
makes sleep or rest impossible, even under
canvas. With the burning sand under your
feet and the vertical sun over your head, you
are as between the lids of an oven. In sum-
mer the thermometer rises to 150 and 160
degrees. The air that blows feels as if it
had just passed through a furnace or a brick-
kiln. Over the plains it quivers visibly in
the sun, as if rising from a red-hot stove,
while the mirage mocks your senses with the
most life-like image of lakes, ponds, and rip-
pling waters. No more laughter or merriment
along the column now. Soldiers and camp-fol-
lowers protect themselves as best they can with
6S6
THE LAND OF THE FALSE PROPHET.
HdsayJc,
THE DAHABIEH.
turbans and blankets, bringing over all the
hoods of their cloth capotes, leaving only a nar-
row aperture just enough to see ; while, strange
to say, the Bedouins stride along on foot, bare-
headed ax\A almost naked, without appearingto
suffer any great discomfort. Were not the nights
comparatively cool (8o° in summer), neither
men nor animals could endure the terrible
ordeal.
THE BEDOUINS.
The small area, not exceeding five or six
thousand square miles, coming under the de-
scription given above of the " wilderness," is
the wandering-ground of those tribes of no-
mads called Bedouins. Their total number
is probably about half a million. They all
claim to be of Arab descent, their ancestors
having crossed the Red Sea from the Hejaz
(Northern Arabia) centuries before the Chris-
tian era ; but some of them have become very
much mixed since that time. In fact, in the
Arabic language, whose plurals are so strangely
formed, Arab is the plural of Bedawee, and
is the name of the inhabitants of Arabia
proper, though very improperly applied to all
the people of Egypt, who speak Arabic, it is
true, but belong to an entirely different race.
The nomads of the desert are always called
Bedaween'. The principal tribes between the
Nile and the Red Sea are the Ababdehs, Bish-
areens, and Hadendawas ; west of the Nile
are the Hassaneeyehs, the Kababeesh, and
the Beggaras. All these, divided into numer-
ous sub-tribes, have almost identical customs,
and differ chiefly in their dialects and the
mode of wearing their hair. They constitute
the great bulk of the Mahdi's forces, and are
the most formidable adversaries the British
have to encounter, as the latter learned from
their experience at Tamai, where a British
square of two thousand men was broken,
driven back half a mile, and its artillery cap-
tured by these naked sons of the desert, armed
with only swords and spears. This alone would
THE LAND OF THE FALSE PROPHET
657
suffice to attract the attention of the world,
even if their customs and modes of life did
not invest them with peculiar interest. Their
wealth consists in flocks and camels. They
are carriers, guides, and camel-drivers, but no
amount of money can induce them to work
the ground, and they look with infinite con-
tempt upon the fellaheen and the inhabitants
of towns, whom they scornfully term " dwell-
ers among bricks." On my first expedition,
a large sum in Austrian silver dollars (the
money they prefer) was given me by the
Government to hire my camel-drivers to dig
out the Roman reservoirs on the ancient mil-
itary road between Keneh on the Nile and
Berenice on the Red Sea. In reply to my
offers of extra pay, the sheikhs assured me
that not one of their men would degrade him-
self by such labor for any price, even a guinea
per day. They are governed in an absolutely
patriarchal way by their great sheikhs, and
their condition is very much like that of their
ancestors in the days of Abraham and Lot
and Ishmael. They have no individual pos-
session in the land, but the territorial limits
of each tribe are well defined, and the en-
croachments of one tribe upon the range and
wells of another are the most frequent cause
of their feuds.
The great Bedouin tribes were not reduced
to obedience to the Egyptian Government
without long and fierce struggles. Mohammed
Ali's iron hand forced them to submit when
he conquered Kordofan in 1820. But it was
a very limited submission. The Government
never interferes with their internal affairs or
wars, leaving them to the rule of their sheikhs,
and well satisfied when able to collect their
taxes more or less irregularly. Much less does
it undertake to enforce conscription among
them, though, being of a warlike disposition,
they would make the best of soldiers if they
could be disciplined; but this is impossible, for
their ruling passion is independence and the
free life of the desert. Yet, until recent for-
eign interference broke the prestige and power
of the Khedive, he held their great sheikhs
responsible for the safety of trade and travel on
the deserts, and both were most effectually pro-
tected. They are a fine-looking race, of medium
height and very well formed, with small hands
and feet, and the arched instep of the Arab.
In color they range from dark olive to deep
chocolate, but their features are equal to the
best European types, with aquiline nose, more
delicate in shape than the Hebrew, thin lips
and splendid teeth, and their hair is long and
frizzled. The girls and young women often
have really beautiful faces and graceful forms,
but they lose their beauty early and become
hideous hags. They wear no veils, like the
Mohammedan women of Egypt, and their only
dress is a few yards of cotton, once white,
wound around the waist, hanging to the knees,
and leaving the bust and shoulders exposed.
The Bedouin is the most abstemious of
His food is a little doura obtained from
men.
the settlements in exchange for the surplus
of his flocks and the skins and charcoal that
he prepares for sale. His camels yield him an
abundance of excellent milk, and he could
live on that alone and its various preparations.
He needs but little meat, which is supplied by
his sheep and goats, with an occasional camel
for some great feast. Those who live in more
favored regions breed horses and cattle also.
The desert grasses supply him with mats for
his tents, and the trees with pack-saddles,
ropes, and tan-bark. His water and milk are
carried in goat-skins ; his drinking-vessels are
gourds and grass-woven bowls, which hold
water perfectly. Civilized enough to appre-
6SS
THE LAND OF THE FALSE PROPHET
MOHAMMED IBRAHIM, A KARABEESH GUIDE.
ciate the value of money and a few articles
of European manufacture, he wants little else
than long, straight, and broad double-edged
sword-blades of German or Spanish make, to
which he adapts handles and scabbards of his
own contrivance. A few possess flint-lock
muskets and double-barrel guns. All carry
lances made in the country, whose iron or
copper heads are generally barbed with such
cruel ingenuity that it is impossible to extract
them from a wound without the most horrible
laceration. Fastened above the left elbow is
a curved pruning-knife used to cut twigs of
the mimosa for camels. On the right upper
arm are one or two small morocco cases con-
taining texts of the Koran as amulets against
the " evil eye " and other dangers. Most of
them carry round or oval shields of hippopot-
amus or giraffe hide, and it is a point of honor
with them to go always armed, as the follow-
ing incident illustrates.
On the march, an Egyptian soldier, having
let fall the halter of his camel, ordered roughly
the Bedouin guide walking in front to give it
back to him. The latter replied :
" Am I thy father's camel-driver to be thus
spoken to ? "
Said the soldier, raising his stick :
" Thou son of a hog, give it here, or I'll
strike thee ! "
The Bedouin said :
" You call yourself a soldier because you
wear the uniform of the Turks. You are
nothing but an earth-digger; I am a warrior,
as all my fathers were!"
The soldier struck him. In a moment the
Bedouin's huge saber flashed out of the scab-
bard. The other soldiers (whose arms were
packed on their camels, for we were in a per-
fectly peaceful region) jumped from their
camels to gather stones to defend their com-
rade, while other Bedouins ran up with sword
and lance to the support of theirs. Hearing
the shouts, I rushed on my dromedary, re-
volver in hand, between the two hostile groups
and commanded peace. After hearing both
sides, I ordered the Bedouins to deliver up
their arms, which were packed upon a camel.
They submitted without a word, but three or
four days afterward, as we were approaching
some wells where they expected to find other
Bedouins, they sent me a deputation earnestly
praying the return of their arms, saying they
would be forever disgraced if forced to ap-
pear without them. Their petition was granted
upon promise of good behavior, which was
faithfully kept.
Their warlike disposition is nurtured by the
frequent feuds between neighboring tribes,
generally arising about water and the theft
of cattle. The unwritten law of the desert for-
bids any settlements around the wells, which
are common to all. But two parties arrive at
the same time at a well which is insufficient
for both. A dispute arises as to precedence;
they come to blows and a man is killed. The
murderer flees to his tribe and sends to offer
the price of blood ; for the avenging of blood
as practiced by the ancient Hebrews exists in
full force here, except that there are no "cities
of refuge." If the family of the dead refuse
compensation, war begins, and it may last for
years, each murder by one side demanding
retaliation by the other. Hence it is that even
when peace prevails in the desert, if two-
parties meet, both halt and send out a man
or two to reconnoiter and ascertain if there is
blood between them. When a caravan arrives
unexpectedly in the neighborhood of a Bed-
ouin camp, the first impulse of the natives
is to vanish instantly, especially if soldiers are
seen among the new-comers. The sheep and
goats, driven off by the women and children,
disappear in a twinkling beyond the next
ridge. Having no other encumbrance than a
few skins and gourds, their migrations are
exceedingly prompt and easy. The tents and
other baggage are loaded upon camels, and in
THE LAND OF THE FALSE PROPHET.
659
A GIRL FROM CENTRAL AFRICA.
a few minutes a whole encampment disap-
pears. After this precaution is taken, one or
two men return, and when they have ascer-
tained the peaceful intentions of the strangers,
the others approach to trade and to learn
news, of which they are very greedy.
They are all Mohammedans, but their mode
of life prevents their giving much attention
to the minor practices of their religion. Their
women are much more free than those who
live in settled habitations, and in some of the
tribes this freedom is carried to the most
extreme license, while in others great strict-
ness prevails. The customs of marriage and
divorce differ but little from those prevailing
in all Moslem countries. The Bedouins always
go bare-headed, even in the fiercest heat of
summer, and, strange to say, some tribes,
like the Beggaras, shave their heads. The
Ababdehs twist their hair into plaits the size
of a quill, thrown straight back from front to
rear, while the Bishareens comb all the hair
from the forehead to the crown of the head
straight up to the height of five or six inches,
the rest hanging in braids nearly down to the
shoulders. They plaster their heads with suet
and camel's tallow, or any other grease they
can procure, letting it trickle down upon their
naked breasts and shoulders. The tribes are
distinguished also by the form
and position of gashes cut in the
cheeks in infancy. The Beggaras
who inhabit southern Kordofan,
near the Nile, are very warlike,
and when beyond the reach of
Egyptian garrisons are addicted
to brigandage. They possess
great numbers of splendid oxen,
mounted upon which both men
and women, riding alike, and all
armed with four or five lances,
come in hundreds to the market
at El Obeid. The great sheikhs
of all the tribes usually wear the
turbans and flowing robes of the
Egyptians, but the common peo-
ple are satisfied with a few yards
of cotton around the waist, and
sandals upon their feet.
The Bedouins have a strong
feeling of personal dignity, and
are quick to resent insults. Duels
of a peculiar kind are not un-
common, always supervised by
the elders of the tribe, who never
permit them to come to a fatal
termination. Sometimes the two
adversaries, separated by two
parallel ropes about a yard apart,
are armed with courbashes (a
fearful whip, made of hippopot-
amus hide, which brings the blood with every
cut), and they are encouraged to slash each
other until their wrath is cooled. In more
serious cases the combatants are seated flat
on the ground, face to face, and as close as
they can get. One single knife is given to
the one who wins the first cut, after which
he passes it to his adversary, who strikes the
second blow, and so on alternately. They
are forbidden to strike at a vital part, and
while they are slashing each other's arms,
legs, thighs, and shoulders, — not without a
JEBEL ARRAWAK, UPPER NUBIA. GENERAL APPEARANCE
OF THE ATMOOR.
66o
THE LAND OF THE FALSE PROPHET
COLONEL GORDON, 1867. (FROM PHOTOGRAPH MADE IN EGYPT.)
sort of chivalrous courtesy, — the judges of
the combat watch each stroke that is given,
and when in their opinion enough blood has
been shed, they rise and separate the adver-
saries, who proclaim themselves satisfied, and
return quietly to their tents to have their
wounds dressed.
A brief sketch of the foremost Bedouin
sheikh of the Soudan will illustrate the char-
acter of those tribes. Mohammed Hussein
Khalifa, the great chief of the Ababdehs and
Bishareens, is the patriarchal yet almost abso-
lute ruler of over seventy thousand people.
His ancestors were princes for generations,
perhaps before the days of the Prophet.
He is now about sixty years of age, nearly
six feet high, and of dignified presence. His
color is dark chocolate. He has excellent
features, large black eyes, curved aquiline
nose, thin lips, and a fine beard. He is ex-
tremely wealthy in silver and gold, jewels
and precious arms, camels, horses, and slaves.
The Khedive requires him to reside on the
banks of the Nile, where he possesses a
princely estate of rich alluvial lands, at El
Hoar, near Berber. He is held responsible for
the security of trade and travel through the
eastern deserts, and receives a large royalty
upon the moneys paid his people as guides,
carriers, and camel- drivers ; for it is one of
the privileges claimed by them that no one —
not even government expeditions — shall pass
through their country without hiring them
and their camels. He escorted me for seven
months in my explorations of his deserts,
having with him ten or twelve dromedaries
of his own, and as many burden camels, a
large retinue, and five or six large tents
furnished for his accommodation. Whenever
we came across encampments of his people,
they hastened to do him homage as their
prince, kissing his hand and the hem of his
garment, and submitting their suits for his
decision ; while he, seated under a tree or at
his tent door, administered justice precisely as
the kings of Israel are described as doing ; and
no king or emperor could have a more noble
and commanding manner. His father was
the Sheikh Kralif. When the Memlooks were
exterminated by Mohammed Ali, in 1811,
those that escaped the massacre fled to these
deserts, and Kralif gave them refuge and
hospitality ; and when the dreaded Ibrahim
Pasha followed in pursuit, Kralif alone was
bold enough to avow what he had done, and
to vindicate his course. Soon afterward he
was murdered by a Turkish governor, and
was succeeded by his brother Baraca. The
latter waited for an opportunity, and retaliated
by assassinating the Turk, and some years
later he was murdered by the latter's rela-
tives. Mohammed Khalifa succeeded his
uncle, and took up the avenging of blood,
and the vendetta did not cease until one or
two of the Turks had been killed, and the
HEADQUARTERS OF THE MAHDI AT EL OBEID.
THE LAND OF THE FALSE PROPHET.
66
rest fled the country. When, after seven
months' wanderings through the eastern
deserts, we reached the banks of the Nile, he
gave a great feast at his residence to the en-
tire expedition. Many sheep were slaughtered
and numberless fowls. The officers had their
banquet apart, fifty or more dishes, in the
Arab fashion, a sheep roasted whole crown-
ing the feast. The soldiers, camel-drivers,
and servants all had theirs seated on the
ground and attended by the sheikh's slaves.
He, with a courtesy and grace that any prince
might envy, commencing with us, went from
group to group, breaking bread and eating
just one mouthful with each, accompanying
the act with some graceful oriental compli-
ment. He reminded me of Abraham, only
he is a much more powerful sheikh than
Abraham ever was. He has remained faith-
ful in his allegiance to the Khedive, and he is
the present Mudeer of Berber, so often men-
tioned in the dispatches. He has been made
a pasha and decorated with the order of the
Osmanieh, and is spoken of as the future Gov-
ernor-General of the Soudan. His alliance
is worth as much as an army to the British.
When I was in the Soudan the Mahdi was
in obscurity, secluded in a cave in the island
of Aba above Duem, transforming himself into
a prophet by meditation, prayer, and pre-
tended visions and revelations. What is most
striking about him is his pertinacity and his
power of holding his followers in spite of de-
feat. It is nearly four years since he first
raised the standard of revolt, and during that
time he has suffered nine or ten serious defeats
with barely an equal number of successes.
After every defeat he has returned to the at-
tack stronger than before. Three times he was
repulsed with heavy losses while besieging
El Obeid, but he finally captured it. Hicks
Pasha inflicted a terrible defeat upon him,
but he subsequently destroyed Hicks Pasha
and his entire army. It would be a danger-
ous mistake to suppose that his power is
broken. His inaction during the summer is
explained by the fact that his followers, many
of whom live in Kordofan, had to go home
to plant and secure the scanty crop of dokn
(an inferior kind of doura, which is the only
grain that matures during the brief rainy sea-
son from June 15th to September 15th), on
which their families depend for the next year.
Like all commanders of barbarians, who have
no regular commissariat, he may have only a
couple of thousand men with him to-day and
fifty thousand next month. It is certain that
he had fully that number or more when he ex-
terminated Hicks Pasha. If all the Bedouin
tribes and the people from Kordofan to Don-
gola were to unite under his flag, he could
Vol. XXIX.— 65.
muster more than a hundred thousand men.
But this is riot to be expected, and the British,
profiting by the division existing among the
tribes, may secure some more or less valuable
allies whose fidelity will depend entirely upon
success. But in any case the Mahdi is not a
foe to be despised.
El Obeid is the present center of his power.
I was forced to remain there for six months,
having been disabled in the deserts by insola-
tion produced by excessive heat, and I was
transported back to Suakim in the winter,
nearly a thousand miles across two deserts, in
a litter swung between two camels ; but dur-
ing my convalescence I had time and oppor-
tunity to observe everything worthy of note
in El Obeid. This city is about four hundred
miles from the Nile, two hundred of which
are through desolate atmoors. It is built on
an immense plain, studded with enormous
baobabs, which always grow singly one or two
hundred yards apart. It is a place of fifteen or
twenty thousand inhabitants, almost hidden
in thickets of hegliks and mimosas, which give
it a pleasing appearance from a distance.
There are a few substantial, well-built houses
belonging to Greek and Egyptian merchants.
The telegraph, on iron posts brought from
England, connecting it with Khartoum and
Cairo, was completed while I was there ; and
before three days, such is the civilizing in-
fluence of commerce, the local traders were
using it to ascertain the quotations of gum
arabic and ostrich feathers at Cairo and
Alexandria. The native dwellings are generally
circular, with an earthen wall four or five feet
high, surmounted with a conical roof made of
dokn stalks in regular layers, and quite rain-
proof. These habitations, called tokles, about
twenty feetin diameter, are comfortable enough.
A slender pole projects several feet above
the roof, and when ornamented with a glass
bottle between two ostrich eggs it is considei-
ed the height of architectural luxury. Each
family possesses a sufficient number of these
tokles for its use, and the group is surrounded
with a thorn-hedge. This inclosure, shaded
by hegliks, is often planted as a vegetable gar-
den. The sight of the natives seated around
their dwellings at sundown, the men chatting
and smoking, the women attending to house-
hold duties, and the children playing and roll-
ing about in primitive nakedness, is both cu-
rious and picturesque. The market of El Obeid
is held daily on a spacious square in front of
the Governor's quarters — the main building
of which, now the Mahdi's residence, is
three hundred feet front with a large square
tower in the center. Some three or four
thousand people come to this market from
all the surrounding villages. Cattle, horses,
662
THE LAND OF THE FALSE PROPHET.
camels, sheep, grain, and the identical peanut
of Virginia and Carolina are the staples of
trade. Near by are covered bazaars containing
European goods, and also large warehouses
full of gum arabic, hides, and ostrich feathers.
It is very interesting to watch about sun-
set the groups returning from market. One
sees hundreds of people clad in blue or white
cotton robes and turbans, riding on don-
keys; men and women on camel s'-back ;
Beggaras mounted on bullocks, with their
hands full of lances ; Kababeesh and Haden-
dawa Bedouins ; soldiers in white uniforms,
recruited among the slaves from Central
Africa, taken from the traders in order to
break up their traffic, and drafted into the
black Soudanese regiments. Mingled with
all these are Greeks and Egyptians in their
national costumes, Bashi-bazouks from Al-
bania and Asia Minor, some on foot, others
mounted on their Syrian horses, and Catholic
priests and Sisters of Charity in their peculiar
dress. Last, not least, hundreds of women
venders of merissa (native beer), fruits, and
vegetables, with jars, hampers, and baskets
piled up on their heads, in impossible struc-
tures, apparently defying all the laws of gravi-
tation, yet held up by that astonishing gift of
equilibrium common to all African women.
They go laughing, chatting, running, leaping,
without ever touching the burden with their
hands, and yet nothing falls to the ground.
The crowd gradually disappear ; the tropical
moon rises above the horizon ; the voice of
the muezzin calls the faithful to prayer ; and
the drums and bugles of the garrison (all
Central African negroes) perform very credit-
ably the airs of the French retreat. Then
everything is quiet for an hour, after which
the merry sound of the darabukas and native
flutes announces the fantasias, which follow
the day's labors. This picture of El Obeid,
the capital of Kordofan, would apply with
slight variations to all the large towns of
Egypt and the Soudan.
One sight, however, I beheld there, the
most peculiar and ghastly that ever shocked
my senses. It was the burying-ground, situ-
ated almost within the town, and some six or
eight acres in extent. The gravelly soil was
literally covered with shreds of the white and
blue cotton robes in which the dead are
wrapped for burial. The graves, never more
than two feet deep, are lightly covered with
stones and thorns. Every night the hyenas
come in and dig up the bodies that have been
buried during the day, leaving exposed to
view the remnants of their feast. No imagina-
tion can realize the horror of this Golgotha.
It follows of course that the mortality is
fearful. During the sickly season (that of the
rains) the deaths averaged ten a day in a gar-
rison of two thousand men, and the proportion
was nearly as great among the population.
It is apparently the purpose of the British
Government to abandon the Soudan. But if
the expedition to bring out Gordon and the
garrisons meets with brilliant success, England
may determine to occupy Khartoum per-
manently, as has been so ably and forcibly
urged by Sir Samuel Baker. Otherwise, all
that country will relapse into barbarism ; its
vast trade will be lost to the world ; and to the
comparatively strong and civilized govern-
ment which enforced good order under Ismail
Pasha, will succeed anarchy and the re-
doubled horrors of unrestrained slave-hunting
and slave-trading.
F. E. Colston.
THE RISE OF SILAS LAPHAM*
BY W. D. HOWELLS,
Author of " Venetian Life," "A Chance Acquaintance," "A Modern Instance," "A Woman's Reason," etc.
XI.
Corey put off his set smile with the help of
a frown, of which he first became aware after
reaching home, when his father asked :
"Anything gone wrong with your depart-
ment of the fine arts to-day, Tom ? "
"Oh, no — no, sir," said the son, instantly
relieving his brows from the strain upon them,
and beaming again. " But I was thinking
whether you were not perhaps right in your
impression that it might be well for you to
make Colonel Lapham's acquaintance before
a great while."
" Has he been suggesting it in any way ? "
asked Bromfield Corey, laying aside his book
and taking his lean knee between his clasped
hands.
" Oh, not at all ! " the young man hastened to
reply. " I was merely thinking whether it might
not begin to seem intentional, your not doing it."
" Well, Tom, you know I have been leav-
ing it altogether to you "
" Oh, I understand, of course, and I didn't
mean to urge anything of the kind — — "
" You are so very much more of a Bosto-
nian than I am, you know, that I've been wait-
ing your motion in entire confidence that you
would know just what to do, and when to do
it. If I had been left quite to my own law-
less impulses, I think I should have called
upon your padrone at once. It seems to me
that my father would have found some way
of showing that he expected as much as that
from people placed in the relation to him that
we hold to Colonel Lapham."
" Do you think so?" asked the young man.
"Yes. But you know I don't pretend to
be an authority in such matters. As far as
they go, I am always in the hands of your
mother and you children."
" I'm very sorry, sir. I had no idea I was
overruling your judgment. I only wanted to
spare you a formality that didn't seem quite
a necessity yet. I'm very sorry," he said
again, and this time with more comprehensive
regret. " I shouldn't like to have seemed re-
miss with a man who has been so considerate
of me. They are all very good-natured."
" I dare say," said Bromfield Corey, with
the satisfaction which no elder can help feel-
ing in disabling the judgment of a younger
man, " that it won't be too late if I go down
to your office with you to-morrow."
" No, no. I didn't imagine your doing it
at once, sir."
" Ah, but nothing can prevent me from
doing a thing when once I take the bit in my
teeth," said the father, with the pleasure
which men of weak will sometimes take in
recognizing their weakness. " LIow does their
new house get on ? "
" I believe they expect to be in it before
New Year's."
" Will they be a great addition to society?"
asked Bromfield Corey, with unimpeachable
seriousness.
" I don't quite know what you mean," re-
turned the son, a little uneasily.
" Ah, I see that you do, Tom."
" No one can help feeling that they are all
people of good sense and — right ideas."
" Oh, that won't do. If society took in all
the people of right ideas and good sense, it
would expand beyond the calling capacity of
its most active members. Even your mother's
social conscientiousness could not compass it.
Society is a very different sort of thin g from good
sense and right ideas. It is based upon them,
of course, but the airy, graceful, winning super-
structure which we all know demands different
qualities. Have your friends got these qual-
ities,— which may be felt, but not defined ? "
The son laughed. " To tell you the truth,
sir, I don't think they have the most elemental
ideas of society, as we understand it. I don't
believe Mrs. Lapham ever gave a dinner."
"And with all that money ! "sighed the father.
" I don't believe they have the habit of
wine at table. I suspect that when they don't
drink tea and coffee with their dinner, they
drink ice-water."
" Horrible ! " said Bromfield Corey.
" It appears to me that this defines them."
" Oh, yes. There are people who give din-
ners, and who are not cognoscible. But people
who have never yet given a dinner, how is
society to assimilate them ? "
" It digests a great many people," suggested
the young man.
Copyright, 1884, by W. D. Howells. All rights reserved.
664.
THE RISE OF SILAS LAPHAM.
" Yes ; but they have always brought some
sort of sauce piquante with them. Now, as I
understand you, these friends of yours have
no such sauce."
" Oh, I don't know about that !" cried the son.
" Oh, rude, native flavors, I dare say. But
that isn't what I mean. Well, then, they must
spend. There is no other way for them to
win their way to general regard. We must
have the Colonel elected to the Ten O'clock
Club, and he must put himself down in the
list of those willing to entertain. Any one
can manage a large supper. Yes, I see a
gleam of hope for him in that direction."
In the morning Bromfield Corey asked his
son whether he should find Lapham at his
place as early as eleven.
" I think you might find him even earlier.
I've never been there before him. I doubt if
the porter is there much sooner."
" Well, suppose I go with you, then ?"
" Why, if you like, sir," said the son, with
some deprecation.
" Oh, the question is, will he like ? "
" I think he will, sir "; and the father could
see that his son was very much pleased.
Lapham was rending an impatient course
through the morning's news when they ap-
peared at the door of his inner room. He
looked up from the newspaper spread on the
desk before him, and then he stood up, mak-
ing an indifferent feint of not knowing that he
knew Bromfield Corey by sight.
" Good-morning, Colonel Lapham," said
the son, and Lapham waited for him to say
further, " I wish to introduce my father."
Then he answered " Good-morning," and
added rather sternly for the elder Corey,
" How do you do, sir ? Will you take a
chair ? " and he pushed him one.
They shook hands and sat down, and
Lapham said to his subordinate, " Have a
seat " ; but young Corey remained standing,
watching them in their observance of each
other with an amusement which was a little
uneasy. Lapham made his visitor speak first
by waiting for him to do so.
" I'm glad to make your acquaintance,
Colonel Lapham, and I ought to have come
sooner to do so. My father in your place
would have expected it of a man in my place
at once, I believe. But I can't feel myself
altogether a stranger as it is. I hope Mrs.
Lapham is well ? And your daughter ? "
" Thank you," said Lapham, "they're quite
well."
" They were very kind to my wife "
" Oh, that was nothing ! " cried Lapham.
" There's nothing Mrs. Lapham likes better
than a chance of that sort. Mrs. Corey and
the young ladies well ? "
"Very well, when I heard from them. They're
out of town."
" Yes, so I understood," said Lapham, with
a nod toward the son. " I believe Mr. Corey,
here,told Mrs.Lapham." He leaned back in his
chair, stiffly resolute to show that he was not in-
commoded by the exchange of these civilities.
" Yes," said Bromfield Corey. " Tom has
had the pleasure which I hope for of seeing
you all. I hope you're able to make him use-
ful to you here ? " Corey looked round Lap-
ham's room vaguely, and then out at the
clerks in their railed inclosure, where his eye
finally rested on an extremely pretty girl, who
was operating a type-writer.
"Well, sir," replied Lapham, softening for
the first time with this approach to business,
" I guess it will be our own fault if we don't.
By the way, Corey," he added, to the younger
man, as he gathered up some letters from his
desk, " here's something in your line. Span-
ish or French, I guess."
" I'll run them over," said Corey, taking
them to his desk.
His father made an offer to rise.
" Don't go," said Lapham, gesturing him
down again. " I just wanted to get him away
a minute. I don't care to say it to his face, —
I don't like the principle, — but since you ask
me about it, I'd just as lief say that I've never
had any young man take hold here equal to
your son. I don't know as you care "
" You make me very happy," said Bromfield
Corey. " Very happy indeed. I've always had
the idea that there was something in my son,
if he could only find the way to work it out.
And he seems to have gone into your business
for the love of it."
" He went to work in the right way, sir ! He
told me about it. He looked into it. And that
paint is a thing that will bear looking into."
" Oh, yes. You might think he had in-
vented it, if you heard him celebrating it."
" Is that so ? " demanded Lapham, pleased
through and through. " Well, there ain't any
other way. You've got to believe in a thing
before you can put any heart in it. Why, I
had a partner in this thing once, along back
just after the war, and he used to be always
wanting to tinker with something else. ' Why,'
says I, ' you've got the best thing in God's
universe now. Why ain't you satisfied ? ' I had
to get rid of him at last. I stuck to my paint,
and that fellow's drifted round pretty much all
over the whole country, whittling his capital
down all the while, till here the other day I had
to lend him some money to start him new. No,
sir, you've got to believe in a thing. And I
believe in your son. And I don't mind telling
you that, so far as he's gone, he's a success."
" That's very kind of you."
THE RISE OF SILAS LAPHAM.
665
" No kindness about it. As I was saying
the other day to a friend of mine, I've had
many a fellow right out of the street that had
to work hard all his life, and didn't begin to
take hold like this son of yours."
Lapham expanded with profound self-satis-
faction. As he probably conceived it, he had
succeeded in praising, in a perfectly casual
way, the supreme excellence of his paint, and
his own sagacity and benevolence ; and here
he was sitting face to face with Bromfield
Corey, praising his son to him, and receiving
his grateful acknowledgments as if he were
the father of some office-boy whom Lapham
had given a place half out of charity.
" Yes, sir, when your son proposed to take
hold here, I didn't have much faith in his ideas,
that's the truth. But I had faith in him, and I
saw that he meant business from the start. I
could see it was born in him. Any one could."
" I'm afraid he didn't inherit it directly
from me," said Bromfield Corey ; " but it's
in the blood, on both sides."
" Well, sir, we can't help those things,"
said Lapham, compassionately. " Some of us
have got it, and some of us haven't. The idea
is to make the most of what we have got."
" Oh, yes ; that is the idea. By all means."
" And you can't ever tell what's in you till
you try. Why, when I started this thing, I
didn't more than half understand my own
strength. I wouldn't have said, looking back,
that I could have stood the wear and tear of
what I've been through. But I developed as
I went along. It's just like exercising your
muscles in a gymnasium. You can lift twice
or three times as much after you've been in
training a month as you could before. And I
can see that it's going to be just so with your
son. His going through college won't hurt him,
— he'll soon slough all that off, — and his bring-
ing up won't ; don't be anxious about it. I no-
ticed in the army that some of the fellows that
had the most go-ahead were fellows that hadn't
ever had much more to do than girls before
the war broke out. Your son will get along."
" Thank you," said Bromfield Corey, and
smiled — whether because his spirit was safe
in the humility he sometimes boasted, or be-
cause it was triply armed in pride against
anything the Colonel's kindness could do.
" He'll get along. He's a good business man
and he's a fine fellow. Must you go ? " asked
Lapham, as Bromfield Corey now rose more
resolutely. " Well, glad to see you. It was
natural you should want to come and see what
he was about, and I'm glad you did. I should
have felt just so about it. Here is some of our
stuff," he said, pointing out the various pack-
ages in his office, including the Persis Brand.
" Ah, that's very nice, very nice indeed," said
his visitor. " That color through the jar- — very
rich — delicious. Is Persis Brand a name ? "
Lapham blushed.
" Well, Persis is. I don't know as you saw
an interview that fellow published in the
' Events ' awhile back ? "
" What is the ' Events ' ? "
"Well, it's that new paper Witherby's
started."
" No," said Bromfield Corey, " I haven't
seen it. I read ' The Daily,' " he explained ;
by which he meant " The Daily Advertiser,"
the only daily there is in the old-fashioned
Bostonian sense.
" He put a lot of stuff in my mouth that I
never said," resumed Lapham ; " but that's
neither here nor there, so long as you haven't
seen it. Here's the department your son's in,"
and he showed him the foreign labels. Then
he took him out into the warehouse to see
the large packages. At the head of the stairs,
where his guest stopped to nod to his son
and say " Good-bye, Tom," Lapham insisted
upon going down to the lower door with him.
" Well, call again," he said in hospitable dis-
missal. " I shall always be glad to see you.
There ain't a great deal doing at this season."
Bromfield Corey thanked him, and let his
hand remain perforce in Lapham's lingering
grasp. " If you ever like to ride after a good
horse " the Colonel began.
" Oh, no, no, no; thank you! The better
the horse, the more I should be scared. Tom
has told me of your driving ! "
"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed the Colonel.
" Well ! every one to his taste. Well, good-
morning, sir ! " and he suffered him to go.
" Who is the old man blowing to this morn-
ing ? " asked Walker, the book-keeper, mak-
ing an errand to Corey's desk.
" My father."
" Oh ! That your father ? I thought he
must be one of your Italian correspondents
that you'd been showing round, or Spanish."
In fact, as Bromfield Corey found his way
at his leisurely pace up through the streets on
which the prosperity of his native city was
founded, hardly any figure could have looked
more alien to its life. He glanced up and
down the facades and through the crooked
vistas like a stranger, and the swarthy fruit-
erer of whom he bought an apple, apparently
for the pleasure of holding it in his hand, was
not surprised that the purchase should be
transacted in his own tongue.
Lapham walked back through the outer
office to his own room without looking at
Corey, and during the day he spoke to him
only of business matters. That must have
been his way of letting Corey see that he
was not overcome by the honor of his father's
666
THE RISE OF SILAS LAPHAM.
visit. But he presented himself at Nan-
tasket with the event so perceptibly on his
mind that his,wife asked : " Well, Silas, has
Rogers been borrowing any more money of
you ? I don't want you should let that thing
go too far. You've done enough."
" You needn't be afraid. I've seen the last
of Rogers for one while." He hesitated, to
give the fact an effect of no importance.
" Corey's father called this morning."
" Did he ? " said Mrs. Lapham, willing to
humor his feint of indifference. " Did he want
to borrow some money too ? "
" Not as I understood." Lapham was smok-
ing at great ease, and his wife had some cro-
cheting on the other side of thelampfromhim.
The girls were on the piazza looking at the
moon on the water again. " There's no man
in it to-night," Penelope said, and Irene
laughed forlornly.
" What did he want, then ? " asked Mrs.
Lapham.
" Oh, I don't know. Seemed to be just a
friendly call. Said he ought to have come
before."
Mrs. Lapham was silent awhile. Then she
said : " Well, I hope you're satisfied now."
Lapham rejected the sympathy too openly
offered. " I don't know about being satisfied.
I wa'n't in any hurry to see him."
His wife permitted him this pretense also.
" What sort of a person is he, anyway ? "
" Well, not much like his son. There's no
sort of business about him. I don't know just
how you'd describe him. He's tall; and he's
got white hair and a mustache ; and his fingers
are very long and limber. I couldn't help no-
ticing them as he sat there with his hands on
the top of his cane. Didn't seem to be dressed
very much, and acted just like anybody.
Didn't talk much. Guess I did most of the
talking. Said he was glad I seemed to be get-
ting along so well with his son. He asked after
you and Irene; and he said he couldn't feel just
like a stranger. Said you had been very kind
to his wife. Of course I turned it off. Yes,"
said Lapham thoughtfully, with his hands
resting on his knees, and his cigar between
the fingers of his left hand, " I guess he meant
to do the right thing, every way. Don't know
as I ever saw a much pleasanter man. Dunno
but what he's about the pleasantest man I ever
did see." He was not letting his wife see in his
averted face the struggle that revealed itself
there — the struggle of stalwart achievement
not to feel flattered at the notice of sterile ele-
gance, not to be sneakingly glad of its amia-
bility, but to stand up and look at it with eyes
on the same level. God, who made us so
much like himself, but out of the dust, alone
knows when that struggle will end. The time
had been when Lapham could not have im-
agined any worldly splendor which his dollars
could not buy if he chose to spend them for
it; but his wife's half discoveries, taking form
again in his ignorance of the world, filled him
with helpless misgiving. A cloudy vision of
something unpurchasable, where he had sup-
posed there was nothing, had cowed him in
spite of the burly resistance of his pride.
" I don't see why he shouldn't be pleasant,"
said Mrs. Lapham. " He's never done any-
thing else."
Lapham looked up consciously, with an
uneasy laugh. " Pshaw, Persis ! you never
forget anything ! "
" Oh, I've got more than that to remem-
ber. I suppose you asked him to ride after
the mare ? "
"Well," said Lapham, reddening guiltily,
" he said he was afraid of a good horse."
" Then, of course, you hadn't asked him."
Mrs. Lapham crocheted in silence, and her
husband leaned back in his chair and smoked.
At last he said, " I'm going to push that
house forward. They're loafing on it. There's
no reason why we shouldn't be in it by
Thanksgiving. I don't believe in moving in
the dead of winter."
" We can wait tillspring. We're very comfort-
able in the old place," answered his wife. Then
she broke out on him : " What are you in such
a hurry to get into that house for ? Do you
want to invite the Coreys to a house-warming ? "
Lapham looked at her without speaking.
" Don't you suppose I can see through you?
I declare, Silas Lapham, if I didn't know dif-
ferent, I should say you were about the big-
gest fool ! Don't you know <77?ything ? Don't
you know that it wrouldn't do to ask those
people to our house before they've asked us
to theirs ? They'd laugh in our faces ! "
" I don't believe they'd laugh in our faces.
What's the difference between our asking
them and their asking us ? " demanded the
Colonel, sulkily.
"Oh, well! If you don't see!"
" Well, I don't see. But /don't want to ask
them to the house. I suppose, if I want to, I can
invite him down to a fish dinner at Taft's." j
Mrs. Lapham fell back in her chair, and
let her work drop in her lap with that "Tckk! "
in which her sex knows how to express utter
contempt and despair.
"What's the matter?"
" Well, if you do such a thing, Silas, I'll
never speak to you again ! It's no use / It's no
use ! I did think, after you'd behaved so well
about Rogers, I might trust you a little. But
I see I can't. I presume as long as you live
you'll have to be nosed about like a perfect —
/don't know what !"
THE RISE OE SILAS LAPHAM.
667
" What are you making such a fuss about ? "
demanded Lapham, terribly crest-fallen, but
trying to pluck up a spirit. " I haven't done
anything yet. I can't ask your advice about
anything any more without having you fly out.
Confound it ! I shall do as I please after this."
But as if he could not endure that contempt-
uous atmosphere, he got up, and his wife heard
him in the dining-room pouring himself out a
glass of ice- water, and then heard him mount the
stairs to their room, and slam its door after him.
" Do youknow what your father's wanting to
do now ? " Mrs. Lapham asked her eldest daugh-
ter, who lounged into the parlor a moment with
her wrap stringing from her arm, while the youn-
ger went straight to bed. "He wants to invite
Mr. Corey's father to a fish dinner at Taft's ! "
Penelope was yawning with her hand on her
mouth ; she stopped, and, with a laugh of
amused expectance, sank into a chair, her
shoulders shrugged forward.
"Why! what in the world has put the Colonel
up to that ? "
" Put him up to it ! There's that fellow, who
ought have come to see him long ago, drops
into his office this morning, and talks five
minutes with him, and your father is flattered
out of his five senses. He's crazy to get in
with those people, and I shall have a perfect
battle to keep him within bounds."
" Well, Persis, ma'am, you can't say but what
you began it," said Penelope.
" Oh, yes, I began it," confessed Mrs. Lap-
ham. " Pen," she broke out, " what do you
suppose he means by it ? "
" Who ? Mr. Corey's father ? What does
the Colonel think ? "
" Oh, the Colonel ! " cried Mrs. Lapham.
She added tremulously : " Perhaps he is right.
He did seem to take a fancy to her last sum-
mer, and now if he's called in that way — " She
left her daughter to distribute the pronouns
aright, and resumed : " Of course, I should have
said once that there wasn't any question
about it. I should have said so last year ; and
I don't know what it is keeps me from saying
so now. I suppose I know a little more about
things than I did ; and your father's being so
bent on it sets me all in a twitter. He thinks his
money can do everything. Well, I don't say
but what it can, a good many. And 'Rene is
as good a child as ever there was ; and I don't
see but what she's pretty-appearing enough to
suit any one. She's pretty-behaved, too; and
she is the most capable girl. I presume young
men don't care very much for such things now-
adays ; but there ain't a great many girls can
go right into the kitchen, and make such a cus-
tard as she did yesterday. And look at the
way she does, through the whole house ! She
can't seem to go into a room without the things
fly right into their places. And if she had to
do it to-morrow, she could make all her own
dresses a great deal better than them we pay
to do it. I don't say but what he's about as
nice a fellow as ever stepped. But there ! I'm
ashamed of going on so."
" Well, mother," said the girl after a pause,
in which she looked as if a little weary of the
subject, " why do you worry about it ? If it's
to be it'll be, and if it isn't "
" Yes, that's what J tell your father. But
when it comes to myself, I see how hard it is
for him to rest quiet. I'm afraid we shall all
do something we'll repent of afterwards."
" Well, ma'am," said Penelope, "/ don't
intend to do anything wrong ; but if I do, I
promise not to be sorry for it. I'll go that far.
And I think I wouldn't be sorry for it before-
hand, if I were in your place, mother. Let
the Colonel go on ! He likes to manoeuvre, and
he isn't going to hurt any one. The Corey
family can take care of themselves, I guess."
She laughed in her throat, drawing down
the corners of her mouth, and enjoying the
resolution with which her mother tried to
fling off the burden of her anxieties. " Pen ! I
believe you're right. You always do see things
in such a light ! There ! I don't care if he
brings him down every day."
" Well, ma'am," said Pen, " I don't believe
'Rene would, either. She's just so indifferent! "
The Colonel slept badly that night, and in
the morning Mrs. Lapham came to breakfast
without him.
" Your father ain't well," she reported. "He's
had one of his turns."
" /should have thought he had two or three
of them," said Penelope, " by the stamping
round I heard. Isn't he coming to breakfast ? "
"Not just yet," said her mother. "He's
asleep, and he'll be all right if he gets his nap
out. I don't want you girls should make any
great noise."
" Oh, we'll be quiet enough," returned Pen-
elope. " WTell, I'm glad the Colonel isn't sojer-
ing. At first I thought he might be sojering."
She broke into a laugh, and, struggling indo-
lently with it, looked at her sister. " You don't
think it'll be necessary for anybody to come
down from the office and take orders from him
while he's laid up, do you, mother?" she in-
quired.
" Pen ! " cried Irene. " He'll be well enough
to go up on the ten o'clock boat," said the
mother, sharply.
" I think papa works too hard all through
the summer. Why don't you make him take
a rest, mamma ? " asked Irene.
" Oh, take a rest ! The man slaves harder
every year. It used to be so that he'd take a
little time off now and then; but I declare, he
66S
THE RISE OE SILAS LAPHAM.
hardly ever seems to breathe now away from
his office. And this year he says he doesn't
intend to go down to Lapham, except to see
after the works for a few days. I don't know
what to do with the man any more ! Seems as
if the more money he got, the more he want-
ed to get. It scares me to think what would
happen to him if he lost it. I know one
thing," concluded Mrs. Lapham. " He shall
not go back to the office to-day."
" Then he won't go up on the ten o'clock
boat," Pen reminded her.
" No, he won't. You can just drive over to
the hotel as soon as you're through, girls, and
telegraph that he's not well, and won't be at the
office till to-morrow. I'm not going to have
them send anybody down here to bother him."
" That's a blow," said Pen. " I didn't know
but they might send " she looked de-
murely at her sister — " Dennis ! "
" Mamma ! " cried Irene.
" Well, I declare, there's no living with
this family any more," said Penelope.
"There, Pen, be done!" commanded her
mother. But perhaps she did not intend to
forbid her teasing. It gave a pleasant sort of
reality to the affair that was in her mind, and
made what she wished appear not only possi-
ble but probable.
Lapham got up and lounged about, fretting
and rebelling as each boat departed without
him, through the day ; before night he became
very cross, in spite of the efforts of the family
to soothe him, and grumbled that he had
been kept from going up to town. " I might as
well have gone as not," he repeated, till his
wife lost her patience.
" Well, you shall go to-morrow, Silas, if
you have to be carried to the boat."
"I declare," said Penelope, "the Colonel
don't pet worth a cent."
The six o'clock boat brought Corey. The
girls were sitting on the piazza, and Irene
saw him first.
" Oh, Pen ! " she whispered, with her heart
in her face; and Penelope had no time for
mockery before he was at the steps.
" I hope Colonel Lapham isn't ill," he said,
and they could hear their mother engaged in
a moral contest with their father indoors.
"Go and put on your coat! I say you
shall! It don't matter how he sees you at
the office, shirt-sleeves or not. You're in a
gentleman's house now — or you ought to be
— and you sha'n't see company in your
dressing-gown."
Penelope hurried in to subdue her mother's
anger.
" Oh, he's very much better, thank you ! "
said Irene, speaking up loudly to drown the
noise of the controversy.
" I'm glad of that," said Corey, and when
she led him indoors the vanquished Colonel
met his visitor in a double-breasted frock-coat,
which he was still buttoning up. He could
not persuade himself at once that Corey had
not come upon some urgent business matter,
and when he was clear that he had come out
of civility, surprise mingled with his gratifica-
tion that he should be the object of solicitude
to the young man. In Lapham's circle of
acquaintance they complained when they
were sick, but they made no womanish in-
quiries after one another's health, and cer-
tainly paid no visits of sympathy till matters
were serious. He would have enlarged upon
the particulars of his indisposition if he had
been allowed to do so; and after tea, which
Corey took with them, he would have re-
mained to entertain him if his wife had not
sent him to bed. She followed him to see that
he took some medicine she had prescribed
for him, but she went first to Penelope's
room, where she found the girl with a book
in her hand, which she was not reading.
" You better go down," said the mother.
" I've got to go to your father, and Irene is
all alone with Mr. Corey; and I know she'll
be on pins and needles without you're there
to help make it go off."
" She'd better try to get along without me,
mother," said Penelope soberly. " I can't
always be with them."
" Well," replied Mrs. Lapham, " then /
must. There'll be a perfect Quaker meeting
down there."
" Oh, I guess 'Rene will find something to
say if you leave her to herself. Or if she don't,
he must. It'll be all right for you to go down
when you get ready ; but I sha'n't go till to-
ward the last. If he's coming here to see Irene
— and I don't believe he's come on father's
account — he wants to see her and not me. If
she can't interest him alone, perhaps he'd as
well find it out now as any time. At any rate, I
guess you'd better make the experiment. You'll
know whether it's a success if he comes again."
" Well," said the mother, " may be you're
right. I'll go down directly. It does seem as
if he did mean something, after all."
Mrs. Lapham did not hasten to return to
her guest. In her own girlhood it was sup-
posed that if a young man seemed to be
coming to see a girl, it was only common
sense to suppose that he wished to see her
alone; and her life in town had left Mrs.
Lapham's simple traditions in this respect
unchanged. She did with her daughter as
her mother would have done with her.
Where Penelope sat with her book, she
heard the continuous murmur of voices below,
and after a long interval she heard her mother
THE RISE OF SILAS LAPHAM.
669
descend. She did not read the open book
that lay in her lap, though she kept her eyes
fast on the print. Once she ^ose and almost
shut the door, so that she could scarcely
hear ; then she opened it wide again with a
self-disdainful air, and resolutely went back to
her book, which again she did not read. But
she remained in her room till it was nearly
time for Corey to return to his boat.
When they were alone again, Irene made a
feint of scolding her for leaving her to enter-
tain Mr. Corey.
" Why ! didn't you have a pleasant call ? "
asked Penelope.
Irene threw her arms round her. " Oh,
it was a splendid call! I didn't suppose I
could make it go off so well. We talked nearly
the whole time about you ! "
" I don't think that was a very interesting
subject."
" He kept asking about you. He asked
everything. You don't know how much he
thinks of you, Pen. Oh, Pen ! what do you
think made him come ? Do you think he
really did come to see how papa was?"
Irene buried her face in her sister's neck.
Penelope stood with her arms at her side,
submitting. " Well," she said, " I don't think
he did, altogether."
Irene, all glowing, released her. " Don't
you — don't you really ? Oh ! Pen, don't you
think he is nice ? Don't you think he's hand-
some ? Don't you think I behaved horridly
when we first met him this evening, not
thanking him for coming ? I know he thinks
I've no manners. But it seemed as if it
would be thanking him for coming to see me.
Ought I to have asked him to come again,
when he said good-night ? I didn't ; I
couldn't. Do you believe he'll think I don't
want him to ? You don't believe he would
keep coming if he didn't — want to "
" He hasn't kept coming a great deal,
yet," suggested Penelope.
" No ; I know he hasn't. But if he — if he
should ? "
" Then I should think he wanted to."
"Oh, would you — would you? Oh, how
good you always are, Pen ! And you always
say what you think. I wish there was some
one coming to see you too. That's all that I
don't like about it. Perhaps He was
telling about his friend there in Texas
Well," said Penelope," his friend couldn't
call often from Texas. You needn't ask Mr.
Corey to trouble about me, 'Rene. I think
I can manage to worry along, if you're
satisfied."
" Oh, I am, Pen. When do you suppose
he'll come again? " Irene pushed some of
Penelope's things aside on the dressing-case,
to rest her elbow and talk at ease. Penel-
ope came up and put them back.
" Well, not to-night," she said; " and if that's
what you're sitting up for "
Irene caught her round the neck again,
and ran out of the room.
The Colonel was packed off on the eight
o'clock boat the next morning; but his re-
covery did not prevent Corey from repeating
his visit in a week. This time Irene came ra-
diantly up to Penelope's room, where she had
again withdrawn herself. "You must come
down, Pen," she said. " He's asked if you're not
well, and mamma says you've got to come."
After that Penelope helped Irene through
with her calls, and talked them over with her
far into the night after Corey was gone. But
when the impatient curiosity of her mother
pressed her for some opinion of the affair, she
said, " You know as much as I do, mother."
" Don't he ever say anything tc*»you about
her — praise her up, any ? "
" He's never mentioned Irene to me."
" He hasn't to me, either," said Mrs. Lap-
ham, with a sigh of trouble. " Then what
makes him keep coming ? "
" I can't tell you. One thing, he says
there isn't a house open in Boston where he's
acquainted. Wait till some of his friends get
back, and then if he keeps coming, it'll be
time to inquire."
" Well ! " said the mother ; but as the weeks
passed she was less and less able to attribute
Corey's visits to his loneliness in town, and
turned to her husband for comfort.
" Silas, I don't know as we ought to let
young Corey keep coming so. I don't quite
like it, with all his family away."
" He's of age," said the Colonel. " He can
go where he pleases. It don't matter whether
his family's here or not."
" Yes, but if they don't want he should
come ? Should you feel just right about let-
ting him ? "
" How're you going to stop him ? I swear,
Persis, I don't know what's got over you !
What is it ? You didn't use to be so. But to
hear you talk, you'd think those Coreys were
too good for this world, and we wa'n't fit for
'em to walk on."
" I'm not going to have 'em say we took
an advantage of their being away and tolled
him on."
" I should like to hear 'em say it ! " cried
Lapham. " Or anybody ! "
" Well," said his wife, relinquishing this
point of anxiety, " I can't make out whether
he cares anything for her or not. And Pen
can't tell either; or else she won't."
" Oh, I guess he cares for her, fast enough,"
said the Colonel.
670
THE RISE OF SILAS LAPHAM.
" I can't make out that he's said or done
the first thing to show it."
"Well, I was better than a year getting
my courage up."
" Oh, that was different," said Mrs. Lap-
ham, in contemptuous dismissal of the com-
parison, and yet with a certain fondness. " I
guess, if he cared for her, a fellow in his posi-
tion wouldn't be long getting up his courage
to speak to Irene."
Lapham brought his fist down on the table
between them.
"Look here, Persis ! Once for all, now,
don't you ever let me hear you say anything
like that again ! I'm worth nigh on to a mil-
lion, and I've made it every cent myself; and
my girls are the equals of anybody, I don't
care who it is. He ain't the fellow to take on
any airs ; but if he ever tries it with me, I'll
send him to the right about mighty quick. I'll
have a talk with him, if "
" No, no ; don't do that ! " implored his
wife. " I didn't mean anything. I don't know
as I meant anything. He's just as unassum-
ing as he can be, and I think Irene's a match
for anybody. You just let things go on. It'll
be all right. You never can tell how it is with
young people. Perhaps she's offish. Now you
ain't — you ain't going to say anything ? "
Lapham suffered himself to be persuaded,
the more easily, no doubt, because after his
explosion he must have perceived that his
pride itself stood in the way of what his pride
had threatened. He contented himself with
his wife's promise that she would never again
present that offensive view of the case, and
she did not remain without a certain support
in his sturdy self-assertion.
XII.
Mrs. Corey returned with her daughters in
the early days of October, having passed
three or four weeks at Intervale after leaving
Bar Harbor. They were somewhat browner
than they were when they left town in June,
but they were not otherwise changed. Lily,
the elder of the girls, had brought back a
number of studies of kelp and toadstools,
with accessory rocks and rotten logs, which
she would never finish up and never show
any one, knowing the slightness of their merit.
Nanny, the younger, had read a great many
novels with a keen sense of their inaccuracy
as representations of life, and had seen a great
deal of life with a sad regret for its difference
from fiction. They were both nice girls, ac-
complished, well dressed of course, and well-
enough looking ; but they had met no one at
the seaside or the mountains whom their taste
would allow to influence their fate, and they had
come home to the occupations they had left,
with no hopes and no fears to distract them.
In the absenqe of these they were fitted to
take the more vivid interest in their brother's af-
fairs, which they could see weighed upon their
mother's mind after the first hours of greeting.
" Oh, it seems to have been going on, and
your father has never written a word about
it," she said, shaking her head.
" What good would it have done? " asked
Nanny, who was little and fair, with rings
of light hair that filled a bonnet-front very
prettily ; she looked best in a bonnet. " It
would only have worried you. He could not
have stopped Tom ; you couldn't, when you
came home to do it."
" I dare say papa didn't know much about
it," suggested Lily. She was a tall, lean, dark
girl, who looked as if she were not quite warm
enough, and whom you always associated
with wraps of different aesthetic effect after
you had once seen her.
It is a serious matter always to the women
of his family when a young man gives them
cause to suspect that he is interested in some
other woman. A son-in-law or brother-in-law
does not enter the family; he need not be
caressed or made anything of; but the son's
or brother's wife has a claim upon his mother
and sisters which they cannot deny. Some
convention of their sex obliges them to show
her affection, to like or to seem to like her,
to take her to their intimacy, however odious
she may be to them. With the Coreys it was
something more than an affair of sentiment.
They were by no means poor, and they were
not dependent money-wise upon Tom Corey ;
but the mother had come, without knowing
it, to rely upon his sense, his advice in every-
thing, and the sisters, seeing him hitherto so
indifferent to girls, had insensibly grown to re-
gard him as altogether their own till he should
be released, not by his marriage, but by theirs,
an event which had not approached with the
lapse of time. Some kinds of girls — they be-
lieved that they could readily have chosen a
kind — might have taken him without taking
him from them ; but this generosity could not
be hoped for in such a girl as Miss Lapham.
" Perhaps," urged their mother, " it would
not be so bad. She seemed an affectionate
little thing with her mother, without a great
deal of character, though she was so capable
about some things."
"Oh, she'll be an affectionate little thing
with Tom too, you may be sure," said Nan-
ny. "And that characterless capability becomes
the most intense narrow-mindedness. She'll
think we were against her from the beginning."
" She has no cause for that," Lily inter-
posed, " and we shall not give her any."
THE RISE OF SILAS LAPHAM.
671
" Yes, we shall," retorted Nanny. " We
can't help it ; and if we can't, her own
ignorance would be cause enough."
" I can't feel that she's altogether ignorant,"
said Mrs. Corey, justly.
" Of course she can read and write/' ad-
mitted Nanny.
" I can't imagine what he finds to talk
about with her," said Lily.
" Oh, that's very simple," returned her
sister. " They talk about themselves, with
occasional references 4to each other. I have
heard people ' going on ' on the hotel piazzas.
She's embroidering, or knitting, or tatting, or
something of that kind ; and he says she
seems quite devoted to needle- work ; and she
says, yes, she has a perfect passion for it,
and everybody laughs at her for it ; but she
can't help it, she always was so from a child,
and supposes she always shall be, — with
remote and minute particulars. And she
ends by saying that perhaps he does not
like people to tat, or knit, or embroider, or
whatever. And he says, oh, yes, he does ;
what could make her think such a thing?
but for his part he likes boating rather better,
or if you're in the woods camping. Then she
lets him take up one corner of her work, and
perhaps touch her fingers; and that en-
courages him to say that he supposes noth-
ing could induce her to drop her work long
enough to go down on the rocks, or out
among the huckleberry bushes; and she puts
her head on one side, and says she doesn't
know really. And then they go, and he lies at
her feet on the rocks, or picks huckleberries
and drops them in her lap, and they go on talk-
ing about themselves, and comparing notes to
see how they differ from each other. And "
" That will do, Nanny," said her mother.
Lily smiled autumnally. " Oh, disgusting ! "
" Disgusting ? Not at all ! " protested her
sister. " It's very amusing when you see it,
and when you do it "
" It's always a mystery what people see in
each other," observed Mrs. Corey, severely.
" Yes," Nanny admitted, " but I don't
know that there is much comfort for us in the
application."
" No, there isn't," said her mother.
*' The most that we can do is to hope for
the best till we know the worst. Of course
we shall make the best of the worst when it
comes."
" Yes, and perhaps it would not be so very
bad. I wras saying to your father when I was
here in July that those things can always be
managed. You must face them as if they were
nothing out of the way, and try not to give
any cause for bitterness among ourselves."
" That's true. But I don't believe in too
much resignation beforehand. It amounts to
concession," said Nanny.
" Of course we should oppose it in all proper
ways," returned her mother.
Lily had ceased to discuss the matter. In
virtue of her artistic temperament, she was
expected not to be very practical. It was her
mother and her sister who managed, submit-
ting to the advice and consent of Corey what
they intended to do.
" Your father wrote me that he had called
on Colonel Lapham at his place of business,"
said Mrs. Corey, seizing her first chance of
approaching the subject with her son.
" Yes," said Corey. "A dinner was father's
idea, but he came down to a call, at my
suggestion."
" Oh," said Mrs. Corey, in a tone of relief,
as if the statement threw a new light on the
fact that Corey had suggested the visit. " He
said so little about it in his letter that I didn't
know just how it came about."
u I thought it was right they should meet,"
explained the son, " and so did father. I was
glad that I suggested it, afterward ; it was ex-
tremely gratifying to Colonel Lapham."
" Oh, it was quite right in every way. I
suppose you have seen something of the fam-
ily during the summer."
" Yes, a good deal. I've been down at
Nantasket rather often."
Mrs. Corey let her eyes droop. Then she
asked : " Are they well ? "
" Yes, except Lapham himself, now and
then. I went down once or twice to see him.
He hasn't given himself any vacation this
summer ; he has such a passion for his busi-
ness that I fancy he finds it hard being away
from it at any time, and he's made his new
house an excuse for staying "
" Oh, yes, his house ! Is it to be something
fine ? "
" Yes ; it's a beautiful house. Seymour is
doing it."
" Then, of course, it will be very handsome.
I suppose the young ladies are very much
taken up with it; and Mrs. Lapham."
" Mrs. Lapham, yes. I don't think the
young ladies care so much about it."
" It must be for them. Aren't they ambi-
tious ? " asked Mrs. Corey, delicately feeling
her way.
Her son thought awhile. Then he answered
with a smile :
" No, I don't really think they are. They are
unambitious, I should say." Mrs. Corey per-
mitted herself a long breath. But her son add-
ed, " It's the parents who are ambitious for
them," and her respiration became shorter
again.
" Yes," she said.
672
THE RISE OF SILAS LAPHAM.
" They're very simple, nice girls," pursued
Corey. " I think you'll like the elder, when
you come to know her."
When you come to know her. The words
implied an expectation that the two families
were to be better acquainted.
" Then she is more intellectual than her
sister ? " Mrs. Corey ventured.
" Intellectual ? " repeated her son. " No ;
that isn't the word, quite. Though she cer-
tainly has more mind."
" The younger seemed very sensible."
" Oh, sensible, yes. And as practical as
she's pretty. She can do all sorts of things,
and likes to be doing them. Don't you think
she's an extraordinary beauty ? "
" Yes — yes, she is," said Mrs. Corey, at
some cost.
" She's good, too," said Corey, " and per-
fectly innocent and transparent. I think you
will like her the better the more you know her."
" I thought her very nice from the begin-
ning," said the mother, heroically ; and then
nature asserted itself in her. " But I should
be afraid that she might perhaps be a little
bit tiresome at last ; her range of ideas seemed
so extremely limited."
" Yes, that's what I was afraid of. But, as
a matter of fact, she isn't. She interests you
by her very limitations. You can see the
working of her mind, like that of a child.
She isn't at all conscious even of her beauty."
" I don't believe young men can tell
whether girls are conscious or not," said Mrs.
Corey. " But I am not saying the Miss Lap-
hams are not — " Her son sat musing, with
an inattentive smile on his face. "What is it ? "
" Oh, nothing. I was thinking of Miss
Lapham and something she was saying.
She's very droll, you know."
" The elder sister ? Yes, you told me that.
Can you see the workings of her mind too ? "
" No ; she's everything that's unexpected."
Corey fell into another revery, and smiled
again ; but he did not offer to explain what
amused him, and his mother would not ask.
" I don't know what to make of his admir-
ing the girl so frankly," she said afterward to
her husband. "That couldn't come naturally
till after he had spoken to her, and I feel sure
that he hasn't yet."
" You women haven't risen yet — it's an
evidence of the backwardness of your sex —
to a conception of the Bismarck idea in
diplomacy. If a man praises one woman, you
still think he's in love with another. Do you
mean that because Tom didn't praise the
elder sister so much, he has spoken to her ? "
Mrs. Corey refused the consequence, say-
ing that it did not follow. " Besides, he did
praise her."
" You ought to be glad that matters are in
such good shape, then. At any rate, you can
do absolutely nothing."
" Oh ! I know it," sighed Mrs. Corey. " I
wish Tom would be a little opener with me."
" He's as open as it's in the nature of an
American-born son to be with his parents. I
dare say if you'd ask him plumply what he
meant in regard to the young lady, he would
have told you— if he knew."
" Why, don't you think he does know,
Bromneld ? "
" I'm not at all sure he does. You women
think that because a young man dangles after a
girl, or girls, he's attached to them. It doesn't
at all follow. He dangles because he must, and
doesn't know what to do with his time, and
because they seem to like it. I dare say that
Tom has dangled a good deal in this instance
because there was nobody else in town."
" Do you really think so ? "
" I throw out the suggestion. And it strikes
me that a young lady couldn't do better than
stay in or near Boston during the summer.
Most of the young men are here, kept by
business through the week, with evenings
available only on the spot, or a few miles cff.
What was the proportion of the sexes at the
seashore and the mountains ? "
" Oh, twenty girls at least for even an ex-
cuse of a man. It's shameful."
" You see, I am right in one part of my
theory. Why shouldn't I be right in the rest ? "
" I wish you were. And yet I can't say that
I do. Those things are very serious with girls.
I shouldn't like Tom to have been going to
see those people if he meant nothing by it."
" And you wouldn't like it if he did. You
are difficult, my dear." Her husband pulled an
open newspaper toward him from the table.
" I feel that it wouldn't be at all like him
to do so," said Mrs. Corey, going on to
entangle herself in her words, as women often
do when their ideas are perfectly clear.
" Don't go to reading, please, Bromneld ! I
am really worried about this matter. I must
know how much it means. I can't let it go
on so. I don't see how you can rest easy
without knowing."
" I don't in the least know what's going to
become of me when I die ; and yet I sleep
well," replied Bromneld Corey, putting his
newspaper aside.
" Ah, but this is a very different thing."
" So much more serious ? Well, what can
you do ? We had this out when you were
here in the summer, and you agreed with me
then that we could do nothing. The situa-
tion hasn't changed at all."
" Yes, it has ; it has continued the same,"
said Mrs. Corey, again expressing the fact by
THE RISE OF SILAS LAPHAM.
673
a contradiction in terms. " I think I must
ask Tom outright."
" You know you can't do that, my dear."
" Then why doesn't he tell us ? "
"Ah, that's what he can't do, if he's mak-
ing love to Miss Irene — that's her name, I
believe — on the American plan. He will tell
us after he has told her. That was the way I
did. Don't ignore our own youth, Anna. It
was a long while ago, I'll admit."
" It was very different," said Mrs. Corey, a
little shaken.
" I don't see how. I dare say Mamma
Lapham knows whether Tom is in love with
her daughter or not ; and no doubt Papa Lap-
ham knows it at second hand. But we shall
not know it until the girl herself does. Depend
upon that. Your mother knew, and she told
your father; but my poor father knew nothing
about it till we were engaged ; and I had been
hanging about — dangling, as you call it "
" No, no ; you called it that."
" Was it I ? — for a year or more."
The wife could not refuse to be a little
consoled by the image of her young love
which the words conjured up, however little
she liked its relation to her son's interest in
Irene Lapham. She smiled pensively. " Then
you think it hasn't come to an understanding
with them yet ? "
" An understanding ? Oh, probably."
" An explanation, then ? "
" The only logical inference from what
we've been saying is that it hasn't. But I
don't ask you to accept it on that account.
May I read now, my dear?"
"Yes, you may read now," said Mrs.
Corey, with one of those sighs which perhaps
express a feminine sense of the unsatisfactori-
ness of husbands in general, rather than a
personal discontent with her own.
"Thank you, my dear; then I think I'll smoke
too," said Bromfield Corey, lighting a cigar.
She left him in peace, and she made no
further attempt upon her son's confidence.
But she was not inactive for that reason. She
did not, of course, admit to herself, and far
less to others, the motive with which she went
to pay an early visit to the Laphams, who had
now come up from Nantasket to Nankeen
Square. She said to her daughters that she
had always been a little ashamed of using her
acquaintance with them to get money for her
charity,and then seeming todropit. Besides,it
seemed toherthatsheoughtsomehowto recog-
nize the business relation that Tom had formed
with the father ; they must not think that his
family disapproved of what he had done.
"Yes, business is business," said Nanny,
with a laugh. " Do you wish us to go with
you again ? "
" No ; I will go alone this time," replied the
mother with dignity.
Her coupe now found its way to Nankeen
Square without difficulty, and she sent up a
card, which Mrs. Lapham received in the
presence of her daughter Penelope.
"I presume I've got to see her," she gasped.
" Well, don't look so guilty, mother," joked
the girl ; " you haven't been doing anything
so very wrong."
" It seems as if I had. I don't know
what's come over me. I wasn't afraid of the
woman before, but now I don't seem to feel
as if I could look her in the face. He's been
coming here of his own accord, and I fought
against his coming long enough, goodness
knows. I didn't want him to come. And as far
forth as that goes, we're as respectable as they
are ; and your father's got twice their money,
any day. We no need to go begging for
their favor. I guess they were glad enough
to get him in with your father."
" Yes, those are all good points, mother,"
said the girl ; " and if you keep saying them
over, and count a hundred every time before
you speak, I guess you'll worry through."
Mrs. Lapham had been fussing distract-
edly with her hair and ribbons, in prepara-
tion for her encounter with Mrs. Corey. She
now drew in a long quivering breath, stared
at her daughter without seeing her, and hur-
ried downstairs. It was true that when she
met Mrs. Corey before she had not been
awed by her; but since then she had learned
at least her own ignorance of the world, and
she had talked over the things she had mis-
conceived and the things she had shrewdly
guessed so much that she could not meet her
on the former footing of equality. In spite of
as brave a spirit and as good a conscience as
woman need have, Mrs. Lapham cringed
inwardly, and tremulously wondered what
her visitor had come for. She turned from
pale to red, and was hardly coherent in her
greetings ; she did not know how they got to
where Mrs. Corey was saying exactly the
right things about her son's interest and satis-
faction in his new business, and keeping her
eyes fixed on Mrs. Lapham's, reading her
uneasiness there, and making her feel, in
spite of her indignant innocence, that she had
taken a base advantage of her in her absence
to get her son away from her and marry him
to Irene. Then, presently, while this was
painfully revolving itself in Mrs. Lapham's
mind, she was aware of Mrs. Corey's asking
if she was not to have the pleasure of seeing
Miss Irene.
" No ; she's out, just now," said Mrs. Lap-
ham. " I don't know just when she'll be in.
She went to get a book." And here she turned
674
THE RISE OF SILAS LAPHAM.
red again, knowing that Irene had gone to
get the book because it was one that Corey-
had spoken of.
" Oh ! I'm sorry," said Mrs. Corey. " I
had hoped to see her. And your other
daughter, whom I never met ? "
" Penelope ? " asked Mrs. Lapham, eased
a little. " She is at home. I will go and call
her." The Laphams had not yet thought of
spending their superfluity on servants who
could be rung for ; they kept two girls and a
man to look after the furnace, as they had
for the last ten years. If Mrs. Lapham had
rung in the parlor, her second girl would
have gone to the street door to see who was
there. She went upstairs for Penelope her-
self, and the girl, after some rebellious deris-
ion, returned with her.
Mrs. Corey took account of her, as Penelope
withdrew to the other side of the room after
their introduction, and sat down, indolently
submissive on the surface to the tests to be
applied, and following Mrs. Corey's lead of
the conversation in her odd drawl.
" You young ladies will be glad to be get-
ting into your new house," she said, politely.
" I don't know," said Penelope. " We're
so used to this one."
Mrs. Corey looked a little baffled, but she
said sympathetically, " Of course, you will be
sorry to leave your old home."
Mrs. Lapham could not help putting in on
behalf of her daughters : " I guess if it was left
to the girls to say, we shouldn't leave it at all."
" Oh, indeed ! " said Mrs. Corey ; "are they
so much attached ? But I can quite under-
stand it. My children would be heart-broken
too if we were to leave the old place." She
turned to Penelope. " But you must think
of the lovely new house, and the beautiful
position."
" Yes, I suppose we shall get used to them
too," said Penelope, in response to this didac-
tic consolation.
" Oh, I could even imagine your getting
very fond of them," pursued Mrs. Corey, pat-
ronizingly. " My son has told me of the
lovely outlook you're to have over the water.
He thinks you have such a beautiful house.
I believe he had the pleasure of meeting you
all there when he first came home."
" Yes, I think he was our first visitor."
" He is a great admirer of your house,"
said Mrs. Corey, keeping her eyes very
sharply, however politely, on Penelope's face,
as if to surprise there the secret of any other
great admiration of her son's that might help-
lessly show itself.
"Yes," said the girl, "he's been there several
times with father ; and he wouldn't be allowed
to overlook any of its good points."
Her mother took a little more courage from
her daughter's tranquillity.
" The girls make such fun of their father's
excitement about his building, and the way
he talks it into everybody."
" Oh, indeed ! " said Mrs. Corey, with civil
misunderstanding and inquiry.
Penelope flushed, and her mother went on:
" I tell him he's more of a child about it than
any of them."
"Young people are very philosophical
nowadays," remarked Mrs. Corey.
" Yes, indeed," said Mrs. Lapham. " I tell
them they've always had everything, so that
nothing's a surprise to them. It was different
with us in our young days."
" Yes," said Mrs. Corey, without assenting.
" I mean the Colonel and myself," ex-
plained Mrs. Lapham.
" Oh, yes — yes f" said Mrs. Corey.
" I'm sure," the former went on, rather
helplessly, " we had to work hard enough for
everything we got. And so we appreciated it."
" So many things were not done for young
people then," said Mrs. Corey, not recogniz-
ing the early-hardships stand-point of Mrs.
Lapham, " But I don't know that they are
always the better for it now," she added,
vaguely, but with the satisfaction we all feel
in uttering a just commonplace.
" It's rather hard living up to blessings that
you've always had," said Penelope.
"Yes," replied Mrs. Corey, distractedly,
and coming back to her slowly from the vir-
tuous distance to which she had absented her-
self. She looked at the girl searchingly again,
as if to determine whether this were a touch
of the drolling her son had spoken of. But
she only added : " You will enjoy the sun-
sets on the Back Bay so much."
" Well, not unless they're new ones," said
Penelope. " I don't believe I could promise
to enjoy any sunsets that I was used to, a
great deal."
Mrs. Corey looked at her with misgiving,
hardening into dislike. " No," she breathed,
vaguely. " My son spoke of the fine effect
of the lights about the hotel from your cottage
at Nantasket," she said to Mrs. Lapham.
" Yes, they're splendid ! " exclaimed that
lady. " I guess the girls went down every
night with him to see them from the rocks."
" Yes," said Mrs. Corey, a little dryly; and
she permitted herself to add : " He spoke of
those rocks. I suppose both you young ladies
spend a great deal of your time on them when
you're there. At Nahant my children were
constantly on them." t
" Irene likes the rocks," said Penelope.
" I don't care much about them, — especially
at night."
THE RISE OF SILAS LAPHAM.
675
" Oh, indeed ! I suppose you find it quite
as well looking at the lights comfortably from
the veranda."
" No ; you can't see them from the house."
" Oh," said Mrs. Corey. After a percep-
tible pause, she turned to Mrs. Lapham. " I
don't know what my son would have done
for a breath of sea air this summer, if you had
not allowed him to come to Nantasket. He
wasn't willing to leave his business long enough
to go anywhere else."
" Yes, he's a born business man," responded
Mrs. Lapham enthusiastically. " If it's born
in you, it's bound to come out. That's what
the Colonel is always saying about Mr. Corey.
He says it's born in him to be a business man,
and he can't help it." She recurred to Corey
gladly because she felt that she had not said
enough of him when his mother first spoke
of his connection with the business. " I don't
believe," she went on excitedly, " that Colonel
Lapham has ever had anybody with him that
he thought more of."
" You have all been very kind to my son,"
said Mrs. Corey in acknowledgment, and
stiffly bowing a little, " and we feel greatly
indebted to you. Very much so."
At these grateful expressions Mrs. Lapham
reddened once more, and murmured that it
had been very pleasant to them, she was
sure. She glanced at her daughter for support,
but Penelope was looking at Mrs. Corey, who
doubtless saw her from the corner of her eyes,
though she went on speaking to her mother.
" I was sorry to hear from him that Mr. —
Colonel? — Lapham had not been quite well
this summer. I hope he's better now ? "
" Oh, yes, indeed," replied Mrs. Lapham ;
I he's all right now. He's hardly ever been
sick, and he don't know how to take care of
himself. That's all. We don't any of us;
we're all so well."
" Health is a great blessing," sighed Mrs.
Corey.
" Yes, so it is. How is your oldest daugh-
ter ? " inquired Mrs. Lapham. " Is she as
delicate as ever ? "
" She seems to be rather better since we
returned." And now Mrs. Corey, as if forced
to the point, said bunglingly that the young
ladies had wished to come with her, but had
been detained. She based her statement upon
Nanny's sarcastic demand ; and, perhaps see-
ing it topple a little, she rose nastily, to get
away from its fall. " But we shall hope for
some — some other occasion," she said vaguely,
and she put on a parting smile, and shook
hands with Mrs. Lapham and Penelope, and
then, after some lingering commonplaces, got
herself out of the house.
Penelope and her mother were still looking
at each other, and trying to grapple with the
effect or purport of the visit, when Irene burst
in upon them from the outside.
" Oh, mamma ! wasn't that Mrs. Corey's
carriage just drove away ? "
Penelope answered with her laugh. " Yes !
You've just missed the most delightful call,
'Rene. So easy and pleasant every way. Not
a bit stiff! Mrs. Corey was so friendly ! She
didn't make me feel at all as if she'd bought
me, and thought she'd given too much ; and
mother held up her head as if she were all
wool and a yard wide, and she would just
like to have anybody deny it."
In a few touches of mimicry she dashed
off a sketch of the scene : her mother's
trepidation, and Mrs. Corey's well-bred re-
pose and polite scrutiny of them both. She
ended by showing how she herself had sat
huddled up in a dark corner, mute with fear.
" If she came to make us say and do the
wrong thing, she must have gone away
happy; and it's a pity you weren't here to
help, Irene. I don't know that I aimed to
make a bad impression, but I guess I suc-
ceeded— even beyond my deserts." She
laughed; then suddenly she flashed out in
fierce earnest. " If I missed doing anything
that could make me as hateful to her as she
made herself to me " She checked her-
self, and began to laugh. Her laugh broke,
and the tears started into her eyes ; she ran
out of the room, and up the stairs.
"What — what does it mean?" asked
Irene, in a daze.
Mrs. Lapham was still in the chilly torpor
to which Mrs. Corey's call had reduced her.
Penelope's vehemence did not rouse her. She
only shook her head absently, and said, " I
don't know."
" Why should Pen care what impression
she made ? I didn't suppose it would make
any difference to her whether Mrs. Corey
liked her or not."
" I didn't, either. But I could see that she
was just as nervous as she could be, every
minute of the time. I guess she didn't like
Mrs. Corey any too well from the start, and
she couldn't seem to act like herself."
" Tell me about it, mamma," said Irene,
dropping into a chair.
Mrs. Corey described the interview to her
husband on her return home. " Well, and
what are your inferences ? " he asked.
" They were extremely embarrassed and ex-
cited — that is, the mother. I don't wish to
do her injustice, but she certainly behaved
consciously."
" You made her feel so, I dare say, Anna. I
can imagine how terrible you must have been,
676
THE RISE OF SILAS LAPHAM.
in the character of an accusing spirit, too lady-
like to say anything. What did you hint ? "
" I hinted nothing," said Mrs. Corey, de-
scending to the weakness of defending her-
self. "But I saw quite enough to convince
me that the girl is in love with Tom, and the
mother knows it."
" That was very unsatisfactory. I supposed
you went to find out whether Tom was in
love with the girl. Was she as pretty as ever ? "
" I didn't see her; she was not at home;
I saw her sister."
" I don't know that I follow you quite,
Anna. But no matter. What was the sister
like ? "
" A thoroughly disagreeable young woman."
" What did she do ? "
" Nothing. She's far too sly for that. But
that was the impression."
" Then you didn't find her so amusing as
Tom does ? "
" I found her pert. There's no other word
for it. She says things to puzzle you and put
you out."
" Ah, that was worse than pert, Anna ; that
was criminal. Well, let us thank heaven the
younger one is so pretty."
Mrs. Corey did not reply directly. " Brom-
field," she said, after a moment of troubled
silence, " I have been thinking over your plan,
and I don't see why it isn't the right thing."
" What is my plan ? " inquired Bromfield
Corey.
" A dinner."
Her husband began to laugh. " Ah, you
overdid the accusing-spirit business, and
this is reparation." But Mrs. Corey hurried
on, with combined dignity and anxiety :
" We can't ignore Tom's intimacy with them
— it amounts to that ; it will probably continue
even if it's merely a fancy, and we must seem
to know it ; whatever comes of it, we can't
disown it. They are very simple, unfashion-
able people, and unworldly ; but I can't say
that they are offensive, unless — unless," she
added, in propitiation of her husband's smile,
" unless the father — how did you find the
father ? " she implored.
" He will be very entertaining," said Corey,
" if you start him on his paint. What was the
disagreeable daughter like ? Shall you have
her ? "
" She's little and dark. We must have
them all," Mrs. Corey sighed. " Then you
don't think a dinner would do ? "
" Oh, yes, I do. As you say, we can't dis-
own Tom's relation to them, whatever it is.
We had much better recognize it, and make
the best of the inevitable. I think a Lapham
dinner would be delightful." He looked at
her with delicate irony in his voice and
smile, and she fetched another sigh, so deep
and sore now that he laughed outright. " Per-
haps," he suggested, " it would be the best
way of curing Tom of his fancy, if he has
one. He has been seeing her with the dan-
gerous advantages which a mother knows
how to give her daughter in the family circle,
and with no means of comparing her with
other girls. You must invite several other
very pretty girls."
" Do you really think so, Bromfield ? "
asked Mrs. Corey, taking courage a little.
"That might do." But her spirits visibly
sank again. " I don't know any other girl
half so pretty."
" Well, then, better bred."
" She is very lady-like, very modest, and
pleasing."
" Well, more cultivated."
" Tom doesn't get on with such people."
" Oh, you wish him to marry her, I see."
" No, no "
" Then you'd better give the dinner to
bring them together, to promote the affair."
" You know I don't want to do that, Brom-
field. But I feel that we must do something.
If we don't, it has a clandestine appearance.
It isn't just to them. A dinner won't leave us
in any worse position, and may leave us in a
better. Yes," said Mrs. Corey, after another
thoughtful interval, " we must have them —
have them all. It could be very simple."
" Ah, you can't give a dinner under a
bushel, if I take your meaning, my dear. If
we do this at all, we mustn't do it as if we
were ashamed of it. We must ask people to
meet them."
" Yes," sighed Mrs. Corey. " There are
not many people in town yet," she added,
with relief that caused her husband another
smile. " There really seems a sort of fatality
about it," she concluded, religiously.
" Then you had better not struggle against
it. Go and reconcile Lily and Nanny to it
as soon as possible."
Mrs. Corey blanched a little. " But don't you
think it will be the best thing, Bromfield ? "
" I do indeed, my dear. The only thing
that shakes my faith in the scheme is the fact
that I first suggested it. But if you have
adopted it, it must be all right, Anna. I can't
say that I expected it."
" No," said his wife, " it wouldn't do."
(To be continued.)
W. D. Howells.
A VIGIL.
I walk the lane's dim hollow,—
Past is the twilight hour,
But stealthy shadows follow
And Night withholds her power,
For somewhere in the eastern sky
The shrouded moon is high.
Dews from the wild rose drip unheard,—
Their unforgotten scent
With that of woods and grasses blent ;
No muffled flight of bird,
No whispering voice, my footfall stops ;
No breeze amid the poplar-tops
The smallest leaf has stirred.
Yet round me, here and there,
A little fluttering wind
Plays now, — these senses have divined
A breath across my hair, —
A touch, — that on my forehead lies,
And presses long
These lips so mute of song,
And now, with kisses cool, my half-shut eyes.
This night ? O what is here !
What viewless aura clings
So fitfully, ..so near,
On this returning even-tide
When Memory will not be denied
Unfettered wings ?
My arms reach out, — in vain, —
They fold the air :
And yet — that wandering breath again !
Too vague to make her phantom plain,
Too tender for despair.
Edmund Clare?ice Stedman.
Vol. XXIX.— 66.
HODSON'S HIDE-OUT.
(a transcript from sand mountain.)
WHERE the great line of geologic upheaval running
down from Virginia through North Carolina, Ten-
nessee and Georgia finally breaks up into a hopeless
confusion of variously trending ridges and spurs,
there is a region of country somewhat north of the
center of Alabama, called by the inhabitants thereof
" The Sand Mounting." It is a wild, out-of-the-way,
little-known country, whose citizens have kept alive
in their mountain fastnesses nearly all that back-
woods simplicity and narrowness of ambition pecu-
liar to their ancestors, who came mostly from the
Carolinas, in the early part of the present century,
following the mountain lines in their migrations, as
fish follow streams. They are honest and virtuous,
as mountain folk usually are, rather frugal and simple
than industrious and enterprising, knowing nothing
of books, and having very indefinite information
touching the doings of the great world whose tides
of action foam around their mountain- locked valleys
like an ocean around some worthless island. They
have heard of railroads, but many of them have
never seen one. They do not take newspapers, they
turn their backs upon missionaries, and they nurse
a high disdain for the clothes and the ways of city
folk. Most of them are farmers in a small way, rais-
ing a little corn and wheat, a "patch" of cotton now
and then, a few vegetables, and a great deal of deli-
cious fruit.
In the days of secession the men of Sand Mount-
ing were not zealous in the Southern cause, nor were they, on the other hand, willing to do
battle for the Union. So it happened that when the Confederate authorities began a system
of conscription, Sand Mountain was not a healthful place for enrolling officers, many of
whom never returned therefrom to report the number of eligible men found in the remote
valleys and " pockets."
One citizen of the mountain became notorious, if not strictly famous, during the war. His
name was Riley Hodson, better known as Gineral Hodson, though he never had been a sol-
dier. He may have been rather abnormally developed to serve as a representative Sand
Mountain figure in this or any other sketch of that region. The reader may gather from the
following outlines of Hodson's character, drawn by certain of his neighbors, a pretty fair
idea of what the picture would be when filled out and properly shaded and lighted.
" Gineral Hodson air not jest ezactly what ye'd call a contrayee man, but he's a mighty
p'inted an' a' orful sot in 'is way sort o' a feller," said Sandy Biddle, who stood six feet
two in his home-made shoes, and weighed scarcely one hundred and twenty pounds, " an'
ef anybody air enjoyin' any oncommon desires for a fight, he may call on the gineral with a
reas'nable expectation of a-ketchin' double-barrel thunder an' hair-trigger lightnin'."
" He never hev be'n whirpt," observed old Ben Iley, himself the hero of some memorable
rough and tumble fights, " an' he hev managed to hev his own way, in spite o' 'ell an' high
water, all over the mounting for more 'n forty year tor my sarting knowledge."
" When it come ter doctrin', es the scripter p'intedly do show it, he kin preach all round
any o' yer Meth'dist bible-bangers 'at ever I see, don't keer ef ye do call 'im a Hardshell
an' a Forty-gallon, an' a' Iron-Jacket Baptus," was Wes. Beazly's tribute ; " an' I kin furder
say," he added, cutting a quid from a twist of Sand Mounting tobacco and lodging it in
his jaw, " 'at Gineral Hodson air hones', an' when he air a feller's frien' he air a good un,
HOD SON'S HIDE-OUT.
679
an' when he don't like ye, then hit air about
time fer ye ter git up an' brin'le out 'n the
mounting."
Turning from these verbal sketches to look
at Riley Hodson himself, we shall find him
leaning on the rickety little gate in front ofj
his rambling log-house. In height he is six
feet three, broad-shouldered, strong limbed,
rugged, grizzled, harsh-faced, unkempt. He
looks like the embodiment of obstinacy. Nor
is he out of place as a figure in the landscape
around him. Nature was in no soft mood
when she gave birth to Sand Mountain, and,
in this particular spot, such labor as Riley
Hodson had bestowed on its betterment had
rendered the offspring still more unsightly.
Some yellowish clay fields, washed into ruts
by the mountain rains, lay at all sorts of
angles with the horizon; the fences were
grown over with sassafras bushes and sour-
grape vines, and there was as small evidence
of any fertility of soil as there was of careful
or even intelligent husbandry. It was in the
spring of 1875, ten years after the close of the
war, that Riley Hodson leaned on that gate
and gazed up the narrow mountain trail at a
man coming down.
" Hit air a peddler," he muttered to him-
self, taking the short-stemmed pipe from his
mouth with a grimace of the most dogged
dislike, " hit air a peddler, an' ef them weem-
ing ever git ther eyes sot onto 'im, hit air
good-by ter what money I hev on han', to a
(lead sartingty." He opened the gate and
passed through, going slowly along the trail to
meet the coming stranger. Once or twice he
glanced furtively back over his shoulder to
see if his wife or daughter might chance to be
looking after him from the door of the old
house. He walked, in the genuine mountain
fashion, with long, loose strides, his arms
swinging awkwardly at his sides, and his head
thrust forward, with his chin elevated and his
shoulders drawn up. He soon came face to
face with a young man of rather small stature
and pleasing features, who carried a little pack
on the end of a short fowling-piece swung
across his left shoulder.
Hodson had made up his mind to drive
this young adventurer back, thinking him an
itinerant peddler; but a strange look came
into the old man's face, and he stopped short
with a half- frightened start and a dumb gest-
ure of awe and surprise.
The stranger, David D'Antinac by name,
and an ornithologist by profession, was a little
startled by this sudden apparition ; for Riley
Hodson at best was not prepossessing in ap-
pearance, and he now glared so strangely, and
his face had such an ashy pallor in it, that
the strongest heart might have shrunk and
trembled at confronting him in a lonely moun-
tain trail.
" Well, ye blamed little rooster ! " exclaimed
Hodson in a breathless way, after staring for
a full minute.
D'Antinac recoiled perceptibly, with some
show of excitement in his face. He was well
aware that he was in a region not held well
in hand by the law, and he had been told
many wild tales of this part of Sand Mountain.
" Ye blamed little rooster ! " repeated the
old man, taking two or three short backward
steps, as if half alarmed and half meditating
a sudden leap upon D'Antinac, who now
summoned voice enough to say :
" How do you do, sir ? "
Such a smile as one might cast upon the
dead — a white, wondering, fearful smile —
spread over Hodson's face. It seemed to
D'Antinac that this smile even leaped from
the face and ran like a ghastly flash across
the whole landscape. He will remember it as
long as he lives.
" W'y, Dave, er thet you ? " Hodson asked,
in a harsh, tremulous tone, taking still another
backward step.
" My name certainly is David, but I guess
you don't know me," said D'Antinac, with
an effort at an easy manner.
" Don't know ye, ye pore little rooster!
Don't know ye ! W'y, Dave, are ye come
ag'in ? " The old man wavered and faltered,
as if doubtful whether to advance or retreat.
" Don't know ye ? " he repeated. " W'y, Dave,
don't you know me? Hev ye furgot the ole
man ? "
" I beg your pardon, sir, but I believe I
never saw you before in my life," said D'An-
tinac, lowering his little pack to the ground
and leaning on his gun. " You are certainly
laboring under some mistake."
" Never seed me afore ! " exclaimed Hod-
son, his voice showing a rising belligerency.
" Ye blamed little rooster, none o' yer foolin',
fer I won't stand it. I'll jest nat'rally war' ye
out ef ye come any o' thet air." Hodson now
advanced a step or two with threatening gest-
ures. Quick as lightning, D'Antinac flung up
his gun and leveled it, his face growing very
pale.
" Another step," he cried excitedly, " and
I'll shoot two holes through you ! "
Hodson stopped and said in a deprecating
tone :
W'y Dave, ye wouldn't shoot yer daddy,
would ye, Dave ? "
" If you run onto me I'll shoot you" was
the firm response.
" W'y, ye blasted mean little rooster! " thun-
dered Hodson, and before D'Antinac in his ex-
citement could pull trigger, the old man had him
68o
HOD SON'S HIDE-OUT.
W'Y, DAVE, ER THET YOU?"
down and was sitting astride of him, as he lay
at full length on his back. " Now I'll jest nat'-
rally be dinged, Dave, ef I don't whirp ever' last
strifnn o' hide off'n ye ef ye don't erhave yer-
self ! " He had both of D'Antinac's arms
clasped in one of his great hands, and was press-
ing them so hard against the young man'sbreast
that he could scarcely breathe. " Ye nasty little
rooster, a-comin' back an' a-tryin' ter shoot yer
pore ole daddy fer nothin'. I'll jest wear ye out
an' half-sole ye ag'in ef ye open yer mouth ! "
D'Antinac lay like a mouse under the paw
of a lion. He was afraid to attempt to speak,
and it was quite impossible for him to move.
The old man's weight was enormous. " I'm
er great notion ter pound the very day-lights
out'n ye afore I let ye up," Hodson continued.
" Hit meks me mad 'nufffur ter bite ye in two
like er tater an' jest nat'rally chaw up both
pieces, on'y ter think 'at ye'd deny yer own
daddy, what's larruped ye a many a time, an
'en try ter shoot 'im ! I'm teetotally ershamed
of ye, Dave. An' what'll yer mammy say ?"
D'Antinac was possessed of a quick mind,
and he had schooled it in the art of making the
most of every exigency. He had been several
years in the mountain regions of the South,
and had discovered that the mountaineers liked
nothing better than a certain sort of humor,
liberally spiced with their peculiar slang.
" Speaking of biting a tater in two," he
ejaculated rather breathlessly, " reminds me
that I'm as hungry as a sitting hen. Have
you got anything like a good mellow iron
wedge, or a fried pine-knot in your pocket ?"
Hodson's face softened a little, and he
smiled again, in that half-ghastly way, as he
said :
" Ye dinged little rooster ! W'y, Dave, der ye
know the ole man now ? Say, Dave, do ye ? "
" Oh, yes, perfectly ; never knew any one
better in my life," promptly responded D'An-
tinac. " Your face is quite familiar, I assure
you. How're the folks ? "
Hodson chuckled deep down in his throat,
at the same time somewhat relaxing his hold
on the young man's arms.
" Sarah an' Mandy '11 jest nat'rally go
HOD SON'S HIDE-OUT.
68 1
'stracted over ye, Dave, an I want ye ter
'have yerself an' come on wi' me down ter the
house, like er white boy. This here foolin' 's
not gwine ter do ye no good. Ye've got ter
toe the mark, Dave."
" Oh, I'll behave," exclaimed D'Antinac,
" I'll do whatever you want me to. I was only
joking just now. Let me up, you're mashing
me as flat as a flying-squirrel."
" Well, I don't whant ter hurt ye, but afore
I ever let ye up, ye must promerse me one
thing," said Hodson.
" What is it ? quick, for you really are mak-
ing jelly of me," D'Antinac panted forth, like
Encelados under Sicily.
" Thet ye'll not deny yer mammy ner
Mandy ; an' ef ye do deny 'em, I'll jest nat'-
rally be blamed ef I don't whale yer jacket
tell ye won't know yer hide from a meal-
sifter. Do ye promerse ? "
" Yes," said D'Antinac, though, in fact, he
did not understand the old mountaineer's
meaning. The young man's mother had died
in his babyhood, and he felt safe in promising
never to deny her.
Hodson got up, leaving D'Antinac free to
rise ; but the old fellow got possession of the
gun and pack and then said :
" Now come 'long home, Dave, an' le's see
what yer mammy and Mandy'll say ter ye.
Come 'long, I say, an' don't stan' ther'
a-gawpin' like er runt pig in er peach or-
chard. I do 'spise er fool. Come on."
It is probable that no man was ever more
bewildered than D'Antinac was just then ; in
fact, he could not command himself sufficiently
to do more than stand there, after he had risen,
and stupidly stare at Hodson. The latter, how-
ever, did not parley, but, seizing one of the
young man's arms in a vise-like grip, he began
jerking him along the trail toward the house.
It was a subject fit for an artist's study. The
oldgiant striding down the path, with the young
man following at a trot. D'Antinac could not
resist. He felt the insignificance of his phy-
sique, and also of his will, when compared with
those of this old man of the mountain.
" I bet yer mammy 'ell know ye, soon es
she lays eyes on ye, spite of yer blamed new-
fangled clo's an' yer fancy mustachers. An'
es fur Mandy, don't s'pose she'll 'member ye,
case she wus too little w'en ye — w'en ye war'
— w'en they tuck ye off". She wus nothin'
but er baby then, ye know. Well, not ezactly
a baby, nuther, but er little gal like, le's see,
she air sevingtec now ; well, she wer' 'bout
five er six, er sich a matter, then. Mebbe she
mought know ye too."
D'Antinac, as he listened to this, began to
understand that in some way he had been
identified in the old man's mind as a long-lost
son, and it seemed to him that his only safety
lay in ready and pliant acceptance, if not in
active furtherance, of the illusion. He was
roughly hustled into the Hodson dwelling, a
squat old house, built of the halves of pine
logs, with the cracks between boarded over
with clapboards.
" Sarah, der ye 'member this yere little
rooster ? " Hodson exclaimed, with a ring of
pride in his harsh, stubborn voice, as he
" SHE TOOK THE PIPE FROM HER MOUTH AND GAZED AT
D'ANTINAC."
twisted D'Antinac around so as to bring him
face to face with a slim, sallow, wrinkled little
old woman, who stood by an enormous fire-
place smoking an oily-looking clay pipe.
" Don't he jest hev a sort er nat'ral look ter ye ?
Hev he be'n killed in the wa', Sarah, eh ? "
The woman did not respond immediately.
She took the pipe from her mouth and gazed
at D'Antinac. Her face slowly assumed a
yearning look, and at length, with a sort of
moaning cry of recognition, she fell upon him
and clasped him close, kissing him and wet-
ting him with her tears. Her breath, heavy
with the malodor of nicotine, almost strangled
him, but he dared not resist.
During this ordeal he got broken glimpses
of a bright girlish face, a heavy rimpled mass
of lemon-colored hair, and a very pretty form
clothed in a loose homespun gown.
682
HODSON'S HIDE-OUT.
" Mandy, hit air Dave come back, yer
brother Dave ; do yer 'member 'im ? " he
heard the old man say. " Do yer 'member the
little rooster 'at they conscriptered an' tuck
erway ter the wa' ? Well, thet air's him, thet
air's Dave ! Go kiss 'im, Mandy."
The girl did not move, nor did she seem at
all inclined to share the excitement of her
parents.
" Go kiss yer bud, Mandy, I say," Hodson
commanded. " He wusn't killed in no wa'.
Kiss the little rooster, Mandy."
" Won't," stubbornly responded Mandy.
" Well, now, I'll jest ber dinged, sis, ef this
yere hain't jest too bad," the old man ex-
claimed in a whining, deprecatory tone of
voice, quite different from the gruff, bullying
sounds usually emitted by him. " I wouldn't
er thort 'at ye'd 'fuse ter be glad w'en yer lit-
tle brother come."
" 'Tain't none o' my brother, neither," she
said, blushing vermilion, as she half-shyly
gazed at D'Antinac, with her finger in her
mouth.
Mrs. Hodson hung upon the young man
for a space that seemed to him next to inter-
minable, and when at last she unwound her
bony arms from his neck and pushed him
back, so as to get a good look at him, he felt
such relief as comes with the first fresh breath
after a season of suffocation.
" Ye air be'n gittin' rich, hain't ye, Dave ?
an' ye air fatter'n ye wus, too," she remarked.
Then she went back to the hearth and re-
lighted her pipe, meantime eying him curi-
ously. D'Antinac never before had found
himself £0 utterly at a loss for something to do
or say. The occasion was a singularly dry,
queer, and depressing one. He felt the mean-
ness of his attitude, and yet a side glance at
Hodson's stubbornly cruel face and giant
form was enough to enforce its continuance.
" Yer mammy's jest es poorty es ever,
hain't she, Dave? " said the old man, with a
wheedling note in his rasping voice, " she
hain't changed none, Ziev'she, Dave ? "
" I don't know — I guess — well, perhaps
she's more flesh — that is, stouter than when
— than when "
" Ye-e-s, that air hit, Dave," said Hodson,
" she air fatter."
Nothing could have been more ridiculous
than this assertion. Mrs. Hodson, like most
old mountain women who live on salt pork
and smoke tobacco, was as thin and withered
and dry as a last year's beech-leaf. D'An-
tinac sheepishly glanced at Mandy. The girl
put her hand over her really sweet-looking
mouth, and uttered a suppressed titter, at the
same time deepening her blushes and shrug-
ging her plump, shapely shoulders.
" Well, Dave, jest es I 'spected, Mandy
hev furgot ye," said Hodson ; " but ye know
she wer' not no bigger'n a nubbin o' dry-
weather co'n w'en ye wer' tuck away. But
hit's all right, Dave, yer mammy an' me hev
alius felt like ye'd turn up some day, an' lo
an' behole, ye hev."
Once more D'Antinac bravely tried to deny
this alleged kinship to the Hodson house-
hold, but the old man instantly flew into a
passion and threatened all sorts of condign
punishment, not the worst of which was
" swiping " him " all over a' acre o' groun'."
" But, my dear sir, I can't afford to have
you for a moment think "
" Dry up ! ye little sniv'lin' conscript, er
I'll mop up this yere floo' wi' ye in a minute!
Hain't ye got no sense 't all ? Hev I got ter
down ye ag'in ? "
D'Antinac could not help himself. He made
a full surrender, and accepted, for the time,
his role of returned son and brother, trusting
that something would soon turn up to free
him from the embarrassment. He was not
long in discovering that Mrs. Hodson's faith
in his identity was much weaker than the old
man's, and as for Mandy, she very flatly re-
fused to accept him as a brother.
It was now sundown, and the evening
shadows were gathering in the valley. Far
and near, the brown thrushes, the cardinal
grosbeaks, and the cat-birds were singing in
the hedges of sassafras that overgrew the old
worm fences of the Hodson farm. The woods
along the mountain-sides were almost black
with their heavy leafage, and the stony peaks
of the highest ridge in the west, catching the
reflection from the sunset clouds, looked like
heaps of gold. A peculiar dryness seemed to
pervade earth, air, and sky, as if some under-
ground volcanic heat had banished every
trace of moisture from the soil, whilst the sun
had dessicated the atmosphere. Even the
clouds, scudding lazily overhead, had the look
of being crisp and withered.
With all a Sand Mountain man's faith in
the universal efficacy of fried bacon, Hodson
ordered supper to be prepared. Mandy rolled
up the sleeves of her homespun dress, show-
ing arms as white and plump as those of a
babe, and proceeded to cut some long slices
of streaked " side-meat," as the mountaineers
term smoked breakfast-bacon, while her father
started a fire on the liberal hearth. The sup-
per was rather greasy, but not unpalatable,
the fried corn-bread and the crisp meat being
supplemented by excellent coffee. During the
meal Hodson plied D'Antinac with questions as
to where he had spent all these years of absence,
questions very hard to answer satisfactorily.
Mrs. Hodson silently watched the young man,
HOD SON'S HIDE-OUT.
683
with a doubting, wistful look in her watery
eyes, as if she could not make up her mind to
trust him wholly, and yet was anxious to ac-
cept him, as her long-lost son. Mandy scarcely
lifted her face after she sat down at the table,
but D'Antinac fancied he could detect a dim-
pling ripple of suppressed merriment about
her rosy cheeks and mouth.
When supper was over and Mandy had
washed the dishes and put them away, Hod-
son proposed music ; he was almost hilarious.
"W-W-W'AT DAVE IS YER TARKIN' 'BOUT?"
" Ye ricollec' Jord, don't ye, Dave ? Our
ole nigger feller — course ye do, yer boun' ter
ricollec' 'im, couldn't never furgit 'im ; mean
ole villyun, but er good hand ter hoe cotting
an' pull fodder. Well, he's jest got in from
the upper co'n-fiel', an' is er feedin' 'is mule.
Soon es he comes ter 'is cabing, I'll call 'im
in ter pick the banjer fur ye, an' I don't whant
ye ter say nothin' 'bout who ye air, an' see ef
he 'members ye."
Of course D'Antinac assented ; there was
nothing else for him to do. In fact, he was
beginning to feel a sharp interest in the prog-
ress of this queer farce. He tried to get a
look into Mandy 's roguish eyes, that he might
be sure of her sympathy, but she avoided him,
her cheeks all the time burning with blushes,
and her yellowish hair tossed loosely over her
neck and shoulders. Presently Hodson went
out to fetch in Jord and the banjo. It was
during his absence, and while Mrs. Hodson
was stooping over the embers on the hearth,
trying to scoop up a coal to light her pipe,
that the bashful girl got up and walked across
the room. As she passed D'Antinac, she
whispered :
" Ye must 'member Jord soon es ye see
'im — don't ye fail. Save er rumpus."
" All right," whispered D'Antinac.
Hodson reentered in due time, followed by
a slender, bony negro man, whose iron-gray
wool and wrinkled face indexed his age at
near seventy years.
"Jording, der ye know this yere gentle-
man ? " said Hodson.
" Naw, sah, don't fink er do," answered the
negro, twirling his banjo in a self-conscious
way, and bowing obsequiously.
Mrs. Hodson and Mandy interchanged
quick, half-frightened grimaces, followed by
furtive glances toward the master of the house.
" Jording," said Hodson, " ef ye don't tell
me who this yere feller air in less'n a minute,
I'll jest nat'rally take the ramrod out'n Hor-
net," pointing to a long rifle that hung over
the door, " an' I'll jest wax hit to ye, tell ye'll
be glad ter 'member mos' anybody."
" Why, Jord, old fellow, don't you remem-
ber Dave ! " exclaimed D'Antinac, taking a
step forward, and simulating great joy and
surprise.
" W-w-w'at Dave is yer tarkin' 'bout ? "
stammered the poor old negro.
Hodson's face instantly swelled with rage,
and he certainly would have done something
desperate had not D'Antinac just then closed
up the space between himself and Jord.
Mandy, too, joined the group and whispered:
" Don't be er fool, Jord, say hit's Dave
come back f'om the wa'."
Jord's wits and conscience were a little re-
fractory, but Mandy's advice found an able
auxiliary in the fact that Hodson had by this
time got possession of the rifle-ramrod, and
was flourishing it furiously.
" W'y, Mars Dave ! dis you ? 'Clar' ter
goodness de ole niggah's eyes gittin' pow'ful
pore ! Didn' know yer no mo'n nuffm' at fus;
but yer look jes es nat'ral es de ole mule ter me
now. Wha' ye been all dis time, Mars Dave ?
'Clar' ter goodness ye s'prise de ole niggah's
senses mos' out'n 'im, yer does fo' sho' ! "
While Jord was thus delivering himself, he
kept one eye queerly leering at D'Antinac,
and the other glaring wildly at the wavering
ramrod.
" Ther', what'd I tell ye ?" exclaimed Hod-
son, vociferously ; " what'd I tell ye ! Jord
'members 'im ! Hit air Dave, sho' 's ye bo'n,
Sarah ! Hit air our boy, fur a fac', the blamed
little rooster! He wusn't killed in no wa',
Sarah ! I alius tole ye 'at he'd come back, an',
sho' 'nurT, yer he air! Hallooyer \" As he
684.
HOD SON'S HIDE-OUT.
"jORD ER GONE ! "
spoke, he capered awkwardly over the floor,
to the imminent danger of every one's toes.
When his ecstasy had somewhat abated, he
turned to Jord, his face beaming with delight.
" Now, Jording," he said, " give us my fa-
voryte song; an', Jording, put on the power,
put on the power ! This yere's a 'cashun of
onlimeted rejoicin' ! Hain't it, Sarah ? "
" Hit air," responded Mrs. Hodson, puffing
lazily at her old pipe.
Hodson took a chair, and, placing it close
beside his wife, sat down, and, with his hand
caressing her shoulder, whispered in her ear :
" Hain't this yere jest glor'us ? "
" Hit air," she answered, lifelessly.
Mandy's face was as pink as the petals of
a wild rose and her heart was fluttering
strangely.
D'Antinac, keenly alive to the dramatic
situation, and somewhat troubled as to how
it was to end, glanced around the room, and,
despite his mental perturbation, became aware
of the rude but powerful setting of the scene.
The pine-smoked walls and ceiling, the scant,
primitive furniture, the scrupulously clean
puncheon floor, the long flint-locked rifle, the
huge " stick-and-dirt " fire-place, the broad,
roughly laid hearth and the smoke-grimed
wooden crane, all taken together, made an
entourage in perfect accord with the figures,
the costumes, and the predicament.
Jord tuned his banjo with some show of fal-
tering, and presently he began to play and sing.
The following, which were the closing stanzas,
will serve to give an idea of the performance :
" Ab'um Linkum say he gwine ter
Free ole niggah in de wah,
But Mars Hodson say he mine ter
See how Ab'um do dat dar !
Hoop-te-loody, how ye gwine ter
When Mars Hodson not er mine ter ?
Den ole Ab'um say : ' You free um ! '
But Mars Hodson cut an' shoot,
An' say to Ab'um dat he see um
At de debbil 'fore he do 't !
Hoop-te-loody, how ye gwine ter
When Mars Hodson not er mine ter ? "
" That air a fac'," exclaimed Hodson, al-
most gleefully, " that air a fac'. Here's what
never guv in yit, Dave ! They tried fur ter
mek me fight fur the Confed'ret States an'
they never done hit, an' 'en they tried ter
conscrip' me, like they did you, Dave, but I
cut 'em an' shot 'em an' hid out aroun' in
these yere woods tell they guv my place the
name o' Hide-out, an' they didn't conscrip'
me, nuther ; an' 'en the tother gov'ment proc-
lamated and sot ever'body's niggers free, but
yer daddy hel' on ter his one lone nigger jes'
ter show 'em 'at he could; fur ther's not a
gov'ment onto the top side o' yearth 'at kin
coerce er subjergate yer daddy, Dave."
Jord hung his head in the utmost humility
while his master was speaking. A keen pang
of sympathy shot through D'Antinac's bosom.
The thought that this kindly-faced old negro
was still a slave, the one lone man of his
race whose shackles remained unbroken, was
touching beyond compare. And yet it seemed
quite in consonance with the nature of things
that such a person as Hodson should be able,
situated as he was, to resist, for any length
of time, the tide of the new regime. This
easy turn from the absurd to the pathetic
gave a new force to the situation, hardening
and narrowing its setting, whilst it added in-
finite depth to its meaning. Here, indeed,
was the very heart of Sand Mountain, and
well might it be called Hodson's Hide-out,
where slavery's last instance had been hidden
safe from the broad eyes of freedom.
D'Antinac could not sleep when at last he
had been left by Hodson in a little dingy
room, whither his gun and pack had also
been transported. The bed was soft and
clean, and the moonlight pouring through
a low, square, paneless window invited to
sleep ; but he lay there pondering and rest-
less. Hodson's last words, before bidding him
good-night, kept ringing in his ears :
" Thet ole Jording air a livin' ezample o'
my 'termination an' ondurence, Dave, an' hit
shows what stuff yer daddy's made out'n.
The whole etarnal worP kin never free that
HOD SON'S HIDE-OUT.
685
air nigger. He er mine ter keep, es the ole
hymn say, ' Whatever may erpose.' "
D'Antinac was small of stature and not at
all a hero mentally; but he had come of a
liberty-loving ancestry, and was, despite his
foreign-looking name, an American to his
heart's core. No doubt the wild, roving life
he had for years been leading, as an emissary
of an ornithological society, had served to
emphasize and accentuate his love of freedom
in every sense.
He had turned and tossed on his bed for
several hours, when a peculiar voice, between
a chant and a prayer in its intonations, came
in through the little window, along with the
white stream of moonlight. He got up and
softly went to the aperture. The voice came
from a little detached cabin in the back yard.
It was Jord praying.
" Lor', hab' de ole man sarb ye well an'
true ? Mus' I die er slabe an' come 'ome ter
glory wid de chain on ? What I done, Lor',
'at ye 'zart me when I's ole ? Is I nebber
gwine ter be free ? Come down, Lor', an'
'stain de ole man in he 'fliction an' trouble,
an' oh, Lor', gib 'im oleeyes one leetle glimp'
ob freedom afore he die. Amen."
Such were the closing words of the plain-
tive and touching prayer. No wonder that
suddenly d'Antinac's whole life focused itself
in the desire to liberate that old slave. He
forgot every element of his predicament, save
his nearness to the last remnant of human
bondage. He drew on his clothes, seized his
pack and gun, and slyly crept out through
the little window. The cool, sweet mountain
air braced him like wine. This ought to be
the breath of freedom. These rugged peaks sur-
rounding the little " pocket " or valley ought
not to fence in a slave or harbor a master.
Riley Hodson slept soundly all night, and
did not get up before breakfast was ready.
" Let the little rooster sleep ; hit air Sun-
day, anyhow ; let 'im git up when he whants
ter," said the old man, when d'Antinac failed
to appear.
Mandy had fried some ham and eggs for
breakfast, and she came to the table in a very
becoming blue calico gown. Mrs. Hodson
appeared listless, and her eyes had no cheerful
light in them.
The old man ate ravenously the choicest
eggs and the best slices of ham, with the air
of one determined upon vicariously breaking
fast for the entire household. But Mandy had
saved back in the frying-pan some extra bits
for the young stranger.
An hour passed.
" Guess the blamed little rooster air a-goin'
Vol. XXIX.— 67.
ter snooze all day. Mebbe I'd better wake
'im," Hodson at last said, and went to the
little bedroom. He tapped on the door, but
got no response. Then he pounded heavily
and called out :
" Hullo, Dave ! "
Silence followed. He turned and glared at
Mrs. Hodson, then at Mandy.
" The blamed little rooster ! " he muttered,
flinging open the door. For many seconds
he stood peering into the room. Presently he
clutched the door-post to steady himself, then
he reeled round, and his face grew white.
" Dave er gone ! " he gasped. " Dave er
gone ! Lord, Sarah, he air gone ag'in ! "
Almost involuntarily Mandy went to the
bedroom door and confirmed her father's as-
sertion. Mrs. Hodson was quiet. The whole
house was quiet. Indeed, there seemed to
have fallen a perfect hush over the valley and
the mountains.
Riley Hodson soon rallied. He sprang to
his feet like a tiger.
" Mandy," he stormed, " go tell Jording
ter bridle an' saddle the mule, quick ! "
Mandy went at his command, as if blown
by his breath. In a few minutes she returned,
white as a ghost, and gasped :
"Jord er gone ! "
" What ! How ! Gone ! Jording ! "
" He air gone," Mandy repeated, holding
out a two-dollar " greenback " bill in one
hand and a piece of writing-paper in the other.
" I got these yere off'n Jord's table."
With great difficulty and in a breathless
way, she read aloud what was hastily scrawled
on the paper :
"Mr. Hodson.
"Dear Sir: You are greatly mistaken; I am not
your son. I never saw you in my life before yesterday.
Your wife and daughter are both well aware of your
curious illusion. Jordan, whom I take with me to
freedom, knows that I am not your lost son. In fact,
I am, Very respectfully yours,
David d'Antinac
" P. S. A letter to me will reach me if directed in
care of the Smithsonian Institution at Washington,
D. C. I inclose two dollars to pay for the trouble I
have given you."
Hodson caught his mule, bridled it and
saddled it, and rode away up the zigzag moun-
tain trail in pursuit of the fugitives ; but he
did not catch them. At nightfall he returned
in a somber mood, with a look of dry despair
in his eyes. For a long while he did not
speak ; but at length, when his wife came and
sat dowrn close beside him, he muttered :
" Wer' hit Dave, Sarah ?"
" Hit wer' not," she answered ; " Dave never
hed no mole onter 'is chin."
Maurice Thompson,
THE BOSTONIANS.*
BY HENRY JAMES,
Author of " Portrait of a Lady," " Daisy Miller," " Lady Barberina," etc.
VI.
" Oh, thank you," said Miss Birdseye; " I
shouldn't like to lose it ; it was given me by
Mirandola ! " He had been one of her refu-
gees in the old time, when two or three of
her friends, acquainted with the limits of his
resources, wondered how he had come into
possession of the trinket. She had been di-
verted again, after her greeting with Doctor
and Mrs. Tarrant, by stopping to introduce
the tall, dark young man whom Miss Chan-
cellor had brought with her to Doctor
Prance. She had become conscious of his
somewhat somber figure, uplifted against the
wall, near the door ; he was leaning there in
solitude, unacquainted with opportunities
which Miss Birdseye felt to be, collectively,
of value, and which were really, of course,
what strangers came to Boston for. It did
not occur to her to ask herself why Miss
Chancellor didn't talk to him, since she had
brought him; Miss Birdseye was incapable
of a speculation of this kind. Olive, in fact,
had remained vividly conscious of her kins-
man's isolation until the moment when Mrs.
Farrinder lifted her, with a word, to a higher
plane. She watched him across the room ;
she saw that he might be bored. But she
proposed to herself not to mind that; she
had asked him, after all, not to come. Then
he was no worse off than others ; he was only
waiting, like the rest; and before they left she
would introduce him to Mrs. Farrinder. She
might tell that lady who he was first ; it was
not every one that would care to know a
person who had borne such a part in the
Southern disloyalty. It came over our young
lady that when she sought the acquaintance
of her distant kinsman she had indeed done
a more complicated thing than she suspected.
The sudden uneasiness that he flung over her
in the carriage had not left her, though she
felt it less now she was with others, and es-
pecially that she was close to Mrs. Farrinder,
who was such a fountain of strength. At any
rate, if he was bored, he could speak to some
one ; there were excellent people near him,
even if they were ardent reformers. He could
speak to that pretty girl who had just come
in — the one with red hair — if he liked;
Southerners were supposed to be so chival-
rous !
Miss Birdseye reasoned much less, and
didn't offer to introduce him to Verena Tar-
rant, who was apparently being presented by
her parents to a group of friends at the other
end of the room. It came back to Miss
Birdseye, in this connection, that, sure enough,
Verena had been away for a long time — for
two or three years ; had been on a visit to
friends in the West, and would therefore nat-
urally be a stranger to most of the Boston
circle. Doctor Prance was looking at her —
at Miss Birdseye — with little, sharp, fixed
pupils; and the good lady wondered whether
she were angry at having been induced to
come up. She had a general impression that
when genius was original its temper was
high; and all this would be the case with
Doctor Prance. She wanted to say to her
that she could go down again if she liked ;
but even to Miss Birdseye's unsophisticated
mind this scarcely appeared, as regards a
guest, an adequate formula of dismissal. She
tried to bring the young Southerner out ; she
said to him that she presumed they would
have some entertainment soon — Mrs. Far-
rinder could be interesting when she tried !
And then she bethought herself to introduce
him to Doctor Prance ; it might serve as a
reason for having brought her up. Moreover,
it would do her good to break up her work
now and then; she pursued her medical
studies far into the night, and Miss Birdseye,
who was nothing of a sleeper (Mary Prance,
precisely, had wanted to treat her for it), had
heard her, in the stillness of the small hours,
with her open windows (she had fresh air on
the brain), sharpening instruments (it was
Miss Birdseye's mild belief that she dissected)
in a little physiological laboratory which she
had set up in her back room, the room
which, if she hadn't been a doctor, might
have been her " chamber," and perhaps was,
even with the dissecting, Miss Birdseye
didn't know ! She explained her young
friends to each other, a trifle incoherently,
perhaps, and then went to stir up Mrs. Far-
rinder.
Basil Ransom had already noticed Doctor
Prance ; he had not been at all bored, and
Copyright, 1884, by Henry James.
THE BOSTONIANS.
687
had observed every one in the room, arriving
at all sorts of ingenious inductions. The lit-
tle medical lady struck him as a perfect ex-
ample of the "Yankee female" — the figure
which, in the unregenerate imagination of the
children of the cotton-States, was produced
by the New England school-system, the Puri-
tan code, the ungenial climate, the absence
of chivalry. Spare, dry, hard, without a curve,
an inflection, or a grace, she seemed to ask
no odds in the battle of life and to be pre-
pared to give none. But Ransom could see
that she was not an enthusiast, and after his
contest with his cousin's enthusiasm this was
rather a relief to him. She looked like a boy,
and not even like a good boy. It was evi-
dent that if she had been a boy, she would
have " cut " school, to try private experiments
in mechanics or to make researches in natu-
ral history. It was true that if she had been
a boy she would have borne some relation to
a girl, whereas Doctor Prance appeared to
bear none whatever. Except her intelligent
eye, she had no features to speak of. Ransom
asked her if she were acquainted with the
lioness, and on her staring at him, without re-
sponse, explained that he meant the renowned
Mrs. Farrinder.
" Well, I don't know as I ought to say that
I'm acquainted with her ; but I've heard her
on the platform. I have paid my half-dollar,"
the doctor added, with a certain grimness.
" Well, did she convince you ? " Ransom
inquired.
" Convince me of what, sir? "
" That women are so superior to men."
" Oh, deary me ! " said Doctor Prance,
with a little impatient sigh ; " I guess I
know more about women than she does."
" And that isn't your opinion, I hope," said
Ransom, laughing.
" Men and women are all the same to me,"
Doctor Prance remarked. " I don't see any
difference. There is room for improvement in
both sexes. Neither of them is up to the
standard." And on Ransom's asking her what
the standard appeared to her to be, she said,
"Well, they ought to live better; that's what
they ought to do." And she went on to de-
clare, further, that she thought they all talked
too much. This had so long been Ransom's
conviction that his heart quite warmed to
Doctor Prance, and he paid homage to her
wisdom in the manner of Mississippi — with
a richness of compliment that made her turn
her acute, suspicious eye upon him. This
checked him ; she was capable of thinking
that he talked too much — she herself having,
apparently, no general conversation. It was
german to the matter, at any rate, for him to
observe that he believed they were to have a
lecture from Mrs. Farrinder — he didn't know
why she didn't begin. " Yes," said Doctor
Prance, rather dryly, " I suppose that's what
Miss Birdseye called me up for. She seemed
to think I wouldn't want to miss that."
" Whereas, I infer, you could console your-
self for the loss of the oration," Ransom sug-
gested.
" Well, I've got some work. I don't want
any one to teach me what a woman can do ! "
Doctor Prance declared. " She can find out
some things, if she tries. Besides, I am fa-
miliar with Mrs. Farrinder's system ; I know
all she's got to say."
" Well, what is it, then, since she continues
to remain silent ? "
" Well, what it amounts to is just that wo-
men want to have a better time. That's what
it comes to in the end. I am aware of that,
without her telling me."
" And don't you sympathize with such an
aspiration ? "
" Well, I don't know as I cultivate the sen-
timental side," said Doctor Prance. " There's
plenty of sympathy without mine. If they
want to have a better time, I suppose it's nat-
ural; so do men too, I suppose. But I don't
know as it appeals to me — to make sacrifices
for it ; it ain't such a wonderful time — the
best you can have ! "
This little lady was tough and technical ;
she evidently didn't care for great move-
ments ; she became more and more interest-
ing to Basil Ransom, who, it is to be feared,
had a fund of cynicism. He asked her if she
knew his cousin, Miss Chancellor, whom he
indicated, beside Mrs. Farrinder; she be-
lieved, on the contrary, in wonderful times
(she thought they were coming) ; she had
plenty of sympathy, and he was sure she was
willing to make sacrifices.
Doctor Prance looked at her across the
room for a moment ; then she said she didn't
know her, but she guessed she knew others
like her — she went to see them when they
were sick. " She's having a private lecture
to herself," Ransom remarked; whereupon
Doctor Prance rejoined, " Well, I guess
she'll have to pay for it!" She appeared
to regret her own half-dollar, and to be
vaguely impatient of the behavior of her
sex. Ransom became so sensible of this
that he felt it was indelicate to allude
further to the cause of woman, and, for a
change, endeavored to elicit from his com-
panion some information about the gentlemen
present. He had given her a chance, vainly,
to start some topic herself; but he could see
that she had no interests beyond the re-
searches from which, this evening, she had
been torn, and was incapable of asking him a
CSS
THE BOSTONIANS.
personal question. She knew two or three of one, whom he had only noticed during the
the gentlemen ; she had seen them before at
Miss Birdseye's. Of course she knew princi-
pally ladies; the time hadn't come when a
lady doctor was sent for by gentlemen, and
she hoped it never would, though some peo-
ple seemed to think that this was what lady-
doctors were working for. She knew Mr.
Pardon; that was the young man with the
" side-whiskers " and the white hair; he was
a kind of editor, and he wrote, too, " over
his signature " — perhaps Basil had read some
of his works; he was under thirty, in spite of
his white hair. He was a great deal thought
of in magazine circles. She believed he was
very bright — but she hadn't read anything.
She didn't read much — not for amusement ;
only the " Transcript." She believed Mr. Par
last ten minutes. She was Miss Tarrant, the
daughter of the healer; hadn't she mentioned
his name ? Selah Tarrant ; if he wanted to
send for him. Doctor Prance wasn't acquainted
with her, beyond knowing that she was the
mesmerist's only child, and having heard
something about her having some gift — she
couldn't remember which it was. Oh, if she
was his child, she would be sure to have some
gift — if it was only the gift of the g
well, she didn't mean to say that; but a
talent for conversation. Perhaps she could
die and come to life again; perhaps she
would show them her gift, as no one seemed
inclined to do anything. Yes, she was pretty-
appearing, but there was a certain indica-
tion of anaemia, and Doctor Prance would be
don sometimes wrote in the " Transcript " ; surprised if she didn't eat too much candy.
well, she supposed he was very bright. The Basil thought she had an engaging exterior ;
other that she knew — only she didn't know him
(she supposed Basil would think that queer)
— was the tall, pale gentleman, with the black
mustache and the eye-glass. She knew him
because she had met him in society ; but she
didn't know him — well, because she didn't
want to. If he should come and speak to her
— and he looked as if he were going to work
round that way — she should just say to him,
"Yes, sir," or "No, sir," very coldly. She
couldn't help it if he did think her dry ; if he
were a little more dry, it might be better for
him. What was the matter with him ? Oh,
she thought she had mentioned that : he was
a mesmeric healer, he made miraculous cures.
She didn't believe in his system or disbelieve
in it, one way or the other; she only knew
that she had been called to see ladies he had
worked on, and she found that he had made
them lose a lot of valuable time. He talked
to them — well, as if he didn't know what he
was saying. She guessed he was quite igno-
rant of pathology, and she didn't think he
ought to go round taking responsibilities.
She didn't want to be narrow, but she thought
a person ought to know something. She sup-
posed Basil would think her very uplifted;
but he had put the question to her, as she
might say. All she could say was she didn't
it was his private reflection, colored doubtless
by " sectional " prejudice, that she was the
first pretty girl he had seen in Boston. She
was talking with some ladies at the other end
of the room; and she had a large red fan,
which she kept constantly in movement. She
was not a quiet girl ; she fidgeted, was rest-
less, while she talked, and had the air of a
person who, whatever she might be doing,
would wish to be doing something else. If
people watched her a good deal, she also re-
turned their contemplation, and her charming
eyes had several times encountered those of
Basil Ransom. But they wandered mainly in
the direction of Mrs. Farrinder — they lin-
gered upon the serene solidity of the great ora-
tress. It was easy to see that the girl admired
this beneficent woman, and felt it a privilege
to be near her. It was apparent, indeed, that
she was excited by the company in which she
found herself; a fact to be explained by a
reference to that recent period of exile in the
West, of which we have had a hint, and in con-
sequence of which the present occasion may
have seemed to her a return to intellectual
life. Ransom secretly wished that his cousin
— since fate was to reserve for him a cousin
in Boston — had been more like that.
By this time a certain agitation was per-
want him to be laying his hands on any of her ceptible ; several ladies, impatient of vain de-
folks ; it was all done with the hands — what
wasn't done with the tongue ! Basil could see
that Doctor Prance was irritated; that this
extreme candor of allusion to her neighbor
was probably not habitual to her, as a mem-
lay, had left their places to appeal personally
to Mrs. Farrinder, who was presently sur-
rounded with sympathetic remonstrants. Miss
Birdseye had given her up; it had been
enough for Miss Birdseve that she should
ber of a society in which the casual expression have said, when pressed (so far as her hostess,
of strong opinion generally produced waves muffled in laxity, could press) on the subject
of silence. But he blessed her irritation, for of the general expectation, that she could
him it was so illuminating; and to draw only deliver her message to an audience
further profit from it, he asked her who the which she felt to be partially hostile. There
young lady was with the red hair — the pretty was no hostility there; they were all only too
THE BOSTONIANS.
689
much in sympathy. " I don't require sym-
pathy," she said, with a tranquil smile, to
Olive Chancellor; " I am only myself; I only
rise to the occasion, when I see prejudice,
when I see bigotry, when I see injustice,
when I see conservatism, massed before me
like an army. Then I feel — I feel as I im-
agine Napoleon Bonaparte to have felt on
the eve of one of his great victories. I must
have unfriendly elements — I like to win them
over."
Olive thought of Basil Ransom, and won-
dered whether he would do for an unfriendly
element. She mentioned him to Mrs. Farrin-
der, who expressed an earnest hope that if he
were opposed to the principles which were so
dear to the rest of them, he might be induced
to take the floor and testify on his own ac-
count. " I should be so happy to answer
him," said Mrs. Farrinder, with supreme soft-
ness. " I should be so glad, at any rate, to
exchange ideas with him." Olive felt a deep
alarm at the idea of a public dispute between
these two vigorous people (she had a percep-
tion that Ransom would be vigorous), not
because she doubted of the happy issue, but
because she herself would be in a false posi-
tion, as having brought the offensive young
man, and she had a horror of false positions.
Miss Birdseye was incapable of resentment ;
she had invited forty people to hear Mrs.
Farrinder speak, and now Mrs. Farrinder
wouldn't speak. But she had such a beauti-
ful reason for it ! There was something
martial and heroic in her pretext, and, be-
sides, it was so characteristic, so free, that
Miss Birdseye was quite consoled, and wan-
dered away, looking at her other guests
vaguely, as if she didn't know them from
each other, while she mentioned to them,
at a venture, the excuse for their disappoint-
ment, confident, evidently, that they would
agree with her it was very fine. " But we
can't pretend to be on the other side, just to
start her up, can we ? " she asked of Mr.
Tarrant, who sat there beside his wife with
a rather conscious but by no means com-
placent air of isolation from the rest of the
company.
"Wei], I don't know — I guess we are all
solid here," this gentleman replied, looking
round him with a slow, deliberate smile,
which made his mouth enormous, developed
two wrinkles, as long as the wings of a bat,
on either side of it, and showed a set of big,
even, carnivorous teeth.
" Selah," said his wife, laying her hand on
the sleeve of his water-proof, " I wonder
! whether Miss Birdseye would be interested
to hear Verena."
" Well, if you mean she sings, it's a shame
Miss Birdseye took
It came back to her
I haven't got a piano,'
upon herself to respond,
that the girl had a gift.
" She doesn't want a piano — she doesn't
want anything," Selah remarked, giving no
apparent attention to his wife. It was a part
of his attitude in life never to appear to be
indebted to another person for a suggestion,
never to be surprised or unprepared.
" Well, I don't know that the interest in
singing is so general," said Miss Birdseye,
quite unconscious of any slackness in pre-
paring a substitute for the entertainment that
had failed her.
"It isn't singing, you'll see," Mrs. Tarrant
declared.
"What is it, then?"
Mr. Tarrant unfurled his wrinkles, showed
his back-teeth. " It's inspirational."
Miss Birdseye gave a small, vague, un-
skeptical laugh. " Well, if you can guarantee
that "
" I think it would be acceptable," said
Mrs. Tarrant ; and putting up a half-gloved,
familiar hand, she drew Miss Birdseye down
to her, and the pair explained in alternation
what it was their child could do.
Meanwhile, Basil Ransom confessed to
Doctor Prance that he was, after all, rather
disappointed. He had expected more of a
programme ; he wanted to hear some of the
new truths. Mrs. Farrinder, as he said, re-
mained within her tent, and he had hoped
not only to see these distinguished people
but also to listen to them.
" Well, I ain't disappointed," the sturdy
little doctress replied. " If any question had
been opened, I suppose I should have had to
stay."
" But I presume you don't propose to re-
tire."
" Well, I've got to pursue my studies some
time. I don't want the gentlemen doctors to
get ahead of me."
" Oh, no one will ever get ahead of you,
I'm very sure. And there is that pretty
young lady going over to speak to Mrs. Far-
rinder. She's going to beg her for a speech
— Mrs. Farrinder can't resist that."
" Well, then, I'll just trickle out before she
begins. Good-night, sir," said Doctor Prance,
who by this time had begun to appear to
Ransom more susceptible of domestication,
as if she had been a small forest-creature, a
catamount or a ruffled doe, that had learned
to stand still while you stroked it, or even to
extend a paw. She ministered to health, and
she was healthy herself; if his cousin could
have been even of this type, Basil would have
felt himself more fortunate.
" Good-night, Doctor," he replied. " You
690
THE BOSTONIANS.
haven't told me, after all, your opinion of the
capacity of the ladies."
" Capacity for what ? " said Doctor Prance.
" They've got a capacity for making people
waste time. All I know is that I don't want
any one to tell me what a lady can do ! "
And she edged away from him softly, as if
she had been traversing a hospital-ward, and
presently he saw her reach the door, which,
with the arrival of the later comers, had re-
mained open. She stood there an instant,
turning over the whole assembly a glance like
the flash of a watchman's bull's-eye, and then
quickly passed out. Ransom could see that
she was impatient of the general question and
bored with being reminded, even for the sake
of her rights, that she was a woman — a detail
that she was in the habit of forgetting, hav-
ing as many rights as she had time for. It
was certain that whatever might become of
the movement at large, Doctor Prance's own
little revolution was a success.
VII.
She had no sooner left him than Olive
Chancellor came towards him with eyes that
seemed to say, " I don't care whether you
are here now or not — I'm all right ! " But
what her lips said was much more gracious ;
she asked him if she mightn't have the pleas-
ure of introducing him to Mrs. Farrinder.
Ransom consented, with a little of his South-
ern flourish, and in a moment the lady got
up to receive him from the midst of the
circle that now surrounded her. It was an
occasion for her to justify her reputation of
an elegant manner, and it must be impar-
tially related that she struck Ransom as hav-
ing a dignity in conversation and a command
of the noble style which could not have been
surpassed by a daughter — one of the most
accomplished, most far-descended daughters
— of his own clime. It was as if she had
known that he was not eager for the changes
she advocated, and wished to show him that,
especially to a Southerner who had bitten the
dust, her sex could be magnanimous. This
knowledge of his secret heresy seemed to him
to be also in the faces of the other ladies,
whose circumspect glances, however (for he
had not been introduced), treated it as a pity
rather than as a shame. He was conscious
of all these middle-aged feminine eyes, con-
scious of curls, rather limp, that depended
from dusky bonnets, of heads poked forward,
as if with a waiting, listening, familiar habit,
of no one being very bright or gay — no one,
at least, but that girl he had noticed before,
who had a brilliant head, and who now
hovered on the edge of the conclave. He
met her eye again ; she was watching him too.
It had been in his thought that Mrs. Farrin-
der, to whom his cousin might have betrayed
or misrepresented him, would perhaps defy
him to combat, and he wondered whether he
could pull himself together (he was extremely
embarrassed) sufficiently to do honor to such
a challenge. If she would fling down the
glove on the temperance question, it seemed
to him that it would be in him to pick it up ;
for the idea of a meddling legislation on this
subject filled him with rage ; the taste of
liquor being good to him, and his conviction
strong that civilization itself would be in dan-
ger if it should fall into the power of a herd
of vociferating women (I am but the reporter
of his angry formula) to prevent a gentleman
from taking his glass. Mrs. Farrinder proved
to him that she had not the eagerness of in-
security; she asked him if he wouldn't like to
give the company some account of the social
and political condition of the South. He
begged to be excused, expressing at the same
time a high sense of the honor done him by
such a request, while he smiled to himself at
the idea of his extemporizing a lecture. He
smiled even while he suspected the meaning
of the look Miss Chancellor gave him : " Well,
you are not of much account after all ! " To
talk to those people about the South — if
they could have guessed how little he cared
to do it ! He had a passionate tenderness for
his own country, and a sense of intimate con-
nection with it which would have made it as
impossible for him to take a roomful of North-
ern fanatics into his confidence as to read
aloud his mother's or his mistress's letters.
To be quiet about the Southern land, not to
touch her with vulgar hands, to leave her
alone with her wounds and her memories,
not prating in the market-place either of her
troubles or her hopes, but waiting, as a man
should wait, for the slow process, the sensible
beneficence, of time — this was the desire of
Ransom's heart, and he was aware of how
little it could minister to the entertainment of
Miss Birdseye's guests.
" We know so little about the women of the
South; they are very voiceless," Mrs. Far-
rinder remarked. " How much can we count
upon them? in what numbers would they flock
to our standard ? I have been recommended
not to lecture in the Southern cities."
" Ah, madam, that was very cruel advice —
for us!" Basil Ransom exclaimed, with gal-
lantry.
" / had a magnificent audience last spring
in St. Louis," a fresh young voice announced,
over the heads of the gathered group — a
voice which, on Basil's turning, like every one
THE BOSTONIANS.
691
else, for an explanation, appeared to have pro-
ceeded from the pretty girl with red hair. She
had colored a little with the effort of making
this declaration, and she stood there smiling
at her listeners.
Mrs. Farrinder bent a benignant brow upon
her, in spite of her being, evidently, rather a
surprise. " Oh, indeed ; and your subject, my
dear young lady?"
" The past history, the present condition,
and the future prospects of our sex."
"Oh, well, St. Louis — that's scarcely the
South," said one of the ladies.
" I'm sure the young lady would have had
equal success at Charleston or New Or-
leans," Basil Ransom interposed.
" Well, I wanted to go farther," the girl con-
tinued, " but I had no friends. I have friends
in St. Louis."
"You oughtn't to want for them any-
where," said Mrs. Farrinder, in a manner
which, by this time, had quite explained her
reputation. " I'm acquainted with the loyalty
of St. Louis."
" Well, after that, you must let me intro-
duce Miss Tarrant; she's perfectly dying to
know you, Mrs. Farrinder." These words
emanated from one of the gentlemen, the
young man with white hair, who had been
mentioned to Ransom by Doctor Prance as a
celebrated magazinist. He, too, up to this
moment, had hovered in the background, but
he now gently clove the assembly (several of
the ladies made way for him), leading in the
daughter of the mesmerist.
She laughed and continued to blush — her
blush was the faintest pink ; she looked very
young and slim and fair as Mrs. Farrinder
made way for her on the sofa which Olive
Chancellor had quitted. " I have wanted to
know you ; I admire you so much ; I hoped
so you would speak to-night. It's too lovely
to see you, Mrs. Farrinder." So she expressed
herself, while the company watched the en-
counter with a look of refreshed inanition.
f You don't know who I am, of course; I'm
just a girl who wants to thank you for all you
have done for us. For you have spoken for
us girls, just as much as — just as much as
" She hesitated now, looking about with
enthusiastic eyes at the rest of the group, and
meeting once more the gaze of Basil Ransom.
" Just as much as for the old women," said
Mrs. Farrinder, genially. " You seem very
well able to speak for yourself."
" She speaks so beautifully — if she would
only make a little address," the young man
who had introduced her remarked. " It's a
new style, quite original," he added. He
stood there with folded arms, looking down
at his work, the conjunction of the two ladies,
with a smile ; and Basil Ransom, remember-
ing what Miss Prance had told him, and en-
lightened by his observation in New York
of some of the sources from which news-
papers are fed, was immediately touched by
the conviction that he perceived in it the ma-
terial of a paragraph.
" My dear child, if you'll take the floor, I'll
call the meeting to order," said Mrs. Farrin-
der.
The girl looked at her with extraordinary
candor and confidence. " If I could only
hear you first — just to give me an atmos-
phere."
" I've got no atmosphere; there's very little
of the Indian summer about me / I deal with
facts — hard facts," Mrs. Farrinder replied.
" Have you ever heard me ? If so, you know
how crisp I am."
"Heard you? I've* lived on you ! It's so
much to me to see you. Ask mother if it
ain't ! " She had expressed herself, from the
first word she uttered, with a promptness and
assurance ("glibness" Basil Ransom would
have called it) which gave almost the impres-
sion of a lesson rehearsed in advance. And
yet there was a strange spontaneity in her
manner, and an air of artless enthusiasm, of
personal purity. If she was theatrical, she was
naturally theatrical. She looked up at Mrs.
Farrinder with all her emotion in her smiling
eyes. This lady had been the object of many
ovations; it was familiar to her that the collec-
tive heart of her sex had gone forth to her.
But, visibly, she was puzzled by this unfore-
seen embodiment of gratitude and fluency,
and her eyes wandered over the girl with a
certain reserve, while, within the depth of her
eminently public manner, she asked herself
whether Miss Tarrant were a remarkable
young woman or only a forward minx. She
found a response which committed her to
neither view; she only said, "We want the
young — of course we want the young ! "
" Who is that charming creature ? " Basil
Ransom heard his cousin ask, in a grave,
lowered tone, of Matthias Pardon, the young
man who had brought Miss Tarrant forward.
He didn't know whether Miss Chancellcr
knew him, or whether her curiosity had pushed
her to boldness. Ransom was near the pair,
and had the benefit of Mr. Pardon's answer.
" The daughter of Doctor Tarrant, the
mesmeric healer — Miss Verena. She's a high-
class speaker."
" What do you mean ? " Olive asked.
" Does she give public addresses ?
" Oh yes, she has had quite a career in the
West. I heard her last spring at Topeka.
They call it inspirational. I don't know what
it is — only it's exquisite ; so fresh and poeti-
692
THE BOSTONIANS.
cal. She has to have her father to start her
up. It seems to pass into her." And Mr.
Pardon made a gesture intended to signify
the passage.
Olive Chancellor made no rejoinder save a
low, impatient sigh; she transferred her atten-
tion to the girl, who now held Mrs. Farrin-
der's hand in both her own, and was plead-
ing with her just to prelude a little. " I want
a starting-point — I want to know where I
am," she said. " Just two or three of your
grand old thoughts."
Basil stepped nearer to his cousin; he re-
marked to her that Miss Verena was very
pretty. She turned an instant, glanced at him,
and then said, " Do you think so ? " An in-
stant later she added, " How you must hate
this place! "
" Oh, not now, we are going to have some
fun," Ransom replied, good-humoredly, if a
trifle coarsely; and the declaration had a
point, for Miss Birdseye at this moment reap-
peared, followed by the mesmeric healer and
his wife.
" Ah, well, I see you are drawing her out,"
said Miss Birdseye to Mrs. Farrinder; and at
the idea that this process had been necessary
Basil Ransom broke into a smothered hilarity,
a spasm which indicated that, for him, the fun
had already begun, and procured him another
grave glance from Miss Chancellor. Miss
Verena seemed to him as far "out" as a
young woman could be. " Here's her father,
Doctor Tarrant — he has a wonderful gift —
and her mother — she was a daughter of
Abraham Greenstreet." Miss Birdseye pre-
sented her companions; she was sure Mrs.
Farrinder would be interested ; she wouldn't
want to lose an opportunity, even if for her-
self the conditions were not favorable. And
then Miss Birdseye addressed herself to the
company more at large, widening the circle so
as to take in the most scattered guests, and
evidently feeling that after all it was a relief
that one happened to have an obscurely in-
spired maiden on the premises when greater
celebrities had betrayed the whimsicality of
genius. It was a part of this whimsicality that
Mrs. Farrinder — the reader may find it diffi-
cult to keep pace with her variations — ap-
peared now to have decided to utter a few of
her thoughts, so that her hostess could elicit
a general response to the remark that it would
be delightful to have both the old school and
the new.
" Well, perhaps you'll be disappointed in
Verena," said Mrs. Tarrant, with an air of
dolorous resignation to any event, and seat-
ing herself, with her gathered mantle, on the
edge of a chair, as if she, at least, were ready,
whoever else might keep on talking.
" It isn't me, mother," Verena rejoined,
with soft gravity, rather detached now from
Mrs. Farrinder, and sitting with her eyes
fixed thoughtfully on the ground. With def-
erence to Mrs. Tarrant, a little more talk was
necessary, for the young lady had as yet been
insufficiently explained. Miss Birdseye felt
this, but she was rather helpless about it, and
delivered herself, with her universal familiar-
ity, which embraced every one and every-
thing, of a wandering, amiable tale, in which
Abraham Greenstreet kept reappearing, in
which Doctor Tarrant's miraculous cures were
specified, with all the facts wanting, and in
which Verena's successes in the West were
related, not with emphasis or hyperbole, in
which Miss Birdseye never indulged, but as
accepted and recognized wonders, natural in
an age of new revelations. She had heard of
these things in detail only ten minutes be-
fore, from the girl's parents, but her hospi-
table soul had needed but a moment to
swallow and assimilate them. If her account
of them was not very lucid, k should be said
in excuse for her that it was impossible to
have any idea of Verena Tarrant unless one
had heard her, and therefore still more im-
possible to give an idea to others. Mrs. Far-
rinder was perceptibly irritated ; she appeared
to have made up her mind, after her first hesi-
tation, that the Tarrant family were fantasti-
cal and compromising. She had bent an eye
of coldness on Selah and his wife — she
might have regarded them all as a company
of mountebanks.
" Stand up and tell us what you have to
say," she remarked, with some sternness, to
Verena, who only raised her eyes to her,
silently now, with the same sweetness, and
then rested them on her father. This gentle-
man seemed to respond to an irresistible ap-
peal ; he looked round at the company with
all his teeth, and said that these flattering al-
lusions were not so embarrassing as they
might otherwise be, inasmuch as any success
that he and his daughter might have had was
so thoroughly impersonal : he insisted on that
word. They had just heard her say, " It is
not me, mother," and he and Mrs. Tarrant
and the girl herself were all equally aware it
was not she. It was some power outside —
it seemed to flow through her; he couldn't
pretend to say why his daughter should be
called, more than any one else. But it seemed
as if she was called. When he just calmed
her down by laying his hand on her a few
moments, it seemed to come. It so happened
that in the West it had taken the form of a
considerable eloquence. She had certainly
spoken with great facility to cultivated and
high-minded audiences. She had long fol-
THE BOSTONIANS.
693
lowed with sympathy the movement for the
liberation of her sex from every sort of bond-
age ; it had been her principal interest even
as a child (he might mention that at the age
of nine she had christened her favorite doll
Eliza P. Moseley, in memory of a great pre-
cursor whom they all reverenced), and now
the inspiration, if he might call it so, seemed
just to flow in that channel. The voice that
spoke from her lips seemed to want to take
that form. It didn't seem as if it could take
any other. She let it come out just as it
would — she didn't pretend to have any con-
trol. They could judge for themselves whether
the whole thing was not quite unique. That
was why he was willing to talk about his own
child that way, before a gathering of ladies
and gentlemen ; it was because they took no
credit — they felt it was a power outside. If
Verena felt she was going to be stimulated
that evening, he was pretty sure they would
be interested. Only he should have to re-
quest a few moments' silence, while she list-
ened for the voice.
Several of the ladies declared that they
should be delighted — they hoped Miss Tar-
rant was in good trim ; whereupon they were
corrected by others, who reminded them that
it wasn't she, — she had nothing to do with
it, — so her trim didn't matter ; and a gentle-
man added that he guessed there were many
present who had conversed with Eliza P.
Moseley. Meanwhile, Verena, more and more
withdrawn into herself, but perfectly undis-
turbed by the public discussion of her mystic
faculty, turned yet again, very prettily, to
Mrs. Farrinder, and asked her if she wouldn't
strike out — just to give her courage. By this
time Mrs. Farrinder was in a condition of
overhanging gloom ; she greeted the charm-
ing suppliant with the frown of Juno. She
disapproved completely of Dr. Tarrant's little
speech, and she had less and less disposi-
tion to be associated with a miracle-monger.
Abraham Greenstreet was very well. But
Abraham Greenstreet was in his grave ; and
Eliza P. Moseley, after all, had been very
tepid. Basil Ransom wondered whether it
were effrontery or innocence that enabled
Miss Tarrant to meet with such complacency
the aloofness of the elder lady. At this mo-
ment he heard Olive Chancellor, at his elbow,
with the tremor of excitement in her tone,
suddenly exclaim : " Please begin, please begin !
A voice, a human voice, is what we want."
" I'll speak after you, and if you're a hum-
bug, I'll expose you ! " Mrs. Farrinder said.
She was more majestic than facetious.
" I'm sure we are all solid, as Doctor Tar-
rant says. I suppose we want to be quiet,"
Miss Birdseye remarked.
VIII."
Verena Tarrant got up and went to her
father in the middle of the room ; Olive
Chancellor crossed and resumed her place
beside Mrs. Farrinder on the sofa the girl
had quitted ; and Miss Birdseye's visitors, for
the rest, settled themselves attentively in
chairs or leaned against the bare sides of the
parlor. Verena took her father's hands, held
them a moment, while she stood before him,
not looking at him, with her eyes towards the
company ; then, after an instant, her mother,
rising, pushed forward, with an interesting
sigh, the chair on which she had been sitting.
Mrs. Tarrant was provided with another seat,
and Verena, relinquishing her father's grasp,
placed herself in the chair, which Tarrant
put in position for her. She sat there with
closed eyes, and her father now rested his
long, lean hands upon her head. Basil Ran-
som watched these proceedings with much
interest, for the girl amused and pleased him.
She had far more color than any one there,
for whatever brightness was to be found in
Miss Birdseye's rather faded and dingy hu-
man collection had gathered itself into this
attractive but ambiguous young person.
There was nothing ambiguous, by the way,
about her confederate ; Ransom simply loath-
ed him, from the moment he opened his
mouth; he was intensely familiar — that is,
his type was ; he was simply the detested
carpet-bagger. He was false, cunning, vul-
gar, ignoble ; the cheapest kind of human
product. That he should be the father of a
delicate, pretty girl, who was apparently
clever, too, whether she had a gift or no, this
was an annoying, disconcerting fact. The
white, puffy mother, with the high forehead,
in the corner there, looked more like a lady ;
but if she were one, it was all the more shame
to her to have mated with such a varlet,
Ransom said to himself, making use, as he
did generally, of terms of opprobrium ex-
tracted from the older English literature. He
had seen Tarrant, or his equivalent, often be-
fore; he had " whipped" him, as he believed,
controversially, again and again, at political
meetings in blighted Southern towns during
the horrible period of reconstruction. If Mrs.
Farrinder had looked at Verena Tarrant as if
she were a mountebank, there was some ex-
cuse for it, inasmuch as the girl made much
the same impression on Basil Ransom. He
had never seen such an odd mixture of ele-
ments; she had the sweetest, most unworldly
face, and yet, with it, an air of being on ex-
hibition, of belonging to a troupe, of living
in the gaslight, which pervaded even the de-
tails of her dress, fashioned evidently with an
694
THE BOSTONIANS.
attempt at the histrionic. If she had produced
a pair of castanets or a tambourine, he felt
that such accessories would have been quite
in keeping.
Little Doctor Prance, with her hard good
sense, had noted that she was anaemic, and
had intimated that she was a deceiver. The
value of her performance was yet to be
proved, but she was certainly very pale, white
as women are who have that shade of red
hair ; they look as if their blood had gone into
it. There was, however, something rich in the
fairness of this young lady ; she was strong
and supple, there was color in her lips and
eyes, and her tresses, gathered into a com-
plicated coil, seemed to glow with the bright-
ness of her nature. She had curious, radiant,
liquid eyes (their smile was a sort of reflec-
tion, like the glisten of a gem), and though
she was not tall, she appeared to spring up,
and carried her head as if it reached rather
high.
Ransom would have thought she looked
like an Oriental, if it were not that Orientals
are dark ; and if she had only had a goat she
would have resembled Esmeralda, though he
had but a vague recollection of who Es-
meralda had been. She wore a light-brown
dress, of a shape that struck him as fantastic,
a yellow petticoat, and a large crimson sash
fastened at the side ; while round her neck,
and falling low upon her flat young chest, she
had a double chain of amber beads. It must
be added that, in spite of her melodramatic
appearance, there was no symptom that her
performance, whatever it was, would be of a
melodramatic character. She was very quiet
now, at least (she had folded her big fan),
and her father continued the mysterious pro-
cess of calming her down. Ransom wondered
whether he wouldn't put her to sleep ; for
some minutes her eyes had remained closed ;
he heard a lady near him, apparently familiar
with phenomena of this class, remark that she
was going off. As yet the exhibition was not
exciting, though it was certainly pleasant to
have such a pretty girl placed there before
one, like a moving statue. Doctor Tarrant
looked at no one as he stroked and soothed
his daughter ; his eyes wandered round the
corner of the room, and he grinned upward,
as if at an imaginary gallery. "Quietly —
quietly," he murmured, from time to time.
u It will come, my good child, it will come.
Just let it work — just let it gather. The
spirit, you know ; you've got to let the spirit
come out when it will." He threw up his arms
at moments, to rid himself of the wings of his
long water-proof, which fell forward over his
hands. Basil Ransom noticed all these things,
and noticed also, opposite, the waiting face of
his cousin, fixed, from her sofa, upon the
closed eyes of the young prophetess. He grew
more impatient at last, not of the delay of the
edifying voice (though some time had elapsed),
but of Tarrant's grotesque manipulations,
which he resented as much as if he himself
had felt their touch, and which seemed a dis-
honor to the passive maiden. They made him
nervous, they made him angry, and it was
only afterwards that he asked himself wherein
they concerned him, and whether even a car-
pet-bagger hadn't aright to do what he pleased
with his daughter. It was a relief to him when
Verena got up from her chair, with a move-
ment which made Tarrant drop into the back-
ground as if his part were now quite over.
She stood there with a face quite serious and
sightless ; then, after a short further delay, she
began to speak.
She began incoherently, almost inaudibly,
as if she were talking in a dream. Ransom
couldn't understand her ; he thought it very
queer, and wondered what Doctor Prance
would have said. " She's just arranging her
ideas and trying to get in report; she'll come
out all right." This remark he heard dropped
in a low tone by the mesmeric healer; " in re-
port " was apparently Tarrant's version of en
rapport. His prophecy was verified, and
Verena did come out, after a little ; she came
out with a great deal of sweetness — with a
very quaint and peculiar effect. She pro-
ceeded slowly, cautiously, as if she were list-
ening for the prompter, catching, one by one,
certain phrases that were whispered to her a
great distance off, behind the scenes of the
world. Then memory, or inspiration, returned
to her, and presently she was in possession of"
her part. She played it with extraordinary
simplicity and grace; at the end of ten min-
utes Ransom became aware that the whole
audience — Mrs. Farrinder, Miss Chancellor,
and the tough subject from Mississippi —
were under the charm. I speak of ten min-
utes, but to tell the truth the young man lost
all sense of time. He wondered afterwards
how long she had spoken ; then he counted
that her strange, sweet, crude, absurd, en-
chanting improvisation must have lasted half
an hour. It was not what she said ; he didn't
care for that, he scarcely understood it ; he
could only see that it was all about the gen-
tleness and goodness of women, and how,
during the long ages of history, they had been
trampled under the iron heel of man. It was
about their equality — perhaps even (he was
not definitely conscious) about their superior-
ity. It was about their day having come at
last, about the universal sisterhood, about
their duty to themselves and to each other. It
was about such matters as these, and Basil
THE BOSTONIANS.
695
Ransom was delighted to observe that such
matters as these didn't spoil it. The effect
was not in what she said, though she said
some such pretty things, but in the picture
and figure of the half-bedizened damsel
(playing, now again, with her red fan), the
palpable freshness and purity of the little
effort. When she had gained confidence she
opened her eyes, and their shining softness
was half the effect of her discourse. It was
full of school-girl phrases, of patches of re-
membered eloquence, of childish lapses of
logic, of flights of fancy which might indeed
have had success at Topeka; but Ransom
thought that if it had been much worse it
would have been quite as good, for the argu-
ment, the doctrine, had absolutely nothing to
do with it. It was simply an intensely per-
sonal exhibition, and the person making it
happened to be fascinating. She might have
offended the taste of certain people — Ransom
could imagine that there were other Boston
circles in which she would be thought pert;
but for himself, all he could feel was that to
his starved senses she irresistibly appealed.
He was the stiffest of conservatives, and his
mind was steeled against the inanities she
uttered — the rights and wrongs of women,
the equality of the sexes, the hysterics of con-
ventions, the further stultification of the suf-
frage, the prospect of conscript mothers in the
national Senate. It made no difference; she
didn't mean it, she didn't know what she
meant, she had been stuffed with this trash by
her father, and she was neither more nor less
willing to say it than to say anything else;
for the necessity of her nature was not to
make converts to a ridiculous cause, but to
emit those charming notes of her voice, to
stand in those free young attitudes, to shake
her braided locks like a naiad rising from "the
waves, to please every one who came near
her, and to be happy that she pleased. I
know not whether Ransom was aware of the
bearings of this interpretation, which attrib-
uted to Miss Tarrant a singular hollowness
of character; he contented himself with be-
lieving that she was as innocent as she was
lovely, and with regarding her as a vocalist of
exquisite faculty, condemned to sing bad
music. How prettily, indeed, she made some
of it sound!
"Of course I only speak to women — to
my own dear sisters ; I don't speak to men,
for I don't expect them to like what I say.
They pretend to admire us very much, but I
should like them to admire us a little less and
to trust us a little more. I don't know what
we have ever done to them that they should
keep us out of everything. We have trusted
them too much, and I think the time has
come now for us to judge them, and say that
by keeping us out we don't think they have
done so well. When I look around me at the
world, and at the state that men have brought
it to, I confess I say to myself, ' Well, if
women had fixed it this way I should like to
know what they would think of it! ' When I
see the dreadful misery of mankind, and think
of the suffering of which at any hour, at any
moment, the world is full, I say that if this
is the best they can do by themselves, they
had better let us come in a little and see what
we can do. We couldn't possibly make it
worse, could we ? If we had done only this,
we shouldn't boast of it. Poverty, and igno-
rance, and crime, disease, and wickedness, and
wars ! Wars, always more wars, and always
more and more. Blood, blood — the world is
drenched with blood ! To kill each other, with
all sorts of expensive and perfected instru-
ments, that is the most brilliant thing they
have been able to invent. It seems to me that
Ave might stop it, we might invent something
better. The cruelty — the cruelty; there is so
much, so much ! Why shouldn't tenderness
come in ? Why should our woman's hearts be
so full of it, and all so wasted and withered,
while armies and prisons and helpless mise-
ries grow greater all the while ? I am only a
girl, a simple American girl, and of course I
haven't seen much, and there is a great deal
of life that I don't know anything about. But
there are some things I feel — it seems to me
as if I had been born to feel them ; they are
in my ears in the stillness of the night and be-
fore my face in the visions of the darkness. It
is what the great sisterhood of women might
do if they should all join hands, and lift up
their voices above the brutal uproar of the
world, in which it is so hard for the plea of
mercy or of justice, the moan of weakness and
suffering, to be heard. We should quench it,
we should make it still, and the sound of our
lips would become the voice of universal
peace ! For this we must trust one another,
we must be true and gentle and kind. We
must remember that the world is ours too,
ours — little as we have ever had to say about
anything ! — and that the question is not yet
definitely settled whether it shall be a place
of injustice or a place of love!"
It was with this that the young lady fin-
ished her harangue, which was not followed
by her sinking exhausted into her chair or by
any of the traces of a labored climax. She
only turned away slowly towards her mother,
smiling over her shoulder at the whole room,
as if it had been a single person, without a
flush in her whiteness, or the need of drawing
a longer breath. The performance had evi-
dently been very easy to her, and there might
696
THE BOSTONIANS.
have been a kind of impertinence in her air of
not having suffered from an exertion which
had wrought so powerfully on every one else.
Ransom broke into a genial laugh, which he
instantly swallowed again, at the sweet gro-
tesqueness of this virginal creature's standing
up before a company of middle-aged people to
talk to them about " love," the note on which
she had closed her harangue. It was the most
charming touch in the whole thing, and the
most vivid proof of her innocence. She had
had immense success, and Mrs. Tarrant, as
she took her into her arms and kissed her, was
certainly able to feel that the audience was
not disappointed. They were exceedingly af-
fected ; they broke into exclamations and
murmurs. Selah Tarrant went on conversing
ostentatiously with his neighbors, slowly twirl-
ing his long thumbs and looking up at the
cornice again, as if there could be nothing in
the brilliant manner in which his daughter had
acquitted herself to surprise him, who had
heard her when she was still more remark-
able, and who, moreover, remembered that
the affair was so impersonal. Miss Birdseye
looked round at the company with dim exul-
tation; her large mild cheeks were shining
with unwiped tears. Young Mr. Pardon re-
marked, in Ransom's hearing, that he knew
parties who, if they had been present, would
want to engage Miss Verena at a high figure
for the winter campaign. And Ransom heard
him add in a lower tone : " There's money for
some one in that girl; you see if she don't
have quite a run! " As for our Mississippian,
he kept his agreeable sensation for himself,
only wondering whether he might not ask
Miss Birdseye to present him to the heroine
of the evening. Not immediately, of course,
for the young man mingled with his Southern
pride a shyness which often served all the
purpose of humility. He was aware how much
he was an outsider in such a house as that,
and he was ready to wait for his coveted
satisfaction till the others, who all hung to-
gether, should have given her the assurance
of an approval which she would value, natu-
rally, more than anything he could say to her.
This episode had given animation to the as-
sembly ; a certain gayety, even, expressed in
a higher pitch of conversation, seemed to float
in the heated air. People circulated more
freely, and Verena Tarrant was presently
hidden from Ransom's sight by the close-
pressed ranks of the new friends she had made.
" Well, I never heard it put that way!" Ran-
som heard one of the ladies exclaim ; to which
another replied that she wondered one of their
bright women hadn't thought of it before.
" Well, it is a gift, and no mistake," and
" Well, they may call it what they please, it's
a pleasure to listen to it" — these genial
tributes fell from the lips of a pair of ruminat-
ing gentlemen. It was affirmed within Ran-
som's hearing that if they had a few more like
that the matter would soon be fixed ; and it
was rejoined that they couldn't expect to have
a great many — the style was so peculiar. It
was generally admitted that the style was pe-
culiar, but Miss Tarrant's peculiarity was the
explanation of her success.
IX.
Ransom approached Mrs. Farrinder again,
who had remained on her sofa with Olive
Chancellor; and as she turned her face to
him, he saw that she had felt the universal
contagion. Her keen eye sparkled, there was
a flush on her matronly cheek, and she had
evidently made up her mind what line to
take. Olive Chancellor sat motionless; her
eyes were fixed on the floor with the rigid,
alarmed expression of her moments of nerv-
ous diffidence ; she gave no sign of observing
her kinsman's approach. He said something
to Mrs. Farrinder, something that imperfectly
represented his admiration of Verena; and
this lady replied with dignity that it was no
wonder that the girl spoke so well, she spoke
in such a good cause. " She is very graceful,
has a fine command of language ; her father
says it's a natural gift." Ransom saw that he
should not in the least discover Mrs. Farrin-
der's real opinion, and her dissimulation
added to his impression that she was a wo-
man with a policy. It was none of his busi-
ness whether in her heart she thought Verena
a parrot or a genius ; it was perceptible to
him that she saw she would be effective,
would help the cause. He stood almost ap-
palled for a moment, as he said to himself
that she would take her up and the girl
would be ruined, would force her note and
become a screamer. But he quickly dodged
this vision, taking refuge in a mechanical ap-
peal to his cousin, of whom he inquired how
she liked Miss Verena. Olive made no an-
swer ; her head remained averted, she bored
the carpet with her conscious eyes. Mrs.
Farrinder glanced at her askance, and then
said to Ransom, serenely :
" You praise the grace of your Southern
ladies, but you have had to come North to
see a human gazelle. Miss Tarrant is of the
best New England stock — what / call the
best ! "
" I'm sure, from what I have seen of the
Boston ladies, no manifestation of grace can
excite my surprise," Ransom rejoined, look-
ing, with his smile, at his cousin.
THE BOSTONIANS.
697
" She has been powerfully affected," Mrs.
Farrinder explained, very slightly dropping
her voice, as Olive, apparently, still remained
deaf.
Miss Birdseye drew near at this moment ;
she wanted to know if Mrs. Farrinder didn't
want to express some acknowledgment, on
the part of the company at large, for the real
stimulus Miss Tarrant had given them. Mrs.
Farrinder said : Oh, yes, she would speak
now with pleasure; only she must have a
glass of water first. Miss Birdseye replied
that there was some coming in a moment;
one of the ladies had asked for it, and Mr.
Pardon had just stepped down to draw some.
Basil took advantage of this intermission to
ask Miss Birdseye if she would give him the
great privilege of an introduction to Miss
Verena. " Mrs. Farrinder will thank her for
the company," he said, laughing, " but she
won't thank her for me."
Miss Birdseye manifested the greatest dis-
position to oblige him ; she was so glad he
had been impressed. She was proceeding to
lead him toward Miss Tarrant when Olive
Chancellor rose abruptly from her chair and
laid her hand, with an arresting movement,
on the arm of her hostess. She explained to
her that she must go, that she was not very
well, that her carriage was there; also that
6he hoped Miss Birdseye, if it was not asking
too much, would accompany her to the door.
" Well, you are impressed too," said Miss
Birdseye, looking at her philosophically. " It
seems as if no one had escaped."
Ransom was disappointed ; he saw he was
going to be taken away, and, before he could
suppress it, an exclamation burst from his
lips — the first exclamation he could think
of that would perhaps check his cousin's re-
treat : "Ah, Miss Olive, are you going to give
up Mrs. Farrinder?"
At this Miss Olive looked at him, showed
him an extraordinary face, a face he scarcely
understood or even recognized. It was por-
tentously grave, the eyes were enlarged, there
was a red spot in each of the cheeks, and, as
directed to him, a quick, piercing question, a
kind of leaping challenge, in the whole ex-
pression. He could only answer this sudden
gleam with a stare, and wonder afresh what
trick his Northern kinswoman was destined to
play him. Impressed too ? He should think
he had been! Mrs. Farrinder, who was de-
cidedly » a woman of the world, came to his
assistance, or to Miss Chancellor's, and said
she hoped very much Olive wouldn't stay —
she felt these things too much. " If you stay,
I won't speak," she added ; " I should upset
you altogether." And then she continued,
tenderly, for so preponderantly intellectual a
nature : " When women feel as you do, how
can I doubt that we shall come out all right ? "
" Oh, we shall come out all right, I guess,"
murmured Miss Birdseye.
" But you must remember Beacon street,"
Mrs. Farrinder subjoined. " You must take
advantage of your position — you must wake
up the Back Bay ! "
" I'm sick of the Back Bay ! " said Olive
fiercely; and she passed to the door with Miss
Birdseye, bidding good-bye to no one. She
was so agitated that, evidently, she couldn't
trust herself, and there was nothing for Ran-
som but to follow. At the door of the room,
however, he was checked by a sudden pause
on the part of the two ladies. Olive stopped
and stood there hesitating. She looked round
the room and spied out Verena, where she
sat with her mother, the center of a gratified
group ; then, throwing back her head with an
air of decision, she crossed over to her. Ran-
som said to himself that now, perhaps, was
his chance, and he quickly accompanied Miss
Chancellor. The little knot of reformers
watched her as she arrived; their faces ex-
pressed a suspicion of her social importance,
mingled with conscientious scruples as to
whether it was right to recognize it. Verena
Tarrant saw that she was the object of this
manifestation, and she got up to meet the
lady whose approach was so full of point.
Ransom perceived, however, or thought he
perceived, that she recognized nothing ; she
had no suspicions of social importance. Yet
she smiled with all her radiance, as she looked
from Miss Chancellor to him ; smiled because
she liked to smile, to please, to feel her suc-
cess— or was it because she was a perfect
little actress, and this was part of her training ?
She took the hand that Olive put out to her;
the others, rather solemnly, sat looking up
from their chairs.
" You don't know me, but I want to know
you," Olive said. " I can't thank you now.
Will you come and see me ? "
" Oh, yes ; where do you live ? " Verena
answered, in the tone of a girl for whom an in-
vitation (she hadn't so many) was always an
invitation.
Miss Chancellor syllabled her address, and
Mrs. Tarrant came forward, smiling. " I know
about you, Miss Chancellor. I guess your
father knew my father — Mr. Greenstreet.
Verena will be very glad to visit you. We
shall be very happy to see you in our home."
Basil Ransom, while the mother spoke,
wanted to say something to the daughter,
who stood there so near him, but he could
think of nothing that would do ; certain words
that came to him, his Mississippi phrases,
seemed patronizing and heavy. Besides, he
69S
THE BOSTONIANS.
didn't wish to assent to what she had said ;
he wished simply to tell her she was delight-
ful, and it was difficult to mark that differ-
ence. So he only smiled at her in silence,
and she smiled back at him — a smile that
seemed to him quite for himself.
" Where do you live ? " Olive asked ; and
Mrs. Tarrant replied that they lived at Cam-
bridge, and that the horse-cars passed just
near their door. Whereupon Olive insisted,
" Will you come very soon ? " and Verena
said, Oh yes, she would come very soon, and
repeated the number in Charles street, to show
that she had taken heed of it. This was done
with child-like good faith. Ransom saw that
she would come and see any one who would
ask her like that, and he regretted for a min-
ute that he was not a Boston lady, so that he
might extend to her such an invitation. Olive
Chancellor held her hand a moment longer,
looked at her in farewell, and then, saying,
" Come, Mr. Ransom," drew him out of the
room. In the hall they met Mr. Pardon,
coming up from the lower regions with a jug
of water and a tumbler. Miss Chancellor's
hackney-coach was there, and when Basil
had put her into it she said to him that she
wouldn't trouble him to drive with her — his
hotel was not near Charles street. He had so
little desire to sit by her side — he wanted to
smoke — that it was only after the vehicle
had rolled off that he reflected upon her cool-
ness, and asked himself why the deuce she
had brought him away. She was a very odd
cousin, was this Boston cousin of his. He
stood there a moment, looking at the light in
Miss Birdseye's windows and greatly minded
to reenter the house. Now he might speak
to the girl. But he contented himself with
the memory of her smile, and turned away
with a sense of relief, after all, at having got
out of such wild company, as well as with (in
a different order) a vulgar consciousness of
being very thirsty.
x.
Verena Tarrant came in the very next
day from Cambridge to Charles street ; that
quarter of Boston is in direct communication
with the academic suburb. It hardly seemed
direct to poor Verena, perhaps, who, in the
crowded street-car which deposited her finally
at Miss Chancellor's door, had to stand up
all the way, half suspended by a leathern
strap from the glazed roof of the stifling
vehicle, like some blooming cluster dangling
in a hot-house. She was used, however, to
these perpendicular journeys, and though, as
we have seen, she was not inclined to accept
without question the social arrangements of
her time, it never would have occurred to her
to criticise the railways of her native land.
The promptness of her visit to Olive Chan-
cellor had been an idea of her mother's, and
Verena listened open-eyed while this lady,
in the seclusion of the little house in Cam-
bridge, while Selah Tarrant was " off," as they
said, with his patients, sketched out a line of
conduct for her. The girl was both submissive
and unworldly, and she listened to her moth-
er's enumeration of the possible advantages
of an intimacy with Miss Chancellor as she
would have listened to any other fairy tale.
It was still a part of the fairy tale when
this zealous parent put on with her own
hands Verena's smart hat and feather, but-
toned her little jacket (the buttons were im-
mense, and of gilt), and presented her with
twenty cents to pay her car-fare.
There was never any knowing in advance
how Mrs. Tarrant would take a thing, and
even Verena, who, filially, was much less argu-
mentative than in her civic and, as it were,
public capacity, had a perception that her
mother was queer. She was queer, indeed — a
flaccid, relaxed, unhealthy, whimsical woman,
who still had a capacity to cling. What she
clung to was " society," and a position in
the world which a secret whisper told her
she had never had, and a voice more audible
reminded her she was in danger of losing. To
keep it, to recover it, to reconsecrate it, was
the ambition of her heart ; this was one of the
many reasons why Providence had judged
her worthy of having so wonderful a child.
Verena was born not only to lead their com-
mon sex out of bondage, but to remodel a
visiting-list which bulged and contracted in
the wrong places, like a country-made gar-
ment. As the daughter of Abraham Green-
street, Mrs. Tarrant had passed her youth in
the first Abolitionist circles, and she was aware
how much such a prospect was clouded by
her union with a young man who had begun
life as an itinerant vender of lead-pencils (he
had called at Mr. Greenstreet's door in the
exercise of this function), had afterwards been
for a while a member of the celebrated Cayuga
community, where there were no wives, or
no husbands, or something of that sort (Mrs.
Tarrant could never remember), and had still
later (though before the development of the
healing faculty) achieved distinction in the
spiritualistic world. (He was an extraordina-
rily favored medium, only he had had to stop
for reasons of which Mrs. Tarrant possessed
her version.) Even in a society much occu-
pied with the effacement of prejudice there
had been certain dim presumptions against
this versatile being, who naturally had not
wanted arts to ingratiate himself with Miss
THE BOSTONIANS.
699
Greenstreet, her eyes, like his own, being
fixed exclusively on the future. The young
couple (he was considerably her elder) had
gazed on the future together until they found
that the past had completely forsaken them,
and that the present offered but a slender
foot-hold. Mrs. Tarrant, in other words, in-
curred the displeasure of her family, who gave
her husband to understand that, much as they
desired to remove the shackles from the
slave, there were kinds of behavior which
struck them as too unfettered. These had
prevailed, to their thinking, at Cayuga, and
they naturally felt it was no use for him to
say that his residence there had been (for
him — the community still existed) but a
momentary episode, inasmuch as there was
little more to be urged for the spiritual picnics
and vegetarian camp-meetings in which the
discountenanced pair now sought consolation.
Such were the narrow views of people
hitherto supposed capable of opening their
hearts to all salutary novelties, but now put to
a genuine test, as Mrs. Tarrant felt. Her hus-
band's tastes rubbed off on her soft, moist,
moral surface, and the couple lived in an
atmosphere of novelty, in which, occasionally,
the accommodating wife encountered the
fresh sensation of being in want of her dinner.
Her father died, leaving, after all, very little
money ; he had spent his modest fortune upon
the blacks. Selah Tarrant and his companion
had strange adventures; she found herself
completely enrolled in the great irregular
army of nostrum-mongers, domiciled in hu-
manitary Bohemia. It absorbed her like a
social swamp ; she sank into it a little more
every day, without measuring the inches of
her descent. Now she stood there up to her
chin; it may probably be said of her that she
had touched bottom. When she went to Miss
Birdseye's it seemed to her that she reentered
society. The door that admitted her was not
the door that admitted some of the others (she
should never forget the tipped-up nose of Mrs.
Farrinder), and the superior portal remained
ajar, disclosing possible vistas. She had lived
with long-haired men and short-haired wo-
men, she had contributed a flexible faith and
an irremediable want of funds to a dozen
social experimenters, she had partaken of the
comfort of a hundred religions, had followed
innumerable dietary reforms, chiefly of the
negative order, and had gone of an evening
to a seance or a lecture as regularly as she
had eaten her supper. Her husband always
had tickets for lectures ; in moments of irri-
tation at the want of a certain sequence in
their career, she had remarked to him that it
was the only thing he did have. The memory
of all the winter nights they had tramped
through the slush (the tickets, alas ! were not
car-tickets) to hear Mrs. Ada T. P. Foat dis-
course on the " Summer-land," came back to
her with bitterness. Selah was quite enthu-
siastic at one time about Mrs. Foat, and it was
his wife's belief that he had been " associated"
with her (that was Selah's expression in re-
ferring to such episodes) at Cayuga. The
poor woman, matrimonially, had a great deal
to put up with ; it took, at moments, all her
belief in his genius to sustain her. She knew
that he was very magnetic (that, in fact, was
his genius), and she felt that it was his mag-
netism that held her to him. He had carried
her through things where she really didn't
know what to think ; there were moments
when she suspected that she had lost the
strong moral sense for which the Greenstreets
were always so celebrated.
Of course a woman who had had the bad
taste to marry Selah Tarrant would not have
been likely under any circumstances to pos-
sess a very straight judgment ; but there is no
doubt that this poor lady had grown dread-
fully limp. She had blinked and compromised
and shuffled; she asked herself whether, after
all, it was any more than natural that she
should have wanted to help her husband, in
those exciting days of his mediumship, when
the table, sometimes, wouldn't rise from the
ground, the sofa wouldn't float through the
air, and the soft hand of a lost loved one was
not so alert as it might have been to visit the
circle. Mrs. Tarrant's hand was soft enough
for the most supernatural effect, and she con-
soled her conscience on such occasions by
reflecting that she ministered to a belief in
immortality. She was glad, somehow, for
Verena's sake, that they had emerged from
the phase of spirit-intercourse ; her ambition
for her daughter took another form than de-
siring that she, too, should minister to a belief
in immortality. Yet among Mrs. Tarrant's
multifarious memories these reminiscences of
the darkened room, the waiting circle, the lit-
tle taps on -table and wall, the little touches on
cheek and foot, the music in the air, the rain
of flowers, the sense of something myste-
riously flitting were most tenderly cherished.
She hated her husband for having magnetized
her so that she consented to certain things,
and even did them, the thought of which to-
day would suddenly make her face burn ;
hated him for the manner in which, somehow,
as she felt, he had lowered her social tone ;
yet at the same time she admired him for an
impudence so consummate that it had ended
(in the face of mortifications, exposures, fail-
ures, all the misery of a hand-to-mouth exist-
ence) by imposing itself on her as a kind of
infallibility. She knew he was an awful hum-
7
oo
THE NEW ASTRONOMY.
bug, and yet her knowledge had this imper-
fection, that he had never confessed it — a fact
that was really grand when one thought of
his opportunities for doing so. He had never
allowed that he wasn't straight ; the pair had
so often been in the position of the two augurs
behind the altar, and yet he had never given
her a glance that the whole circle mightn't
have observed. Even in the privacy of do-
mestic intercourse he had phrases, excuses,
explanations, ways of putting things, which, as
she felt, were too sublime for just herself;
they were pitched, as Selah's nature was
pitched, altogether in the key of public life.
So it had come to pass, in her distended
and demoralized conscience, that with all the
things she despised in her life and all the
things she rather liked, between being worn
out with her husband's inability to earn a
living and a kind of terror of his consistency
(he had a theory that they lived delightfully),
it happened, I say, that the only very definite
criticism she made of him to-day was that he
didn't know how to speak. That was where
the shoe pinched — that was where Selah was
slim. He couldn't hold the attention of an
audience, he was not acceptable as a lecturer.
He had plenty of thoughts, but it seemed
as if he couldn't fit them into each other.
Public speaking had been a Greenstreet tra-
dition, and if Mrs. Tarrant had been asked
whether in her younger years she had ever
supposed she should marry a mesmeric healer,
she would have replied : " Well, I never
thought I should marry a gentleman who
would be silent on the platform ! " This was
her most general humiliation ; it included and
exceeded every other, and it was a poor con-
solation that Selah possessed as a substitute
— his career as a healer, to speak of none
other, was there to prove it — the eloquence
of the hand. The Greenstreets had never set
much store on manual activity; they believed
in the influence of the lips. It may be imag-
ined, therefore, with what exultation, as time
went on, Mrs. Tarrant found herself the
mother of an inspired maiden, a young lady
from whose lips eloquence flowed in streams.
The Greenstreet tradition would not perish,
and the dry places of her life would, perhaps,
be plentifully watered. It must be added
that, of late, this sandy surface had been irri-
gated, in moderation, from another source.
Since Selah had addicted himself to the mes-
meric mystery, their home had been a little
more what the home of a Greenstreet should
be. He had " considerable many " patients,
he got about two dollars a sitting, and he had
effected some most gratifying cures. A lady
in Cambridge had been so much indebted to
him that she had recently persuaded them to
take a house near her, in order that Doctor
Tarrant might drop in at any time. He
availed himself of this convenience, — they
had taken so many houses that another, more
or less, didn't matter, — and Mrs. Tarrant be-
gan to feel as if they really had " struck "
something.
(To be continued.)
Henry James.
THE NEW ASTRONOMY. IV.
THE PLANETS AND THE MOON.
When we look up at the heavens, we see,
if we watch through the night, the host of
stars rising in the east and passing above us
to sink in the west, always at the same dis-
tance and in unchanging order, each seeming
a point of light as feeble as the glow-worm's
shine in the meadow over which they are ris-
ing, each flickering as though the evening
wind would blow it out. The infant stretches
out its hand to grasp the Pleiades, but when
the child has become an old man the " seven
stars " are still there unchanged, dim only in
his aged sight, and proving themselves the en-
during substance, while it is his own life which
has gone, as the shine of the glow-worm in
the night. They were there just the same a
hundred generations ago, before the Pyramids
were built, and they will tremble there still
when the Pyramids have been worn down
to dust with the blowing of the desert sand
against their granite sides. They watched
the earth grow fit for man, long before man
came, and they will doubtless be shining on
when our poor human race itself has disap-
peared from the surface of this planet.
Probably there is no one of us who has not
felt this solemn sense of their almost infinite
duration as compared with his own little portion
of time, and it would be a worthy subject for our
thought if we could study them in the light that
the new astronomy sheds for us on their nature.
But I must here confine myself to the de-
scription of but a few of their number, and
speak, not of the infinite multitude and variety
THE PLANETS AND THE MOON.
701
FIG. I. — SATURN. (FROM A DRAWING BY TROUVELOT, BY PERMISSION OF CHARLES SCRlBNER's SONS.)
of stars, each a self-shining sun, but only of
those which move close at hand ; for it is not
true of quite all that they keep at the same
distance and order.
Of the whole celestial army which the
naked eye watches, there are five stars which
do change their places in the ranks, and
these change in an irregular and capricious
manner, going about among the others,
now forward and now back, as if lost and
wandering through the sky. These wander-
ers were long since known by distinct
names, as Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter, and
Saturn, and believed to be nearer than the
others; and they are, in fact, companions to
the earth and fed like it by the warmth of our
sun, and like the moon are visible by the
sunlight which they reflect to us. With the
earliest use of the telescope, it was found that
while the other stars remained in it mere
points of light as before, these became mag-
nified into disks on which markings were
visible, and the markings have been found
with our modern instruments, in one case at
least, to take the appearance of oceans and
snow-capped continents and islands. These,
then, are not uninhabitable self-shining suns,
but worlds, vivified from the same fount of
Vol. XXIX.— 68.
energy that supplies us, and the possible
abode of creatures like ourselves.
" Properly speaking," it is said, " man is the
only subject of interest to man"; and if we
have cared to study the uninhabitable sun
because all that goes on there is found to be
so intimately related to us, it is surely a rea-
sonable curiosity which prompts the question
so often heard as to the presence of life on
these neighbor worlds, where it seems at least
not impossible that life should exist. Even
the very little we can say in answer to this
question will always be interesting, but we
must regretfully admit at the outset that it
is but little, and that with some planets, like
Mercury and Venus, the great telescopes of
modern times cannot do much more than
those of Galileo, with which our new astron-
omy had its beginning.
Let us leave these, then, and pass out to the
confines of the planetary system, where wre may
employ our telescopes to better advantage.
The outer planets, Neptune and Uranus,
remain pale disks in the most powerful instru-
ments, the first attended by a single moon,
the second by four, barely visible ; and there
is so very little yet known about their physical
features, that we shall do better to give our
702
THE NEW ASTRONOMY.
FIG. 2. THE EQUATORIAL TELESCOPE AT WASHINGTON
attention to one of the most interesting ob-
jects in the whole heavens — the planet Saturn,
on which we can at any rate see enough to
arouse a lively curiosity to know more.
When Galileo first turned his glass on
Saturn, he saw, as he thought, that it con-
sisted of three spheres close together, the
son to congratulate himself on his
prudence, for within two years two
of the supposed bodies disappeared,
leaving only one. This was in 1 612,
and for nearly fifty years Saturn con-
tinued to all astronomers the enigma
which it was to Galileo, till in 1656
it was finally made clear that it was
surrounded by a thin flat ring, which
when seen fully gave rise to the first
appearance in Galileo's small tele-
scope, and when seen edgewise dis-
appeared from its view altogether.
Everything in this part of our work
depends on the power of the tele-
scope we employ, and in describing
the modern means of observation
we pass over two centuries of slow
advance, each decade of which has
marked some progress in the instru-
ment, to one of its completest types,
in the great equatorial at Washing-
ton, shown in Fig. 2.
The revolving dome above, the
great tube beneath, its massive piers,
and all its accessories are only means
to carry and direct the great lens at
the further end, which acts the part
of the lens in our own eye, and
forms the image of the thing to be
looked at. Galileo's original lens
was a single piece of glass, rather
smaller than that of our common
spectacles ; but the lens here is composed of
two pieces, each twenty-six inches in diameter,
and collects as much light as a human eye would
do if over two feet across. But this is useless if
the lens is not shaped with such precision as to
send every ray to its proper place at the eye-
piece, nearly thirty-five feet away ; and, in fact,
middle one being the largest. He was not the shape given its surface by the skillful hands
quite sure of the fact, and was in a dilemma of the Messrs. Clark, who made it, is so ex-
between his desire to wait longer for further quisitely exact that all the light of a star
observation, and his fear that some other ob- gathered by this great surface is packed at
server might announce the discovery if he the distant focus into a circle very much
hesitated. To combine these incompatibles — smaller than that made by the dot on this /,
to announce it so as to secure the priority, — a thing we might call incredible were it
and yet not announce it till he was ready — not certain. It is with instruments of such
might seem to present as great a difficulty as accuracy that astronomy now works, and it
the discovery itself; but Galileo solved this, is with this particular one that some of the
as we may remember, by writing it in the
sentence, " Altissimum planetam tergeminitm
observavi" (" I have observed the highest
planet to be triple "), and then throwing it
(in the printer's phrase) " into pi," or jum-
bling the letters, which made the sentence into
the monstrous word
SMAJSMRMJLMEPOETALEVNJPVNENVGTTAVJRAS,
and publishing this, which contained his dis-
covery, but under lock and key. He had rea-
observations we are going to describe have
been made.
In all the heavens there is no more won-
derful object than Saturn, for it preserves to
us an apparent type of the plan on which all
the worlds were originally made. Let us look
at it in this study by Trouvelot (Fig. 1).
The planet, we must remember, is a globe
nearly seventy thousand miles in diameter,
and the outermost ring is over one hundred
and fifty thousand miles across, so that the
THE PLANETS AND THE MOON
7°3
proportionate size of our earth would be over-
represented here by a pea laid on the engrav-
ing. The belts on the globe show delicate
tints of brown and blue, and parts of the ring
are, as a whole, brighter than the planet ; but
this ring, as the reader may see, consists of at
least three main divisions, each itself contain-
ing separate features. First is the gray outer
ring, then the middle one, and next the curi-
ous " crape " ring, very much darker than the
wire. The globe of the planet casts on the
ring a shadow, which is here shown as a broken
line, as though the level of the rings were sud-
denly disturbed. At other times (as in a
beautiful drawing made with the same instru-
ment by Professor Holden) the line seems
continuous, though curved as though the
middle of the ring system were thicker than
the edge. The rotation of the ring has been
made out by direct observations; and the
■:;;^
FIG. 3. — JUPITER, MOON AND SHADOW. (BY PERMISSION OF WARREN DE LA RUE.)
others, looking like a belt where it crosses the
planet, and apparently feebly transparent, for
the outline of the globe has been seen (though
not very distinctly) through it. The whole sys-
tem of rings is of the most amazing thinness,
for it is probably thinner in proportion to its
size than the paper on which this is printed is
to the width of the page ; and when it is turned
edgewise to us, it disappears to all but the
njost powerful telescopes, in which it looks
then like the thinnest conceivable line of light,
on which the moons have been seen projected,
appearing like beads sliding along a golden
whole is in motion about the globe, — a
motion so smooth and steady that there is
no flickering in the shadow " where Saturn's
steadfast shade sleeps on its luminous ring."
What is it ? No solid could hold together
under such conditions ; we can hardly ad-
mit the possibility of its being a liquid film
extended in space ; and there are difficulties
in admitting it to be gaseous. But if not a
solid, a liquid, or a gas, again what can it be ?
It was suggested nearly two centuries ago
that the ring might be composed of innumer-
able little bodies like meteorites, circling round
7°4
THE NEW ASTRONOMY,
FIG. 4. — THREE VIEWS OF MARS.
the globe so close together as to give the ap-
pearance we see, much as a swarm of bees
at a distance looks like a continuous cloud;
and this remains the most plausible solution
of what is still in some degree a mystery.
Whatever it be, we see in the ring the condition
of things which, according to the nebular
hypothesis, once pertained to all the planets
at a certain stage of their formation, and this,
with the extraordinary lightness of the globe
(for the whole planet would float on water),
makes us look on it as still in the formative
stage of uncondensed matter, where the solid
land as yet is not, and the foot could find no
resting-place. Astrology figured the planet as
" spiteful and cold — an old man melancholy ";
but if we may indulge such a speculation, mod-
ern astronomy rather leads us to think of it as
in the infancy of its life, with every process of
planetary growth still in its future, and sepa-
rated by an almost unlimited stretch of years
from the time when life under the conditions in
which we know it can even begin to exist.
Like this appears also the condition of
Jupiter (Fig. 3), the greatest of the planets,
whose globe, eighty-eight thousand miles in
diameter, turns so rapidly that the centrifugal
force causes a visible flattening. The belts
which stretch across its disk are of all deli-
cate tints — some pale blue, some of a crimson
lake ; a sea-green patch has been seen, and
at intervals of late years there has been a ,
great oval red spot, which has now nearly
gone, and which our engraving does not i
show. The belts are largely, if not wholly,
formed of rolling clouds, drifting and chang-
ing under our eyes, though more rarely a
feature like the oval spot just mentioned will
last for years, an enduring enigma. The most
recent observations tend to make us believe 1
that the equatorial regions of Jupiter, like
those of the sun, make more turns in a year
than the polar ones ; while the darkening to-
ward the edge is another sun-like feature,
though perhaps due to a distinct cause, and
this is beautifully brought out when any one
of the four moons which circle the planet
passes between us and its face, an occurrence
also represented in our figure. The moon, as
FIG. 5. — MAP OF MARS
THE PLANETS AND THE MOON
7°5
it steals on the comparatively dark edge,
shows us a little circle of an almost lemon-
yellow, but the effect of contrast grows less
as it approaches the center. Next (or some-
times before) the disk is invaded by a small
and intensely black spot, the shadow of the
moon, which slides across the planet's face,
the transit lasting long enough for us to see
that the whole great globe, serving as a back-
ground for the spectacle, has visibly revolved
on its axis since we began to gaze. Photog-
raphy, in the skillful hands of the late Pro-
fessor Henry Draper, gave us reason to
suspect the possibility that a dull light is sent
to us from parts of the planet's surface be-
sides what it reflects, as though it were still
feebly glowing like a nearly extinguished sun;
and, on the whole, a main interest of these
features to us lies in the presumption they
create that the giant planet is not yet fit to
be the abode of life, but is more probably in
a condition like that of our earth millions of
years since, in a past so remote that geology
only infers its existence, and long before our
own race began to be. That science teaches
that such all but infinite perio4s are needed to
prepare a planet for man's abode, that the
entire duration of his race upon it is probably
brief in comparison.
We pass by the belt of asteroids, and over
a distance many times greater than that which
separates the earth from the sun, till we ap-
proach our own world. Here, close beside it
as it were, in comparison with the enormous
spaces which intervene between it and Saturn
and Jupiter, we find a planet whose size and
features are in striking contrast to those of
the great globe we have just quitted. It is
Mars, which shines so red and looks so large
in the sky because it is so near, but whose""" di-
ameter is only about half that of our earth.
This is indeed properly to be called a neighbor
world, but the planetary spaces are so im-
mense that this neighbor is at closest still about
34,000,000 miles away.
Looking across that great interval, we see in
our engraving (Fig. 4) — where we have three
successive views taken at intervals of a few
hours — a globe not marked by the belts of
Jupiter or Saturn, but with outlines as of conti-
nents and islands, which pass in turn before
our eyes as it revolves in a little over twenty-four
and a half of our hours, while at either pole is
a white spot. Sir William Herschel was the
first to notice that this spot increased in size
when it was turned away from the sun and
diminished when the solar heat fell on it, so
that we have what is almost proof that here is
ice (and consequently water) on another world.
Then, as we study more, we discern forms which
Vol. XXI X.— 69.
move from day to day on the globe apart
from its rotation, and we recognize in them
clouds sweeping over the surface — not a
surface of still other clouds below, but of
what we have good reason to believe to be land
and water.
By the industry of numerous astronomers,
seizing every favorable opportunity when Mars
comes near, so many of these features have
been gathered that we have been enabled to
make fairly complete maps of the planet, one
of which by Mr. Green is here given (Fig. 5).
Here we see the surface more diversified
than that of our earth, while the oceans are
long, narrow, canal-like seas, which everywhere
invade the land, so that on Mars one could
travel almost everywhere by water. The spec-
troscope indicates water- vapor in the Martial
atmosphere, and some of the continents, like
" Lockyer Land," are sometimes seen white, as
though covered with ice ; while one island
(marked on our map as Hall Island) has been
seen so frequently thus that it is very probable
that here some mountain or table-land rises
into the region of perpetual snow.
The cause of the red color of Mars has
never been satisfactorily ascertained. Its at-
mosphere does not appear to be dark enough
to produce such an effect, and perhaps as
probable an explanation as any is one the
suggestion of which is a little startling at first.
It is that vegetation on Mars may be red in-
stead of green ! There is no intrinsic improb-
ability in the idea, for we are even to-day
unprepared to say with any certainty why
vegetation is green here, and it is quite easy
to conceive of atmospheric conditions which
would make red the best absorber of the solar
heat. Here, then, we find a planet on which
we obtain many of the conditions of life which
we know ourselves, and here, if anywhere in
the system, we may allowably inquire for
evidence of the presence of something like
our own race ; but though we may indulge
in supposition, there is unfortunately no
prospect that with any conceivable improve-
ment in our telescopes we shall ever obtain
anything like certainty. We cannot assert
that there are any bounds to man's invention,
or that science may not, by some means as
unknown to us as the spectroscope was to
our grandfathers, achieve what now seems
impossible; but to our present knowledge no
such means exist, though we are not forbid-
den to look at the ruddy planet with the feel-
ing that it may hold possibilities more inter-
esting to our humanity than all the wonders
of the sun, and all the uninhabitable immen-
sities of his other worlds.
Before we leave Mars, we may recall to
the reader's memory the extraordinary verifi-
706
THE NEW ASTRONOMY.
cation of a statement made about it more
than a hundred years ago. We shall have for
a moment to leave the paths of science for
those of pure fiction, for the words we are
going to quote are those of no less a per-
son than our old friend Captain Gulliver,
who, after his adventures with the Lilliputians,
went to a flying island inhabited largely by
astronomers. If the reader will take down his
copy of Swift, he will find in this voyage of Gul-
liver's to Laputa the following imaginary de-
scription of what its imaginary astronomers
saw :
" They have likewise discovered two lesser stars or
satellites which revolve about Mars, whereof the inner-
most is distant from the center of the primary planet
exactly three of its diameters, and the outermost five ;
the former revolves in the space of ten hours, and the
latter in twenty-one and a half."
Now compare this passage, which was pub-
lished in the year 1727, with the announce-
ment in the scientific journals of August, 1877
(a hundred and fifty years after), that two
moons did exist, and had just been discovered
by Professor Hall, of Washington, with the
great telescope of which a drawing has been
already given. The resemblance does not end
even here, for Swift was right also in describ-
ing them as very near the planet and with
very short periods, the actual distances being
about one and a half and seven diameters,
and the actual times about eight and thirty
hours respectively, distances and periods which,
if not exactly those of Swift's description, agree
with it in being less than any before known
in the solar system. It is certain that there
could not have been the smallest ground for
a suspicion of their existence when " Gul-
liver's Travels " was written, and the coinci-
dence — which is a pure coincidence — cer-
tainly approaches the miraculous. We can no
longer, then, properly speak of "the snowy
poles of moonless Mars," though it does
still remain moonless to all but the most
powerful telescopes in the world, for these
bodies are the very smallest known in the
system. They present no visible disks to
measure, but look like the faintest of points
of light, and their size is only to be guessed
at from their brightness. Professor Pickering
has carried on an interesting investigation
of them. His method depended in part on
getting holes of such smallness made in a
plate of metal that the light coming through
them would be comparable with that of
the Martial moons in the telescope. It was
found almost impossible to command the skill
to make these holes small enough, though
one of the artists employed had already dis-
tinguished himself by drilling a hole through a
fine cambric needle lengthwise, so as to make
a tiny steel tube of it. When the difficulty was
at last overcome, the satellites were found to
be less than ten miles in diameter, and a just
impression both of their apparent size and
light may be gathered from the statement that
either roughly corresponds to that which would
be given by a human hand held up at Wash-
ington, and viewed from Boston, Massachu-
setts, a distance of four hundred miles.
We approach now the only planet in which
man is certainly known to exist, and which
ought to have an interest for us superior to
any which we have yet seen, for it is our own.
We are voyagers on it through space, it
has been said, as passengers on a ship, and
many of us have never thought of any part
of the vessel but the cabin where we are
quartered. Some curious passengers (and
these are the geographers) have visited the
steerage, and some have looked into the hold,
and yet it remains true that those in one
part of our vessel know little, even now, of
their fellow-voyagers in another. How much
less, then, do most of us know of the ship
itself, for we were all born on it, and have
never once been off it to view it from the
outside.
No world comes so near us in the aerial
ocean as the moon ; and if we desire to view
our own earth as a planet, we may put our-
selves in imagination in the place of a lunar
observer. " Is it inhabited ? " would probably
be one of the first questions which he would
ask, if he had the same interest in us that we
have in him ; and the answer to this would call
out all the powers of the best telescopes such
as we possess.
An old author, Fontenelle, has given us a
lively picture of what might be visible in
twenty-four hours if we could look down on
the earth as it turned round beneath us. " I
see passing under my eyes," he says, "all sorts
of faces : white and black and olive and
brown. Now it's hats and now turbans, now
long locks and then shaven crowns; now come
cities with steeples, next more with tall, cres-
cent-capped minarets, then others with porce-
lain towers ; now great desolate lands, now
great oceans, then dreadful deserts, — in short,
all the infinite variety the earth's surface bears."
The truth is, however, that, looking at the
earth from the moon, the largest moving ani-
mal, the whale or the elephant, would be
utterly beyond our ken ; and it is questionable
whether the largest ship on the ocean would
be visible, for the popular idea as to the mag-
nifying power of great telescopes is exag-
gerated. It is probable that under any but
extraordinary circumstances our lunar observer
THE PLANETS AND THE MOON
707
with our best telescopes could not bring the
earth within less than an apparent distance
of five hundred miles; and the reader may-
judge how large a moving object must be
to be seen, much less recognized, by the
naked eye at such a distance.
Of course, a chief interest of the supposition
we are making lies in the fact that it will give
us a measure of our own ability to discover
evidences of life in the moon, if there are any
such as exist here; and in this point of view
it is worth while to repeat that scarcely any-
temporary phenomenon due to human action
could be visible from the moon under the
most favoring circumstances. An army such
as Napoleon led to Russia might conceivably
be visible if it moved in a dark solid column
across the snow. It is barely possible that such
a vessel as one of the largest ocean steamships
might be seen, under very favorable circum-
stances, as a moving dot ; and it is even quite
probable that such a conflagration as the great
fire of Chicago would be visible in the lunar
telescope, as something like a reddish star on
the night side of our planet ; but this is all in
this sort that could be discerned.
By making minute maps, or, still better,
photographs, and comparing one year with
another, much however might have been done
by our lunar observer during this century. In
its beginning, in comparison to the vast forests
which then covered the North American con-
tinent, the cultivated fields along its eastern
seaboard would have looked to him like a
golden fringe bordering a broad mantle of
green ; but now he would see that the golden
fringe has pushed aside the green farther back
than the Mississippi, and would gather his
best evidence from the fact (surely a note-
worthy one) that man, as represented by
the people of the United States, has changed
one of the features of his world during the
present century to a degree visible in another
planet !
Our observer would probably be struck by
the moving panorama of forests, lakes, conti-
nents, islands, and oceans, successively gliding
through the field of view of his telescope as
the earth revolved; but, traveling along beside
it on his lunar station, he would hardly appre-
ciate its actual flight through space, which is
an easy thing to describe in figures, and a
hard one to conceive. If we look up at the
clock, and as we watch the pendulum recall
that we have moved about nineteen miles at
every beat, or in less than three minutes over
a distance greater than that which divides
New York from Liverpool, we still probably
but very imperfectly realize the fact that
(dropping all metaphor) the earth is really a
great projectile, heavier than the heaviest of
her surface rocks, and traversing space with a
velocity of over sixty times that of the cannon-
ball. Even the firing of a great gun with a
ball weighing one or two hundred pounds is,
to the novice at least, a striking spectacle.
The massive iron sphere is hoisted into the
gun, the discharge comes, the ground trem-
bles, and, as it seems, almost in the same
instant, a jet rises where the ball has just
touched the water far away. The impression
of immense velocity and of a resistless capa-
city of destruction in that flying mass is irre-
sistible, and justifiable too; but what is this
ball to that of the earth, which is a globe
counting eight thousand miles in diameter,
and weighing about six thousand millions
of millions of millions of tons, which, if our
cannon-ball were flying ahead a mile in ad-
vance of its track, would overtake it in less
than the tenth part of a second, and which
carries such a potency of latent destruction
and death in this motion, that if it were possi-
ble to instantly arrest it, then, in that instant,
" earth and all which it inherits would dissolve "
and pass away in vapor ?
Our turning sphere is moving through what
seems to be all but an infinite void, peopled only
by wandering meteorites, and where warmth
from any other source than the sun can
scarcely be said to exist ; for it is important
to observe that, whether the interior be mol-
ten or not, we get next to no heat from it.
The cold of outer space can only be esti-
mated in view of recent observations as at
least four hundred degrees Fahrenheit below
zero (mercury freezes at thirty-nine degrees
below), and it is the sun which makes up the
difference of all these lacking hundreds of de-
grees to us, but indirectly, and not in the
way that we might naturally think, and
have till very lately thought ; for our atmos-
phere has. a great deal more to do with it
than the direct solar rays, allowing more to
come in than go out, until the temperature
rises very much higher than it would were
there no air here. The writer's own experi-
ments lead him to believe that the direct
solar rays would never raise the tempera-
ture of the planet's surface, if that be en-
tirely airless (even at the equator under
the vertical beams of a tropic sun), to zero.
Thus, since it is this power in the atmos-
phere of storing the heat which makes us
live, no less than the sun's rays themselves,
we see how the temperature of a planet may
depend on considerations quite beside its
distance from the sun ; and when we dis-
cuss the possibility of life in other worlds,
we shall do well to remember that Saturn
may be possibly a warm world, and Mercury
conceivably a cold one.
708
THE NEW ASTRONOMY.
We used to be told that this atmosphere servers has been devoted to it, so that astron-
extended forty-five miles above us, but later omers engaged in other branches have oftener
observation proves its existence at a height
of many times this ; and a remarkable specu-
lation, which Doctor Hunt strengthens with
the great name of Newton, even contem-
plates it as extending in ever-increasing tenu-
ity until it touches and merges in the atmos-
phere of other worlds.
looked on this as a field for occasional hours
of recreation with the telescope than made it
a constant study. I can recall one or two
such hours in earlier observing days, when,
seated alone under the overarching iron
dome, the world below shut out, and the world
above opened, the silence disturbed by no
But if we begin to talk of things new sound but the beating of the equatorial clock,
and old which interest us in our earth as a and the great telescope itself directed to some
planet, it is hard to make an end. Still we hill or valley of the moon, I have been so
may observe that it is the very familiarity of lost in gazing that it seemed as though a look
some of these which hinders us from seeing through this, the real magic tube, had indeed
them as the wonders they really are. How transported me to the surface of that strange
has this familiarity, for instance, made com- alien world. Fortunately for us, the same
monplace to us not only the wonderful fact spectacle has impressed others with more time
that the fields and forests, and the appa- to devote to it and more ability to render it,
rently endless plain of earth and ocean, are so that we not only have most elaborate maps
really parts of a great globe which is turning of the moon for the professional astronomer,
round (for this daily rotation we all are but abundance of paintings, drawings, and
familiar with), but the less appreciated mir- models, which reproduce the appearance of
acle that we are all being hurled through its surface as seen in powerful telescopes,
space with an immensely greater speed than None of the latter class deserves more atten-
that of the rotation itself. It needs the vision
of a poet to see this daily miracle with new
eyes, and a great poet has described it for us,
in words which may vivify our scientific con-
ception. Let us recall the prologue to " Faust,"
tion than the beautiful studies of Messrs.
Nasmyth and Carpenter, who prepared at
great labor very elaborate and, in general,
very faithful models of parts of its surface,
and then had them photographed under the
where the archangels are praising the works same illumination which fell on the original;
of the Lord, and looking at the earth, not as and I wish to acknowledge here the special
we see it, but down on it, from heaven, as it
passes by, and notice that it is precisely this
miraculous swiftness, so insensible to us, which
calls out an angel's wonder.
" And swift and swift beyond conceiving
The splendor of the world goes round,
Day's Eden — brightness still relieving
The awful Night's intense profound.
The ocean tides in foam are breaking,
Against the rocks' deep bases hurled,
And both, the spheric race partaking,
Eternal, swift, are onward whirled."*
indebtedness of this part of what I have to
lay before the reader to their work, from
which the following illustrations are chiefly
taken.
Let us remember that the moon is a
little over twenty-one hundred miles in diam-
eter; that it weighs, bulk for bulk, about
two-thirds what the earth does, so that, 'in
consequence of this and its smaller size, its
total weight is only about one-eightieth of
that of our globe ; and that, the force of grav-
ity at its surface being only one-sixth what
So, indeed, might an angel see it and de- it is here, eruptive explosions can send their
scribe it ! products higher than in our volcanoes. Its
We may have been already led to infer area is between four and five times that of the
that there is a kind of evolution in the planets' United States, and its average distance is a
life, which we may compare, by a not wholly little less than two hundred and forty thou-
fanciful analogy, to ours ; for we have seen sand miles.
worlds growing into conditions which may fit This is very little in comparison with the
them for habitability, and again other worlds great spaces we have been traversing in im-
where we may surmise, or may know, that agination ; but it is absolutely very large, and
life has come. To learn of at least one which across it the valleys and mountains of this our
has completed the analogy, by passing beyond nearest neighbor disappear and present to the
this term to that where all life has ceased, we naked eye only the vague lights and shades
need only look on the moon. known to us from childhood as " the man
in the moon," and which were the puzzle of
The study of the moon's surface has been the ancient philosophers, who often explained
continued now from the time of Galileo, and them as reflections of the earth itself, sent
of late years a whole class of competent ob- back to us from the moon as from a mirror.
* Bayard Taylor's translation.
THE PLANETS AND THE MOON
709
FIG. 6. — THE MOON. (FROM A PHOTOGRAPH BY L. M. RUTHERFURD, 1873, PUBLISHED BY O. G. MASON.)
It at any rate shows that the moon always
turns the same face toward us, since we always
see the same " man," and that there must
be a back to the moon which we never be-
hold at all; and, in fact, nearly half of this
planet does remain forever hidden from hu-
man observation.
The " man in the moon " disappears when
we are looking in a telescope, because we are
then brought so near to details that the gen-
eral features are lost ; but he can be seen in
any photograph of the full moon by viewing
it at a sufficient distance, and making allow-
ance for the fact that the contrasts of light
and shade appear stronger in the photograph
than they are in reality. If the small full moon
given in Fig. 7, for instance, be looked at
from across a room, the naked-eye view will be
recovered, and its connection with the tele-
scopic ones better made out. The best time
Vol. XXIX.— 70.
for viewing the moon, however, is not at the
full, but at the close of the first quarter; for
then we see, as in this beautiful photograph
(Fig. 6) by Mr. Rutherfurd (reduced by
Mason), that the sunlight, falling slantingly on
it, casts shadows which bring out all the de-
tails so that we can distinguish many of
them even here — this photograph, though
much reduced, giving the reader a better
view than Galileo obtained with his most
powerful telescope. The large gray expanse
in the lower part is the Mare Serenitatis, that
on the left the Mare Crisium, and so on ;
these " seas," as they were called by the old
observers, being no seas at all in reality,
but extended plains which reflect less light
than other portions, and which with higher
powers show an irregular surface. Most
of the names of the main features of the
lunar surface were bestowed by the earlier
710
THE NEW ASTRONOMY.
FIG. 7. — THE FULL MOON. FIG. 8. — GLASS GLOBE, CRACKED.
[From "The Moon," by Nasmyth and Carpenter. London: John Murray. By permission.]
observers in the infancy of the telescope, when
her orb
" Through optic glass the Tuscan artist ■ viewed '
At evening from the top of Fiesole
Or in Valdarno, to descry new lands,
Rivers, or mountains in her spotty globe."
Mountains there are, like the chain of the
lunar Apennines, which the reader sees a little
below the middle of the moon, and to the
right of the Mare Serenitatis, and where a
good telescope will show several thousand
distinct summits. Apart from the mountain
chains, however, the whole surface is visibly
pitted with shallow, crater-like cavities, which
vary from over a hundred miles in diameter
to a few hundred yards or less, and which,
we shall see later, are smaller sunken plains
walled about with mountains or hills.
One of the most remarkable of these is
Tycho, here seen on the photograph of the
full moon (Fig. 7), from which radiating
streaks go in all directions over the lunar
surface. These streaks are a feature peculiar
to the moon (at least we know of nothing to
which they can be compared on the earth), for
they run through mountain and valley for
hundreds of miles without any apparent ref-
erence to the obstacles in their way, and it is
clear that the cause is a deep-seated one.
This cause is believed by our authors to be
the fact that the moon was once a liquid
sphere over which a hard crust formed, and
that in subsequent time the expansion of the
interior before solidification cracked the shell
as we see. The annexed figure (Fig. 8) is
furnished by them to illustrate their theory,
and to show the effects of what they believe
to be an analogous experiment, in minimis, to
what nature has performed on the grandest
scale ; for the photograph shows a glass globe
actually cracked by the expansion of an in-
closed fluid (in this case water), and the re-
semblance of the model to the full moon
beside it is certainly a very interesting one.
We are able to see from this, and from the
multitude of craters shown even on the gen-
eral view, where the whole face of our satel-
lite is pit-marked, that eruptive action has
been more prominent on the moon in ages
past than on our own planet, and we are
partly prepared for what we see when we begin
to study it in detail.
We may select almost any part of the
moon's surface for this nearer view, with the
certainty of finding something interesting.
Let us choose, for instance, on the photo-
graph of the half-full moon (Fig. 6), the point
near the lower part of the Terminator (as the
line dividing light from darkness is called)
where a minute sickle of light seems to invade
the darkness, and let us apply in imagination
the power of a large telescope to it. We are
brought at once considerably within a thou-
sand miles of the surface, over which we seem
to be suspended, everything lying directly be-
neath us as in a bird's-eye view, and what we
see is the remarkable scene shown in Fig. 9-
We have here such a wealth of detail that
the only trouble is to choose what to speak
of where every point has something to de-
mand attention, and we can only give here
THE PLANETS AND THE MOON
711
the briefest reference to the principal features.
The most prominent of these is the great
crater " Plato," which lies in the lower
right-hand part of the cut. It will give the
reader an idea of the scale of things to state
that the diameter of its ring is about seventy
but flat, or partaking of the general curvature
of the lunar surface, which it sinks but lit-
tle below. I have watched with interest in
the telescope streaks and shades on the floor
of Plato, not shown in our cut ; for here some
have suspected evidences of change, and fan-
miles, so that he will readily understand that cied a faint greenish tint, as if due to vegeta
'IS~S1A IC
FIG. 9. — PLATO AND THE LUNAR ALPS.
[From "The Moon," by Nasmyth and Carpenter. London : John Murray. By permission.]
the mountains surrounding it may average
five to six thousand feet in height, as they do.
The sun is shining from the left, and, being
low, casts long shadows, so that the real forms
of the mountains on one side are beautifully
indicated by these shadows, where they fall
on the floor of the crater. In the lower part
of the mountain wall there has been a land-
slide, as we see by the fragments that have
rolled down into the plain, and of which a
trace can be observed in our engraving. The
whole is quite unlike most terrestrial craters,
however, not only in its enormous size, but in
its proportions ; for the floor is not precipitous,
tion, but it is probably fancy only. Notice
the number of small craters around the big
one, and everywhere on the plate, and then
look at the amazingly rugged and tumbled
mountain heaps on the left (the lunar Alps),
cut directly through by a great valley (the
valley of the Alps), which is at the bottom
about six miles wide and extraordinarily flat
— flatter and smoother even than our engrav-
ing shows it, and looking as though a great
engineering work, rather than an operation
of nature, were in question. Above this the
mountain shadows are cast upon a wide plain,
in which are both depressed pits with little
712
THE NEW ASTRONOMY.
FIG. IO. — THE LUNAR APENNINES: ARCHIMEDES.
[From "The Moon," by Nasmyth and Carpenter. London: John Murray. By permission.]
mountain (or rather hill) rings about them,
and extraordinary peaks, one of which, Pico
(above the great crater), starts up abruptly
to the height of eight thousand feet, a lunar
Matterhorn.
If Mars were as near as the moon, we should
see with the naked eye clouds passing over
its face ; and that we never do see these on
the moon, even with the telescope, is itself a
proof that none exist there. Now, this ab-
sence of clouds, or indeed orany evidence of
moisture, is confirmed by every one of the
nearer views like those we are here getting.
We might return to this region with the tele-
scope every month of our lives without find-
ing one indication of vapor, of moisture, or
even of air; and from a summit like Pico,
could we ascend it, we should look out on a
THE PLANETS AND THE MOON.
713
FIG. II. — VESUVIUS AND NEIGHBORHOOD OF NAPLES.
[From " The Moon," by Nasmyth and Carpenter. London : John Murray. By permission.]
scene of such absolute desolation as prob-
ably no earthly view could parallel. If, as is
conceivable, these plains were once covered
with verdure, and the abode of living crea-
tures, verdure and life exist here no longer,
and over all must be the silence of universal
death. But we must leave it for another
scene.
South of Plato extends for many hundred
miles a great plain, which from its smooth-
ness was thought by the ancient observers to
be water, and was named by them the " Im-
brian Sea," and this is bounded on the south
and west by a range of mountains — the
"lunar Apennines" (Fig. 10) — which are the
most striking on our satellite. They are visi-
ble even with a spy-glass, looking then like
bread-crumbs ranged upon a cloth, while
with a greater power they grow larger and at
the same time more chaotic. As we ap-
proach nearer, we see that they rise with a
comparatively gradual slope, to fall abruptly,
in a chain of precipices that may well be
called tremendous, down to the plain below,
across which their shadows are cast. Near
their bases are some great craters of a some-
what different type from Plato, and our illus-
tration represents an enlarged view of a part
of this Apennine chain, of the great crater
Archimedes, and of its companions Aristil-
lus and Autolycus.
Our engraving will tell, more than any
description, of the contrast of the tumbled
mountain peaks with the level plain from
which they spring, a contrast for which we
have scarcely a terrestrial parallel, though the
rise of the Alps from the plains of Lombardy
may suggest an inadequate one. The Sierra
Nevadas of California climb slowly up from
the coast side, to descend in great precipices
714
THE NEW ASTRONOMY.
on the east, somewhat like this; but the coun-
try at their feet is irregular and broken, and
their highest summits do not equal those be-
fore us, which rise to 17,000 or 18,000 feet, and
from one of which we should look out over
such a scene of desolation as we can only
imperfectly picture to ourselves from any
experience of a terrestrial desert. The curva-
ture of the moon's surface is so much greater
than ours, that it would hide the spurs of
hills which buttress the southern slopes of
Archimedes, leaving only the walls of the
great mountain ring visible in the extremest
horizon, while between us and them wrould
extend what some still maintain to have been
the bed of an ancient lunar ocean, though
assuredly no water exists there now.
Among the many fanciful theories to ac-
count for the forms of the ringed plains, one
(and this is from a man of science whose ideas
are always original) invokes the presence of
water. According to it, these great plains were
once ocean beds, and in them worked a coral
insect, building up lunar " atolls " and ring-
shaped submarine mountains, as the coral
polyp does here. The highest summits of
the great rings thus formed were then low
islands, just " awash " with the waves of
the ancient lunar sea, and, for aught we
know, green with feathery palms. Then came
(in the supposition in question) a time when
the ocean dried up, and the mountains were
left standing, as we see, in rings, after the
cause of their formation was gone. If it be
asked where the water went to, the answer
is not very obvious on the old theories ; but
those who believe in them point to the extra-
ordinary cracks in the soil, like those our
engraving shows, as chasms and rents, by
which the vanished seas, and perhaps also the
FIG. 12. — PTOLEMY AND ARZACHAEL.
[From " The Moon," by Nasmyth and Carpenter. London : John Murray. By permission.]
THE PLANETS AND THE MOON
7i5
f.<-e/S£.A//C
FIG. 13. — MERCATOR AND CAMPANUS.
[From " The Moon," by Nasmyth and Carpenter. London : John Murray. By permission.]
vanished air, have been absorbed into the
interior.
If there was indeed such an ancient ocean,
it would have washed the very feet of the
precipices on whose summits we are in imagi-
nation standing, and below us thevr recesses
would have formed harbors, which fancy might
fill with commerce, and cities in which we might
picture life and movement where all is now
dead. It need hardly be said that no telescope
has ever revealed their existence (if such ruins,
indeed, there are), and it may be added that
the opinion of geologists is, as a whole, unfa-
vorable to the presence of water on the moon,
even in the past, from the absence of any clear
evidence of erosive action ; but perhaps we
are not yet entitled to speak on these points
with certainty, and are not forbidden to be-
lieve that water may have existed here in
the past by any absolute testimony to the con-
trary. The views of those who hold the larger
portion of the lunar craters to have been vol-
716
THE NEW ASTRONOMY.
canic in their formation are far more probable ;
and perhaps as simple an evidence of the
presumption in their favor as we can give is
directly to compare such a lunar region as
this, the picture of which was made for
us from a model, with a similar model made
from some terrestrial volcanic region. Here
(Fig. n) is a photograph of such a mod-
eled plan of the country round the Bay
of Naples, showing the ancient crater of
Vesuvius and its central cone, with other
above the center of the full moon, and may
be recognized also on the Rutherfurd photo-
graph, and it consists of the group of great
ring-plains, three of which form prominent
figures in our cut.
Ptolemy (the lower of these in the draw-
ing) is an example of such a plain, whose
diameter reaches to about one hundred and
fifteen miles, so that it incloses an area of
nearly eight thousand square miles (or about
that of the State of Massachusetts), within
FIG. 14. — IDEAL LUNAR LANDSCAPE AND EARTH-SHINE.
[From " The Moon," by Nasmyth and Carpenter. London: John Murray. By permission.]
and smaller craters along the sea. Here, of
course, we know that the forms originated in
volcanic action, and a comparison of them
with our moon-drawing is most interesting.
To return to our Apennine region (Fig. 10),
we must admit, however, when we consider
the vast size of these things (Archimedes is
fifty miles in diameter), that they are very dif-
ferent in proportion from our terrestrial craters,
and that numbers of them present no central
cone whatever ; so that if some of them seem
clearly eruptive, there are others to which we
have great difficulties in making these volcanic
theories apply. Let us look, for instance, at
still another region (Fig. 12). It lies rather
which there is no central cone or point from
which eruptive forces appear to have acted,
except the smaller craters it incloses. On the
south we see a pass in the mountain wall open-
ing into the neighboring ring-plain of Alphon-
sus, which is only less in size ; and south of this
again is Arzachel, sixty-six miles in diameter,
surrounded with terraced walls, rising in one
place to a height greater than that of Mont
Blanc, while the central cone is far lower. The
whole of the region round about, though not
the roughest on the moon, is rough and broken
in a way beyond any parallel here, and which
may speak for itself; but perhaps the most
striking of the many curious features — at least
THE PLANETS AND THE MOON
717
|fi;4lf;;'
HP
^^^F-
" >-^|ff;
^
Slip- ISp*^
SI i:('HH
HI
1 Ipl
m
Hi
FIG. 15. — WITHERED HAND AND APPLE.
[From " The Moon," by Nasmyth and Carpenter. London : John Murray. By permission.]
the only one we can pause to examine — is
what is called " The Railway," an alniost
perfectly straight line, on one side of which the
ground has abruptly sunk, leaving the undis-
turbed part standing like a wall, and forming
a " fault," as geologists call it. This is the most
conspicuous example of its kind in the moon,
but it is only one of many evidences that we are
looking at a world whose geological history
has been not wholly unlike our own. But the
moon contains, as has been said, but the one-
eightieth part of the mass of our globe, and
has, therefore, cooled with much greater rapid-
ity, so that it has not only gone through the
epochs of our own past time, but has in all
probability already undergone experiences
which for us lie far in the future; and it is
hardly less than justifiable language to say
that we are beholding here in some respects
what the face of our world may be when
ages have passed away.
To see this more clearly, we may consider
that in general we find that the early stages
Vol. XXIX.— 71.
of cosmical life are characterized by great heat;
a remark of the truth of which the sun itself
furnishes the first and most obvious illustra-
tion. Then come periods which we appear to
have seen exemplified in Jupiter, where the
planet is surrounded by volumes of steam-like
vapor, through which we may almost believe
we recognize the dull glow of not yet extin-
guished fires ; then times like those which
our earth passed through before it became the
abode of man; and then the times in which hu-
man history begins. But if this process of the
gradual loss of heat go on indefinitely, we must
yet come to still another era, when the planet
has grown too cold to support life, as it was
before too hot; and this condition, in the light
of some very recent investigations, it seems
probable we have now before us on the moon.
We have, it is true, been taught until very
lately that the side of the moon turned sun-
ward would grow hotter and hotter in the
long lunar day, till it reached a temperature
of two hundred to three hundred degrees
718
THE NEW ASTRONOMY.
Fahrenheit, and that in the equally long lunar
night it would fall as much as this below
zero. But the evidence which was supposed
to support this conclusion is not supported
by recent experiments ; and if these be trust-
worthy, certain facts appear to the writer to
show that the temperature of the moon's sur-
face, even under full perpetual sunshine, must
be very low indeed, — lower than that of our
arctic or antarctic poles, — and this because of
the absence of air there to keep the stored sun-
heat from being radiated away again into space.
As we ascend the highest terrestrial moun-
tains, and get partly above our own protect-
ing blanket of air, things do not grow hotter
and hotter, but colder and colder ; and it seems
contrary to the teachings of common sense
to believe that if we could ascend higher yet,
where the air ceases altogether, we should
not find that it grew colder still. But this
last condition (of airlessness) is the one which
does prevail beyond a doubt in the moon, on
whose whole surface, then, there must be (un-
less there are sources of internal heat of which
we know nothing) conditions of temperature
which are an exaggeration of those we expe-
rience on the summit of a very lofty mountain,
where water freezes under the full rays of a
vertical sun ; and we have the curious result
that the skin may be burned under the solar
rays, while we are shivering at the same time
in what the thermometer shows is an arctic cold.
We have heard of this often, but a personal
experience so impressed the fact on me that
I will relate it for the benefit of the reader,
who may wish to realize to himself the actual
conditions which probably exist in the airless
lunar mountains and plains we are looking at.
He cannot go there, but he may go if he
pleases, as I have done, to the waterless,
shadeless desert which stretches at the east-
ern slope of the Sierra Nevadas (a chain al-
most as high and steep as the lunar Apen-
nines), and live some part of July and August
in this desert, where the thermometer rises
occasionally to one hundred and ten degrees
in the shade, and his face is tanned till it can
tan no more, and he appears to himself to
have experienced the utmost in this way that
the sun can do.
The sky is cloudless, and the air so clear
that all idea of the real distance and size of
things is lost. The mountains, which rise in
tremendous precipices above him, seem like
moss-covered rocks close at hand, on the tops
of which, here and there, a white cloth has
been dropped, but the " moss " is great pri-
meval forests, and the white cloths large iso-
lated snow-fields, tantalizing the dweller in the
burning desert with their delusive nearness.
When I climbed the mountains, at an altitude
of ten thousand feet I already found the cool-
ness delicious, but at the same time (by the
strange effect I have been speaking of) the
skin began to burn, as though the seasoning
in the desert counted for nothing at all ; and
as the air grew thinner and thinner while I
mounted still higher and higher, though the
thermometer fell, every part of the person
exposed to the solar rays presented the ap-
pearance of a recent severe burn from an
actual fire, — and a really severe burn it was,
as I can testify, — and yet all the while around
us, under this burning sun and cloudless sky,
reigned a perpetual winter which made it hard
to believe that torrid summer still lay below.
The thinner the air, then, the colder it grows,
even where we are exposed to the sun, and
the lower becomes the reading of the ther-
mometer. Now, by means of suitable appa-
ratus, it was sought by the writer to determine,
while at this elevation of fifteen thousand feet,
how great the fall of temperature would be if
the thin air there could be removed altogether;
and the result was that the thermometer would
under such circumstances fall, at any rate,
below zero in the full sunshine.
Of course, all this applies directly to the
moon, on whose surface (if these inferences
be correct) the mercury in the bulb of a ther-
mometer would probably freeze and never
melt again during the lunar day (and still less
during the lunar night) — a conclusion which
has been reached through other means by
Mr. Ericsson.
Other and direct measures of the lunar heat
are still in progress while this is being written,
but their probable result seems to be already
indicated : it is that the moon's surface, even
in perpetual sunshine, must be forever under
a more than arctic cold — a cold below the
freezing-point of mercury, and in which we
cannot conceive of the existence of man or
of organic life.
Here (Fig. 13) is one more scene from the
almost unlimited field the lunar surface affords.
The most prominent things in the land-
scape before us are two fine craters (Mercator
and Campanus), each over thirty miles in di-
ameter • but we have chosen this scene for
remark rather on account of the great crack or
rift which is seen in the upper part, and which
cuts through plain and mountain for a length
of sixty miles. Such cracks are counted by
hundreds on the moon, where they are to be
seen almost everywhere ; and other varieties,
in fact, are visible on this same plate, but we
will not stop to describe them. This one varies
in width from an eighth of a mile to a mile ;
and though we cannot see to the bottom of
it, others are known to be at least eight miles
deep, and may be indefinitely deeper.
THE PLANETS AND THE MOON
7i9
The edge of. a cliff on the earth commonly
gets weather-worn and rounded, but here the
edge is sharp, so that a traveler along the
lunar plains would come to the very brink of
this tremendous chasm before he had any
warning of its existence. It is usually thus
with all such rifts, and the straightness and
sharpness of the edge in these cases suggest
the appearance of an ice-crack to the observer.
I do not mean to assert that there is more
than a superficial resemblance. I do not write
as a geologist ; but in view of what we have
just been reading of the lunar cold, we may
ask ourselves whether, if water ever did exist
here, we should not expect to find perpetual
ice, not necessarily glittering, but covered,
perhaps, with the deposits of an air laden with
the dust-products of later volcanic eruptions,
or even covered in after ages, when the air
has ceased from the moon, with the slow de-
posit of meteoric dust during millions of years
of windless calm. What else can we think will
become of the water on our own earth if it be
destined to pass through such an experience
as we seem to see prophesied in the condition
of our dead satellite ?
The reader must not understand me as say-
ing that there is ice on the moon — only that
there is probably perpetual ice there now if
there ever was water in past time ; and he is
not to suppose that to say this is in any way
to deny what seems the strong evidence of the
existence of volcanic action everywhere, for
the two things may well have existed in suc-
cessive ages of our satellite's past, or even have
both existed together, like Hecla, within our
own arctic snows; and if no sign of any still
active lunar volcano has been discovered, we
appear to read the traces of their presence in
the past none the less clearly.
I remember that at one time, when living
on the lonely upper lava-wastes of Mt. Etna,
which are pitted with little craters, I grew
acquainted with so many a chasm and rent
filled with these that the dreary landscape
appeared from above as if a bit of the sur-
face of the moon I looked up at through
the telescope had been brought down be-
side me.
I remember, too, that as I studied the sun
there and watched the volcanic outbursts on
its surface, I felt that I possibly embraced in
a threefold picture as many stages in the his-
tory of planetary existence, through all of
which this eruptive action was an agent, —
above in the primal energies of the sun, all
around me in the great volcano, black and
torn with the fires that still burn below, and
whose smoke rose over me in the plume that
floated high up from the central cone, and
finally in this last stage in the moon, which
hung there pale in the daylight sky, and across
whose face the vapors of the great terrestrial
volcano drifted, but on whose own surface the
last fire was extinct.
We shall not get an adequate idea of it all,
unless we add to our bird's-eye views one
showing a chain of lunar mountains as they
would appear to us if we saw them, as we do
our own Alps or Apennines, from about their
feet, and such a view Fig. 14 affords us. In
the barren plain on the foreground are great
rifts such as we have been looking at from
above, and smaller craters, with their extinct
cones ; while beyond rise the mountains,
ghastly white in the cold sunshine, their
precipices crowned by no mountain fir or
cedar, and softened by no intervening air to
veil their nakedness.
If the reader has ever climbed one of the
highest Alpine peaks, like those about Monte
Rosa or the Matterhorn, and there waited for
the dawn, he cannot but remember the sense of
desolation and strangeness due to the utter
absence of everything belonging to man or
his works or his customary abode, above all
which he is lifted into an upper . world, so
novel and, as it were, so unhuman in its
features, that he is not likely to have forgot-
ten his first impression of it ; and this impres-
sion gives the nearest but still a feeble idea
of what we see with the telescope in looking
down on such a colorless scene, where, too,
no water bubbles, no tree can sigh in the
breeze, no bird can sing — the home of silence.
But here, above it, hangs a world in the
sky, which we should need to call in color to
depict, for it is green and yellow with the
forests and the harvest-fields that overspread
its continents, with emerald islands studding
its gray oceans, over all of which sweep the
clouds that bring the life-giving rain. It is
our own world, which lights up the dreary
lunar night, as the moon does ours.
The signs of age are on the moon. It seems
pitted, torn, and rent by the past action of
long-dead fires, till its surface is like a piece
of porous cinder under the magnifying glass —
a burnt-out cinder of a planet, which rolls
through the void like a ruin of what has been ;
and, more significant still, this surface is
wrinkled everywhere, till the analogy with an
old and shriveled face or hand or fruit (Fig.
15), where the puckered skin is folded about a
shrunken center, forces itself on our atten-
tion, and suggests a common cause — a some-
thing underlying the analogy, and making it
more than a mere resemblance.
The moon, then, is dead ; and if it ever
was the home of a race like ours, that race is
dead too. I have said that our new astron-
omy modifies our view of the moral universe
720
THE NEW ASTRONOMY.
FIG. l6. — GASSENDI. NOVEMBER 7th, 1867.
[From "The Moon," by Nasmyth and Carpenter. London: John Murray. By permission.]
as well as of the physical one ; nor do we need
a more pregnant instance than in this before
us. In these days of decay of old creeds of
the eternal, it has been sought to satisfy man's
yearning toward it by founding a new religion
whose god is Humanity, and whose hope lies
in the future existence of our own race, in
whose collective being the individual who
must die may fancy his aims and purpose
perpetuated in an endless progress. But, alas
for hopes looking to this alone ! we are here
brought to face the solemn thought that like
the individual, though at a little further date,
Humanity itself may die !
Before we leave this dead world, let us take a
last glance at one of its fairest scenes : that
which we obtain when looking at a portion
on which the sun is rising, as in this view of
REMINISCENCES OF DANIEI WEBSTER.
721
Gassendi (Fig. 16), in which the dark part on
our right is still the body of the moon, on
which the sun has not yet risen. Its nearly
level rays stretch elsewhere over the surface,
that is, in places of a strangely smooth texture,
contrasting with the ruggedness of the ordi-
nary soil, which is here gathered into low
plaits, that, with the texture we have spoken
of, look
" Like marrowy crapes of China silk,
Or wrinkled skin on scalded milk,"
as they lie, soft and almost beautiful, in the
growing light.
Where its first beams are kindling, the sum-
mits cast their shadows illimitedly over the
darkening plains away on the right, until
they melt away into the night — a night which
is not utterly black, for even here a subdued
radiance comes from the earth-shine of our
own world in the sky.
Let us leave here the desolation about us,
happy that we can come back at will to that
world, our own familiar dwelling, where the
meadows are still green and the birds still sing,
and where, better yet, still dwells our own kind
— surely the world, of all we have found in
our wanderings, which we should ourselves
have chosen to be our home.
[end of the present series.]
S. P. langley.
REMINISCENCES OF DANIEL WEBSTER.*
My acquaintance with Mr. Webster might
almost be regarded as a family inheritance
rather than a personal acquisition. It grew
out of connections reaching as far back as the
middle of the last century. Both my grand-
fathers, Japhet Allen and Jeremiah Gilman,
were with Ebenezer Webster, the father of
Daniel, in the revolutionary war, and Colonel
David Gilman, my grandfather's brother, was
with him in the old French and Indian wars
under Washington and Amherst. My grand-
mother on my mother's side was a distant rel-
ative of the mother of Mr. Webster, and a
native of her region ; and her brother resided
in the town of Boscawen during his life, and for
many years was familiarly acquainted with all
the Webster family. To enlarge this family
association : my grandmother on my father's
side was born on part of the Webster estate
at Marshfield ; and the old cellar of the house
of her ancestors was well preserved during Mr.
Webster's life; and many of her family are
interred in the Pilgrim burying-ground, where
the Webster tomb is situated. Both my father
and Mr. Webster were born the same year,
and while the latter taught at Fryeburg Mr.
Allen presided over a district school in the
country near by. They were companions on
many a fishing and rambling excursion round
Mount Chocorua and the tributaries of the
Saco. Tradition has it that they both received
instruction in Latin from the same preceptor,
Rev. Samuel Hidden, of Tamworth, N. H.
Thus I may fairly be said to have imbibed
my love and admiration and knowledge of
the great statesman with my mother's milk.
My first sight of him was in a crowded court-
room of a country village in New Hampshire.
It was more than half a century ago ; and,
though I was hardly ten years of age, I well
remember how overawed I was at the intro-
duction. My next acquaintance with his name
was when he was engaged in the Salem Murder
case as counsel for the Government against
Knapp et ah But it was not until I came to
Boston, a youth of seventeen summers, and
was casually presented to him again, that I
realized the greatness and felt the influence
* The portrait of Webster, printed as a frontispiece, is from a daguerreotype made by Mr. F. de B. Rich-
ards, of Philadelphia. Mr. Richards, now a painter, was formerly a daguerreotypist, and went, under the
guidance of Dr. McClellan (father of the general), to get Webster to pose for the likeness. Mr. Richards is
confident that this was in 1849, though we can find no record of a public speech made by Webster in Phila-
delphia in that year. Mr. Richards says that Webster had spoken with his hat on, and they wished to pre-
serve a memento of the speech ; but when they found Webster he was pacing the floor in furious anger, frown-
ing like Jupiter Tonans, because some unfeeling creditor had ventured to dun him for a debt. Dr. McClellan
whispered to Richards not to touch the picture question. Meantime, Webster's friends were raising money
among the Whigs with which to satisfy the debt. At ten minutes before two the doctor and the daguerreo-
typist returned, to find the lion tame and happy. But there was to be a reception that afternoon, and Webster
turned and growled, " McClellan, if that picture is to be taken, it must be at two o'clock." Dr. McClellan
thereupon whispered to Richards to run and have all things ready. Mr. Richards remembers hearing Webster's
angry grumbling when he reached the top of the third flight at finding he must mount one more. When he
entered the gallery Richards said : " Stand just as you are, Mr. Webster ; we wish to take you first with your
hat on." "Your first will be your last," roared the statesman. But when the artist announced that the sit-
ting was ended in about four seconds, he said : "What, all done ? " " Yes." "Why, in Boston they will set
your eyes out ! " and he sat for two or three other pictures. The hat shown in the picture, or a similar
one, is preserved in the " Historical" rooms in Philadelphia. — Ed.
Vol. XXIX.— 72.
722
REMINISCENCES OF DANIEL WEBSTER.
of his overpowering personality as a man.
He was then in the zenith of his glory, and,
overcome as I was by his majestic greatness,
I kept aloof from him for more than a dozen
years. When I subsequently met him and
made myself known as the son of his friend
and his father's friend, his great heart warmed
to me, and from that time forward I enjoyed
an intimacy with him that ended only with
his death. In our frequent interviews the
memories of the past would come surging
back upon his mind. The old farm, with its
rugged pastures, " the crystal hills gray and
cloud-topped," the old saw-mill, the deer-
paths, the trout-streams, and the range of the
bear, the wolf, and the fox, all suggested to
his mind visions of boyish associations and
frolics that quieted and soothed and refreshed
him in his leisure moments. His father, of
whom he always spoke so affectionately, was
twice married; and he commemorated his
second marriage by building a one-story frame
house hard by where the old log-cabin stood.
Daniel was born in this house, which in after
time he used to say was nearer the North
star than any other in New England. That
house still exists, and has been made part of
a newer and more substantial edifice. Near
the house is a well, and by the side of this
well stands an elm-tree, which the present
owner, Judge Nesmith, points to with pride,
and says was planted by Webster's father in
1768. For sixty years, at regular visits, Daniel
Webster sat beneath its spreading branches in
the summer-time, and looked his cattle in the
face. This farm, near the subsequent home-
stead at Franklin, has few fertile spots ; the
granite rocks, visible in every direction, give
an air of barrenness to the scene. I could
not help thinking, as I stood upon the spot
last fall where he first saw the light of day,
with some of his neighbors and kinsmen, that
those wild, bleak hills among which he was
cradled and the rough pastures in which he
grew had left their impress upon his soul. His
school-time was much interrupted ; and from
his own lips I learned that Webster's struggle
for an education was continued from his early
childhood to his thirtieth year. Every step in
advance was contested by obstacles which he
met with a lion heart, and with a lion's courage
overthrew. His books were few at this time.
There were a copy of Watts's hymns, a cheap
pamphlet copy of Pope's " Essay on Man,"
and the Bible, from which he first learned to
read, together with an occasional almanac.
He used to say that at the age of fourteen he
could recite by heart the whole of the " Essay
on Man." He entered Dartmouth College in
1797, but was desperately poor. A friend sent
him a recipe while at college for greasing his
boots. He wrote back and thanked him very
politely. " But," said he, " my boots need
other doctoring, for they not only admit
water, but even peas and gravel-stones."
Professor Shurtleff, his classmate, says that
Webster was remarkable for three things when
at Dartmouth : steady habits of life, close
application to study, and last, but not least,
ability to mind his own business. He left
Dartmouth in 1801. Tradition says, with
what truth I do not know, that he took no
part in the graduating exercises, but he re-
ceived a diploma. When the exercises were
over, he invited some of his classmates to
accompany him to the college green, and there,
in their presence, he tore up his sheepskin and
threw it away, saying, " My industry may make
me a great man, but this miserable parchment
cannot." Mounting his horse, he rode home.
About this time, or soon after, he came to
Boston to seek his fortune and get a chance
to study law. Theodore Parker describes him
as coming with no letters of introduction, raw,
awkward, and shabby in his dress, his rough
trousers ceasing a long distance above his
feet. He was turned away from several offices
before he found a place. But Mr. Gore, after-
ward Governor of Massachusetts, a man of
large reputation, and, I should judge, a man
of keen insight and much tenderness of heart,
took in the unprotected youth who came, as
he said, to work, not to play. He was ad-
mitted to the bar in 1805, and settled down
to the practice of law at Boscawen. In 1807
Mr. Webster gave up this office to his brother
Ezekiel, who had just been admitted to the
bar, and moved to Portsmouth, where he
lived for nine years wanting one month. In
1808 he married Miss Grace Fletcher. In
an old paper, the Portsmouth " Oracle," of
June 11, 1808, you can read the account
as follows : " Married, in Salisbury, Daniel
Webster, Esquire, of this town, to Miss Grace
Fletcher." All this is more or less a matter
of history; but his first love-letter, now be-
fore me and without date, may never yet
have been published. Lovers in these days, it
appears, were in the habit of sitting up late,
or rather early ; and his manner of letting his
lady know at what time he would leave her is,
to say the least, novel. It reads as follows :
" My Cousin : I intend' to set out for home
from your house at three o'clock. — D. W.
" Miss Grace Fletcher, Present."
One day he assisted her in disentangling a
skein of silk, and, taking up a piece of tape, he
said :
" Grace, cannot you help me to tie a knot
that will never untie ? "
She blushingly replied :
" I don't know, Daniel, but am willing to try."
REMINISCENCES OE DANIEL WEBSTER.
723
The knot was tied, and, though eighty-
years have since sped by, it lies before me
to-day, time-colored, it is true, but neverthe-
less still untied. I have a note in my posses-
sion dated March, 1805, addressed to Miss
Grace Fletcher.
" Miss Fletcher : Monday morning five
o'clock I expect to go out on the stage for
Amherst. If it should consist with your con-
venience to ride to Dunstable on that day, I
should be happy to be charged with the duty
of attending you. It will probably be in my
way to be in Cambridge Sunday eve, and I
can furnish you a passage into town.
" D. Webster."
Another note in an envelope marked by
Miss Fletcher " Precious Documents " reads as
follows :
" Dear Grace : I was fortunate enough to
be at home Sunday morning at five o'clock,
after a solitary ride. . . . Early in the week
after next I hope to be with you.
" Yours entirely, D. W."
At this period of his life, at least, Mr. Web-
ster was very methodical, and his receipts and
expenditures were kept with great care. A
mottled-covered pass-book, begun in August,
1824, before me now, shows his receipts during
the rest of that year to have been $4235, and
for the first whole year $7285; for the next
year they were, including his $1800 from Con-
gress, $13,238.33; so that, even at this early
date, his practice was large and lucrative.
At the age of thirty he was elected to Con-
gress for the first time, and he took his seat
in November, 1813. In 1816 he came to
Boston, from Portsmouth, to practice law.
In 1820 he was a leading spirit in the Massa-
chusetts State Convention for the revision of
the Constitution — provoking the jealousy,
but distancing the rivalry, of young men
Boston born and Cambridge bred. In 1822
Webster was sent to Congress from Boston,
and five years later he took his seat in the
Senate as a Senator from Massachusetts. His
celebrated speech in answer to Colonel Hayne
of South Carolina, upon the Constitution,
gave him a world-wide reputation as a lawyer
and statesman, and forever after he was con-
sidered among the highest authorities in the
interpretation of that instrument. Subse-
quently, in 1 84 1, he left the Senate and be-
came Secretary of State in the Harrison ad-
ministration, and remained under President
Tyler. He was returned to the Senate in
1845, an<3 again in 1850, but soon became
Secretary of State under President Fillmore,
which office he retained until his death. He
was eight years a Representative, nineteen
years a Senator, and five years Secretary of
State, making in all thirty-two years of public
life. Such is the summary of his career before
the world.
Prior to the forties, except through the
associations before referred to, I knew Mr.
Webster only as the great world knew him, and
I can add but little to what is already of public
record regarding his public life. In the early
days of the Long Island Railroad I traveled
with him and Mrs. Webster from New York
to Boston, which offered me the best oppor-
tunity for a prolonged conversation that up
to that time I had ever enjoyed. I could,
of course, say but little in answer to his views
of our national prosperity. He then had the
best comprehension of the coming growth
and wealth of the Western States that I had
ever heard expressed. His son Fletcher and
a number of families of New England and
New York distinction were early pioneers
in the settlement of a township in Illinois, but
subsequently moved back to their homes in
the East after much suffering in the back-
woods. I remember hearing Fletcher describe
some of these scenes as early as the Harrison
campaign of 1840. But Mr. Webster was not
discouraged, and, as in the conversation on
the before-mentioned trip across Long Island,
he always described vividly the great resources
of the West, and its probable influence on the
future of New England. He was ever dis-
posed to think that the growing West would
be a permanent help to New England.
He had already seen the commerce of his
district dwindle away — the wharves and
docks from Boston to Portland grass-green
from want of use, and the prospect of a like
stampede at an early date along the coast to
New York. He saw the necessity his native
New England was under to sustain her manu-
factures, and hence he early set to work to
lend a helping hand. Three causes he espoused
with unflinching fidelity, and stood by them
until death. Internal improvements, finance,
and protection to American industries — these
were the three questions he deemed most inti-
mately associated with national progress. His
conversations ever partook of these national
considerations.
An incident of this trip illustrated the cool-
ness of Mr. Webster in the midst of danger.
All at once, as the cars rushed along at a
fearful rate (the conductor feeling desirous to
show Mr. Webster the speed that could be kept),
there was a terrible concussion, and though the
engine was not thrown from the track it soon
stopped. It was found that a switch was but
partially turned off, and the driving-wheel of the
locomotive had carried off one side of the rail
near the middle. Great confusion instantly fol-
lowed the accident, and men as well as women
and children were panic-stricken. Mr. Web-
724
REMINISCENCES OE DANIEL WEBSTER.
ster coolly arose from his seat and talked to
the crowd, which soon became quiet again.
He used to drive in his gig from Boston,
and sometimes from Hingham, over the road
to Marshfield. On such occasions troops of
children would come flocking out and follow
after him, so great a fascination did he have
for them. And I have seen somewhere how
a little child, on entering the room where
Webster was seated, and looking up into his
great soft eyes, ran instinctively into his arms,
as if yearning to get as near as possible to
his great tender heart. As an infant he is
described as a crying baby who worried his
parents considerably. He grew up to boy-
hood pale, weak, and sickly ; as he himself
often told me, he was the slimmest in the
family. And yet, by doing a boy's work on
his father's farm, by indulging a propensity
for outdoor sports, by leading a temperate
and frugal life, he succeeded in building up
a robust constitution. On arriving at man-
hood he had a physical frame which seemed
made to last a hundred years. It was an iron
frame, large and stately, with a great moun-
tain of a head upon it. When Thorwaldsen,
the Danish sculptor, saw his head in Pow-
ers's studio in Rome, he exclaimed : " Ah ! a
design for Jupiter, I see." He would not be-
lieve that it was a living American. Parker
describes him as " a man of large mold, a
great body, and a great brain. . . . Since
Socrates there has seldom been a head so
massive, huge. Its cubic capacity surpassed
all former measurements of mind. A large
man, decorous in dress, dignified in deport-
ment, he walked as if he felt himself a king.
Men from the country who knew him not
stared at him as he passed through our streets.
The coal-heavers and porters of London
looked on him as one of the great forces of
the globe. They recognized in him a native
king." Carlyle called him " a magnificent
specimen whom, as a logic fencer or parlia-
mentary Hercules, one would incline to back
at sight against all the world." And Sydney
Smith said he was " a living lie, because
no man on earth could be as great as he
looked."
And so, blessed with a sturdy frame and a
form of imposing manhood, he stood alone
in his massiveness among twenty-five million
people. And the moral and mental character
he had built up within him — this was the
force that made of him the Colossus of manly
strength and character he was. I have said
he was truthful. He was more than truthful :
he was reverent and religious. He was pres-
ent one day at a dinner-party at the Astor
House given by some of his New York
friends, and in order to draw him out one of
the company put to him the following ques-
tion : " Would you please tell us, Mr. Webster,
what was the most important thought that ever
occupied your mind ? " Mr. Webster merely
raised his head, and, passing his hand slowly
over his forehead, said : " Is there any one
here who doesn't know me ! " " No, sir," was
the reply ; " we all know you, and are your
friends." " Then," said he, looking over the ta-
ble, " the most important thought that ever
occupied my mind was that of my individual
responsibility to God," upon which subject
he spoke for twenty minutes.
Webster died at Marshfield, October 24,
1852. When it was known that the final
summons had arrived, and that his great
spirit had taken its flight, thousands crowded
into Marshfield to do honor to his remains.
I well remember the funeral, October 29, 1852.
It was a beautiful day, and his herds of cattle
which he loved so much were quietly grazing
on the hills behind the house. Mingled among
them were strange animals like the elk and
antelope. Water-fowl swarmed in the lake
near by, and the avenues were thronged with
sorrowing people. The iron casket, open at
full length, was placed under a linden tree in
front of the mansion, and not on the side
under the great elm, as has been so often
stated. The body lay clothed as in life with his
blue coat and accustomed dress. The pupils
of his eyes were a little sunk, but his features
wore a smile of peaceful content. The scene
has often been described, how they tenderly
laid him away in his tomb by the sea.
Time flew onward with resistless tread ; the
war of the great rebellion was over, the Union
had been preserved. The remains of his son,
Major Edward Webster, had been brought
from the battle-grounds of Mexico ; those of
his only other son, Colonel Fletcher Webster,
from the bloody field of Virginia where he was
slain. His grandsons, Daniel and Ashburton,
and his granddaughter, Carrie, the last of all
the children of Fletcher, had been laid beside
him in the family tomb at Marshfield. The
widowed wife of the latter occupied the deso-
late homestead when the centennial year of
the birth of the great statesman came round.
The nation was aroused to celebrate the event.
Thirty years had passed since we laid him in
the tomb by the sea, where the Atlantic had
constantly sung a mournful requiem over the
remains of all that was mortal, when, on an-
other October day, twenty thousand sons
and daughters of freedom came down to pay
willing tribute to the memory of the dead.
He " still lived " in the hearts of his country-
men. The President of the United States
was there, with his cabinet, and other officers
of the national government, both civil and
SOME RECOLLECTIONS OE CHARLES 0 'CONOR.
725
military. Judges, senators, representatives in
Congress, ministers and consuls of other
governments; governors and ex-governors
of the New England States; literary men,
presidents and fellows of college, and min-
isters of the gospel, — all came to do his
memory reverence. The road to the man-
sion-house for a mile and a half was lined
upon either side by surviving veterans of
the Army of the Republic. As the long pro-
cession started, escorted by the Ancient and
Honorable Artillery Company, cannon re-
sounded from the hill-top, and a solemn
funeral dirge was played by the bands. It
was a scene such as Massachusetts never be-
fore witnessed.
Stephen M. Allen.
■»»»-
SOME RECOLLECTIONS OF CHARLES O'CONOR.
The death of Mr. O' Conor has left a large
vacancy in the American bar, larger perhaps
than was ever created before by the death of
any single individual. For a period of nearly
half a century he was the professional feature
of almost every important litigation in the
great commercial center of the nation. In-
deed, he conferred importance upon any case
in which he was engaged, and the reports of
the judicial decisions of the State of New
York will bear to remote generations abun-
dant testimony of his extraordinary industry
and professional learning and skill. It may
be assumed that his profession will furnish
a competent biography of one who lent it so
much distinction, and whose example com-
mended itself in so many ways to the admira-
tion and imitation of his professional brethren
wherever the administration of the law has at-
tained the dignity of a science.
It was my good fortune in early life to ex-
perience a very great and most seasonable
kindness at the hands of Mr. O'Conor, a kind-
ness which modesty only forbids my referring
to more in detail. His life, however, was so
full of such benefactions that the suppression
of one of them requires no apology. ^The
incident, to which I only venture to allude,
established relations which, if not more inti-
mate, were in some respects different from
those which are ripened by ordinary profes-
sional intercourse, and countenance me in
making a permanent record of such recollec-
tions of him as seem to possess some public
interest, and of which there may be no other
witness.
While at the bar I had known Mr. O'Conor
about as intimately as it was possible for a
young man at the base of the profession to
know one who was nearing its summit. We
had been on bar committees together ; we had
both taken a lively interest in the discussions
which preceded and followed the Constitu-
tional Convention of 1846, of which he was a
member, and, at one time and another, we
had interchanged opinions upon most of the
contested questions discussed in that body.
We were not in close sympathy with each
other on all nor even on many of these ques-
tions, while in politics we were separated by
an impassable gulf. Though both of us pro-
fessed to be Democrats, he belonged to the
tribe then known in New York as " Hunk-
ers," and I to that then known as " Barn-
burners." But we were both in earnest ; both
fancied that we were disinterested and patri-
otic ; and our debates, though they tended to
separate us wider and wider on questions of
party policy, proved favorable rather than
otherwise to the growth of our friendship.
This is all I need to say by way of introduc-
tion to some reminiscences which death seems
to have made it my privilege, some think my
duty, to share with the public.
Early in the summer of 1882 I received
from Mr. O'Conor an invitation to visit him
at his new island home in Nantucket. In the
following summer I was invited again. I was
fortunately able to accept both invitations,
and on each occasion I spent with him sev-
eral days. As I was old enough to remember
him at the bar long before he had reached the
primacy of his profession, his conversation,
which never flagged during his waking hours
either in volume or in interest, was confined
mostly to the incidents of his youth and active
professional life.
W7hen I first arrived at " The Cliff," about
the 1 st of July, 1882, his new house was but
just finished. The carpenters had left it only
the night before, and we were the first guests
to whom he had had an opportunity of ex-
tending its hospitality. His territory embraced
only about two hundred feet square, situated
on one of the bluffs overlooking the sea which
separates the island from the Massachusetts
shore. The ground around his house, or the
sand rather, was not graded, and it seemed
doubtful if it ever could be, as the wind would
displace one day what the shovel had placed
the day preceding. It was strewn with boxes,
boards, and lumber-rubbish which had sur-
vived their usefulness, and were awaiting the
proprietor's convenience to be consigned to
726
SOME RECOLLECTIONS OF CHARLES O 'CONOR.
some less conspicuous repository. Whether
they were removed or not was the least of all
possible concerns to Mr. O'Conor. He had
the air and the climate which had tempted
him to make his home in this remote and
rock-bound region ; he had a wide piazza
along three sides of his spacious dwelling, on
which he could walk in all weathers, at all
seasons; and he had his precious library, which
he prized above all his earthly treasures. In
these he had all that he required for his per-
sonal comfort, and neither the disorder nor
the sand without gave him a moment's con-
cern.
The motive Mr. O'Conor assigned to me
for seeking that out-of-the-way home at his
advanced age was, that in 1880 he broke
down in the midst of an important piece of
professional work, and his physicians, becom-
ing discouraged, finally suggested that he go
to Nantucket, that island being the nearest
portion of North America to the Gulf Stream,
and enjoying the most temperate climate on
the coast at all seasons. Following their ad-
vice, he took lodgings in the town for the win-
ter of that year. He found he could prosecute
his work with unimpaired vigor. The experi-
ment proved so satisfactory that he decided
to build a house there, and make himself as
comfortable as possible for what time he had
to remain on the earth, be it longer or shorter.
His nephew, Mr. Sloan, who was ingenious
and intelligent, and, " like all Irishmen," said
O'Conor, " never hesitates to undertake any-
thing from doubt of his ability to execute it,
offered to boss the job," O'Conor himself
hardly looking at it or thinking of it until it
was finished, the night before we arrived. Re-
ferring afterward to the Irishman's way of
never admitting his inability to do whatever
is asked of him, he said, " I have it myself. I
should never hesitate to undertake anything
from doubt of my ability to do it. I might
have a good deal of trouble about it, but I
would manage it some way." One day, when
he had been telling me how he came to enter
the legal profession, I made a remark which
implied that he was specially fitted by nature
for the profession which he adopted, and that
no other would have proved so congenial to
him. He said he did not think it would have
made any difference what profession he had
adopted ; that he would have attained about
the same relative success whether he had been
bred a blacksmith, a doctor, a theologian, or
a lawyer. He was just as fit and as unfit for
one thing as for another. With hard work, for
which he had sufficient capacity, he could mas-
ter almost anything, after some fashion.
Mr. O'Conor did not provide for his library
in his house, which is a frame building, but
built an edifice some twenty feet from the
main building of brick, one story high, about
fifty feet long and twenty-five broad, with an
arched roof and as nearly incombustible as
possible. By arranging his shelves perpen-
dicularly to the walls instead of parallel with
them, he secured accommodations for about
eighteen thousand volumes. He here spent
most of the working hours of every day when
not occupied with guests or walking on his
spacious piazza, his favorite and practically
his only exercise. He could not ride with
comfort, and therefore he kept no horses.
While not professing to practice law, he was
frequently appealed to by his professional
brethren for aid in knotty and troublesome
cases, which gave him quite as much intellec-
tual occupation as he required. His habits of
daily life were regulated by the exigencies of
his health. He always retired at nine in the
evening ; he breakfasted at seven, dined at
two, and supped at seven. To this programme
he adhered with almost fanatical precision.
To some expressions of curiosity about his
early educational privileges which dropped
from me one day, he replied that he hardly had
any. When a lad he attended a school kept
by a sort of relative or namesake in Barclay
street for about two months. That was all
the schooling he had ever received. His
mother, of whom he spoke in terms of great
affection, died when he was only eleven years
old. After that he had but little parental
supervision. His father, who was a decayed
gentleman, anything but thrifty, and usually
surrounded with a set of old-country ne'er-do-
weels, took it into his head one day to put
his son with one of these acquaintances whose
business was the manufacture of tar, pitch,
turpentine, lampblack, etc. Charles was with
this man about a year, and became perfectly
familiar with all the processes of his manu-
facture. " I could to-day," he said, " conduct
any of them." At the end of the year, dur-
ing which period he received no pay but his
board, he was put up by some of his young
comrades to think he had no occasion to work
any longer without compensation, for a per-
son to whom he was under no obligation and
for whom he had no particular esteem. He
therefore gave notice of his intent to leave,
and seek some remunerative employment.
His master then said to him, " Charles, you
had better stay with me, and if you do I will
give you the same wages that I give ,"
naming the only one of the men beside himself
who was privileged to live in the family. This
was highly satisfactory, and Charles consented
to remain. When, however, it transpired that
he, a stripling, was getting a man's wages,
there was a wild commotion among the other
SOME RECOLLECTIONS OE CHARLES O'CONOR.
727
workmen, who all must receive an immediate
increase of pay or quit. The result was that
Charles retired, and whatever hopes he may
have indulged of becoming an eminent man-
ufacturer of lampblack were abandoned for-
ever.
O' Conor's father then conceived the notion
that his son was intended for a lawyer, and,
full of this conviction, took him, in his
thirteenth year, to another of his ne'er-do-weel
acquaintances named Stannard, who professed
to practice law, and placed Charles in his
office. Stannard had no law-books and al-
most as little business. Charles got hold of a
copy of Blackstone somehow, and read it
through two or three times, but did not com-
prehend it at all. His mind, he said, was then
entirely too immature to grasp the principles
of legal science. In his fifteenth year he was
transferred to the office of a West Indian
named Lemoyne, who also professed to prac-
tice law a little. He was " a jolly sort of fel-
low," who would put several bottles of brandy
under his waistcoat every day without much
inconvenience, and who used to take Charles
with him occasionally, as he expressed it, "to
see the world." Lemoyne had a partner
named Thompson, a son of Judge Thompson,
of the United States Circuit Court, and clerk
of his court. O'Conor used occasionally to
go there to assist in the copying and other
work. Thompson was heard to remark that
there seemed to be a curious increase in the
amount of his fees when O'Conor was in the
office. Thus early his character began to shape
his fortunes.
When O'Conor had reached his eighteenth
year he made another change, this time to the
office of Mr. Joseph Fay, the father of Mr.
Theodore Fay, at one time minister resident
to Switzerland, but at present residing in
Prussia. None of these men had any law-
books to speak of, the most eminent lawyers
in those days having very few. Perhaps this
was no misfortune to Charles, for it may have
led him to read those he did have access to
more thoroughly than he ( might have done
had his pasture been larger.
In the fullness of time O'Conor was ad-
mitted to the bar. With that self-reliance
which never forsook him, he sallied forth at
once with just twenty-five dollars in his pocket,
hired a small office, purchased a desk, two or
three old chairs, and some stationery, put up
" a little tin sign," and then sat him down to
wait for clients.
But, more even than clients, he now needed
a library. While with Fay he had re-read
Blackstone, and " then," said he, "I com-
prehended it as thoroughly as I do now." He
had also devoured every law-book, including
" Digests," upon which he had since then been
able to lay his hands. But he did not own
a single law-book ; he had no money to buy
any, and yet he could not get on without
some. While struggling with this lion in his
path, he remarked one day a notice posted
up in the office of Mr. Woodward, then the
county clerk, of a library of one hundred and
fifty-six volumes for sale somewhere in town,
at the moderate price of two dollars a volume.
He looked up these books; they were just
what he wanted, and he wanted them sadly,
but he had no money, and, as he supposed, no
credit. One of his comrades who knew of
the struggle going on in O'Conor's mind,
and who believed already in the young law-
yer's star, recommended him to take his note
for the price of the books to Mr. Pardow,
and ask him to indorse it. Mr. Pardow was a
respectable merchant who had been in the
habit of dropping into Mr. Fay's office from
time to time, and who had, of course, often
seen O'Conor there, though they had no
particular acquaintance with each other.
O'Conor at first ridiculed the idea of any one
indorsing his note ; but after hearing his friend's
arguments and turning the suggestion over in
his mind for a day or two, — rendered a little
reckless, too, by his necessities, — he determined
to take the chances. Mr. Pardow heard his re-
quest, but, without making any reply, went his
way. O'Conor feared that he had been too
bold, that he had, perhaps, taken a liberty,
and felt humiliated. At the end of a week
or so, however, Mr. Pardow came into his
office and told him he would indorse his
note for the books, which he did then and
there. With the indorsed note in his hands,
and with his heart swelling with a gratitude
his lips tried in vain to express, O'Conor
rushed down to the shop for the books. The
owner soon satisfied himself of the respon-
sibility of the indorser, and handed over the
long-coveted treasures to O'Conor, who from
that day forth never knew what it was to
lack books from a want of the means to pur-
chase them.
Mr. O'Conor then went on to tell me what
became of the descendants of this Mr. Par-
dow, over whom and whose interests he al-
ways exercised a watchful supervision. He
closed his story by saying, " That young lady
in the other room whom I now call my
adopted daughter is Mr. Pardow's great-grand-
daughter." As he said this, it first flashed across
my mind that he was repaying in this princely
way, to the great-granddaughter, the debt of
gratitude which in such a seemingly providen-
tial way he had contracted to the great-grand-
father. The young lady to whom he referred,
and who sat at the head of his table, was Miss
728
SOME RECOLLECTIONS OF CHARLES O'CONOR.
Julia Pardow Mullaney, who I trust will not
be offended by this use of her name in refer-
ring to a transaction which to her is equivalent
to a title of nobility.*
The advantage to O'Conor of the timely
succor rendered him by Mr. Pardow left upon
his charactera profound impression, and helped
to make it difficult for him to turn his back
upon any one, and especially upon any young
person, appearing to stand in need of assist-
ance. His life was full of acts of beneficence,
inspired, no doubt, by the reflection that his
own career might have been disastrously
modified had Mr. Pardow in this crisis of his
fortunes declined to stead him. Only the day
after my arrival at Nantucket, he repeated to
me the substance of a letter he had received
the week previous from Virginia. By this let-
ter it appeared that some thirty years previous
the writer, who was then living in New York,
found things going against him so persistently
that he was at his wits' ends, not knowing
which way to turn. One day, while in the last
stage of despondency, he chanced to be stand-
ing in front of Delmonico's, on the corner of
Beaver and William streets, when the thought
suddenly entered his head to ask a gentleman
who was approaching with his head down
and apparently absorbed in his own reflec-
tions to lend him five dollars. The person ac-
costed, without a question or hesitation, put his
hand in one of his pockets, took out the desired
sum, and handed it to him. The individual
thus befriended asked a man who chanced to
be standing near if he knew the name of the
gentleman who had just left him. " That was
Charles O'Conor, the lawyer," was the reply.
The letter reciting these facts contained a
check for the amount of the money so strangely
bestowed, and a promise that if the writer was
ever able, he would send the thirty years' inter-
est which had accumulated on it. O'Conor
said he wrote the poor fellow that he had
no recollection of the circumstance to which
he referred ; that he would accept the money
sent, for that would seem necessary to make
him feel easy, but he must decline the interest,
and begged him never to allude to or think of
that, as he could never under any circum-
stances consent to accept it.
It was O'Conor's rule to give to all who
professed to be needy. It must have been a
very barefaced impostor whom he sent empty
away. Of course he was sometimes imposed
upon, but he felt that he was the better for
what he gave if the receiver was not. It never
worried nor soured him to learn that any of
his charity had miscarried.
While a student with Fay and Thomp-
son O'Conor wrote a wretched hand, and he
discovered that he could be much more use-
ful to himself and others if he were a more
accomplished penman. One day his attention
was arrested by an advertisement of some
Yankee who undertook to teach writing in
six lessons for one dollar. " The writing in
six lessons," said he, " was just what I wanted,
but where was I to get the dollar ? Well, I
managed to get it somehow. The man and
his system proved to be all he represented
them, and since then I have had no trouble
with my penmanship."
His first chancery suit yielded him his first
considerable professional triumph. It is known
to the profession as the case of Bowen vs.
Idley. Idley, the defendant, was a Hessian.
He had married the illegitimate daughter of
Bowen, the plaintiff, with whom the mother
of Mrs. Idley had once been a domestic, —
facts perfectly well known to all the parties
to this litigation, but supposed to be not sus-
ceptible of proof. As some property was de-
pending upon establishing the illegitimacy of
Mrs. Idley, O'Conor applied in behalf of the
one whom he supposed to be the legitimate
heir for a change of the guardian ad litem,
who happened to be the venerable Peter A.
Jay. This seemed an act of great and inex-
cusable presumption for a young lawyer just
chipping his professional shell ; but the court
was compelled, very reluctantly, to grant the
motion, and William Kent, the son of the chan-
cellor, was named in Mr. Jay's place. This
incident established relations between Mr.
O'Conor and that noble and accomplished
jurist which ripened into a life-long friendship.
* O'Conor's kindness to Miss Mullaney did not terminate with his life. In his will, after some legacies,
in the aggregate less than one hundred thousand dollars, by the sixth clause he provided as follows:
" All the rest, residue, and remainder of my estate, real and personal, whatsoever and wheresover, I give,
devise, and bequeath as follows : Two-thirds thereof to my sister, Eliza Margaret Sloan, or to her sons in
case she should not survive me. From respect for my sister's adoption and in grateful memory of my early
friend, George Pardow, I give the other third of the same to Miss Julia Pardow Mullaney, a great-grand-
daughter of that gentleman."
In a codicil to this will made April 28, 1884, only a few weeks before his death, he adds to his pre-
vious benefactions as follows :
" To Julia Mullaney I leave my watch and the picture of an unknown young lady which is hung up in
my parlor. All my lands and real estate in Massachusetts I give to said Julia Mullaney, her heirs and assigns
forever. And I also give her absolutely my books, papers, documents, goodb, and chattels whatever not
otherwise disposed of that may be in said Massachusetts at my death."
Thus Miss Mullaney is endowed with Mr. O'Conor's superb residence and its furniture at Nantucket, his
valuable library, and a third of the rest of his large and productive estate.
SOME RECOLLECTIONS OF CHARLES O'CONOR.
729
In due time the question of the legitimacy
of Mrs. Idley came on for trial before the late
Thomas Addis Emmet, to whom the issue
had been referred by the chancellor. David
A. Jones, " a somewhat pompous but very
respectable lawyer," and then a leader at the
bar, appeared for the Idley party. O' Conor
had in some way managed to find the real
mother of Mrs. Idley, a plain, ignorant, and
common sort of person, and when the proper
time had arrived in the progress of the trial,
she was brought in and sworn. It was twi-
light; the candles which had just been brought
in shed a demi-obscure light around the room
producing, said O'Conor, a weird effect
strangely calculated to increase the impres-
siveness of the scene which was to follow.
Robert Emmet and one other, whose name,
if he gave it, I have forgotten, were the only
persons present besides the referee, the coun-
sel, and the parties to the record. Mrs. Idley
had never seen her mother. When the latter
was called to the stand, no one but O'Conor
knew who she was nor what she was expected
to prove. Nor did the witness herself know
why she was called nor suspect the bearing
or importance of her testimony. After the
usual preliminary questions, O'Conor went on:
Q. Madam, do you know the father of
Mrs. Idley ?
A. Yes.
Q. Who is it?
A. Mr. Bo wen.
Q. Do yOu know her mother ?
A, Yes.
Q. Who was she ?
A. I suppose I must answer (she said, a
little embarrassed).
Q. Yes, you must answer.
A. (After a short silence and increased
embarrassment.) Well, I am her mother^
The effect was startling. A cross-examina-
tion was waived, the counsel tied up their
papers, and the referee reported, of course,
for O'Conofs client.
Mr. O'Conor's professional relations with
Edwin Forrest, whose unsuccessful suit for a
divorce from his wife, instituted some thirty-
five years ago, is one of the American causes
celebres, did not begin with the divorce case.
On the contrary, he had already been counsel
for Forrest in a suit where Forrest was the
defendant.* It happened in this wise. Forrest,
in recognition of his obligations to William
Leggett, who had done more than any one
else to persuade the public of his merits as an
actor, built a house at New Rochelle, in
Westchester County, for Leggett to live in, at
a nominal or very moderate rental. Kissam,
a brother-in-law of Leggett, contracted to
build the house for $4000. When finished,
Kissam claimed $6000. Forrest refused to
pay the additional sum of $2000. Kissam
sued him. The case was sent to a referee, and
Leggett was put upon the stand as a witness.
He swore very strongly on Forrest's side.
Between the time of his direct and the time
fixed for his cross-examination Leggett died.
The court below sustained the referee in ex-
cluding the testimony of Leggett, because,
in consequence of his death, the plaintiff had
had no opportunity of cross-examining him.
Jesse Oakley, a brother of the late Judge
Oakley, and the counsel for Forrest, wished
to appeal, but experiencing some difficulty in
getting the record before the Court of Ap-
peals, then just organized under the new Con-
stitution of 1846, retained O'Conor to assist
him. O'Conor, who often insisted to me that
he was a better attorney than jurist, and did
not disguise his conviction that in questions of
practice or procedure he had no superior in
the country, took hold of the case and soon
accomplished the desired result. Naturally,
he was asked to argue the appeal. He did so
and won it, and a new trial was ordered.
While talking of this case, my eyes fell
upon a series of books occupying several
shelves, all bound uniformly in law calf, and
each entitled on its back, " My Own Cases."
I asked wThat that meant. He said those were
a collection of the cases of most importance
for one reason or another in which he had
been employed as counsel. There were more
than one hundred of these volumes.! Among
them he called my attention to the case of
Kissam vs. Forrest, at the close of which was
a memorandum in O'Conor's handwriting to
the effect that on the new trial Forrest was
beaten, for the reason, as was rumored, that
the jury did not believe Leggett. Up to this
time O'Conor had no acquaintance with
Forrest.
When he first engaged in the Forrest vs.
Forrest $ case, he invited John Van Buren,
who had then recently opened an office in
* It is a coincidence quite worth noting here that Cicero had Catiline for his client before he made him
immortal by his prosecution of him.
t These volumes, which abound with MS. notes of the greatest interest to the profession, Mr. O'Conor,
by his will, has given, with a liberal sum in money, to the New York Law Institute.
t Mr. Forrest married Mrs. Forrest in England in January, 1837. Cross suits for divorce were com-
menced in the Superior Court, before Judge Oakley, in 1850, resulting in a verdict for Mrs. Forrest on all
the issues. The succeeding ten or eleven years were consumed by Mr. Forrest in ineffectual attempts, by
appeals and interlocutory motions, to avoid paying the alimony awarded to Mrs. Forrest by the court, and to
impeach the justice and validity of the verdict.
73°
SOME RECOLLECTIONS OE CHARLES V CONOR.
the city of New York for the practice of his
profession, to be associated with him, an
invitation which was promptly accepted.
O'Conor intended to send for him when the
suit was sufficiently far advanced to furnish
Van Buren, what he wanted more than any-
thing else, an opportunity of being seen and
heard in a case of popular interest. Mean-
while Forrest sent Van Buren a retainer.
Van Buren wrote to O'Conor to ask whether
there would be any inconvenience or impro-
priety in his accepting it. O'Conor replied
that there would be none whatever ; for, as it
happened, he had not yet had occasion to
put Van Buren in possession of any informa-
tion by which the adversary could profit. Be-
sides, he really wanted no assistance from
Van Buren or any one else ; he had felt sure
oi the case, he said, from the outset.
Van Buren's argument on the appeal from
the court below for a new trial in this case,
O'Conor said, was as injudicious for his client
as it could possibly have been. He attacked
the character of Judge Oakley, of the New
York Superior Court, before whom the cause
had been tried, and before he finished man-
aged to get every judge on the bench of the
Court of Appeals so completely against him
that, to use O'Conor's energetic language,
" they were ready to devour him."
Some time after the divorce was granted,
Forrest tried to escape the payment of the
alimony decreed to Mrs. Forrest upon the
pretext that she was leading a loose and
abandoned life. O'Conor then showed me
the points he made for the court on this
argument, in which he presented the flagitious
conduct of Forrest with savage eloquence. It
is a remarkable circumstance, perhaps unique
in the whole experience of the legal profes-
sion, that during this desperate litigation, in
which the passions as well as the talents of
some half dozen of the most eminent mem-
bers of the New York bar were enlisted, and
which was protracted for a period of twelve
years, the unsuccessful defendant was so un-
fortunate or so wrong that no exception taken
by his counsel to any of the proceedings was
ever sustained, no motion they made in his
behalf was granted, and the only change in
any order made against him was an increase,
from time to time, by the courts, of the allow-
ance he was directed to make to Mrs. For-
rest.
I asked Mr. O'Conor how he accounted
for Forrest's infatuation in instituting pro-
ceedings for a divorce, knowing, as he did,
the vitreous character of the house he occu-
pied himself, and with no definite proof upon
which he could rely to establish Mrs. Forrest's
guilt. His explanation surprised me. He said
that in 1847 Forrest bought for $12,000 a site
on the east bank of the Hudson River near
New York, on which he proceeded to erect a
very pretentious castellated structure for a coun-
try residence. In January, 1849, this building
was mainly but not wholly completed. In
fact, he never completed it. A vast sum
had been expended on it — more than he
could afford. The cost of maintaining such
an establishment when completed would
have been enormous, and would have con-
demned him to incessant professional servi-
tude at a time of life — he was then over
forty — when his hold upon the public was
beginning to wane, while his taste^and need
for repose were growing upon him. He re-
alized at last that " he had bit off more than
he could chew." He wanted an excuse for
not occupying his castle and a pretext for
selling it. He had no children, and, if rid of
Mrs. Forrest, no one would question the pro-
priety of disembarrassing himself of this ele-
phant. It so happened that the first dispute
between Forrest and his wife in which his
purpose to put her away was developed oc-
curred in this same month of January, 1849.
The place was sold six years later, and imme-
diately after the affirmance of the judgment
of the court below by the General Term.
" Forrest was notoriously parsimonious," said
O'Conor, " and I have no doubt that the desire
to reduce his expenses first put into his head
the idea of putting away his wife."
Nothing in the whole course of his pro-
fessional life probably wounded O'Conor so
deeply as the attempt made a few years since
to cast reproach upon the motives which im-
pelled him to undertake the defense of Mrs.
Forrest. Till then I doubt if any one, how-
ever hostile his relations to O'Conor, had ever
attributed to him a base motive. There was
no man in the profession upon whose sense
of justice and magnanimity the bar relied
with more entire confidence. The exag-
gerated importance which he attached to
that calumny left upon the minds of some
of his brethren the impression that the dis-
ease, so nearly fatal, from which he had
but recently and partially recovered, had
taken serious liberties with his nervous sys-
tem. He testified his gratitude to General
Dix for accepting a place on the committee
appointed at his solicitation to investigate
the matter, by inviting the general to sit to
Mr. Huntington for his portrait, which when
finished he presented to the New York His-
torical Society, and which now ornaments
its walls.
His quarrel with John Van Buren (I say
quarrel, for no milder term would express
the extent of their alienation) did not begin
SOME RECOLLECTIONS OF CHARLES & CONOR.
73i
in the Forrest case, said Mr. O'Conor, but
at the famous Union meeting held at Castle
Garden when the compromise bills of 1850
were before Congress. At that meeting
O'Conor in his speech said among other
things that events seemed to portend the ulti-
mate union and coalition of Van Buren and
Seward. This was carried by some one to
Van Buren, who, with two or three of his
familiars, was biding in an oyster cellar not
far away, awaiting news of the meeting.
When Van Buren heard what O'Conor had
said about him and Seward, he exclaimed
with an oath that O'Conor might be correct
in what he had predicted, but that he would
never forget nor forgive him for saying so.
In other words, their quarrel was originally
more political than personal or professional.
The fact that O'Conor gratuitously de-
fended the grandson of Chancellor Walworth
under indictment for the murder of his father,
and made zealous efforts to procure his pardon
after he had been some time in prison, lends
interest to the following curious anecdote
which dropped from him one day in the
course of a conversation about the old Court
of Chancery and its presiding officers.
Reuben Walworth, in his address to the bar
on taking his seat as chancellor, spoke of it
as the highest judicial position in the State.
Aaron Burr walked home from the court with
Walworth after his speech, and ventured to
suggest that such a statement coming from
him was in questionable taste, and advised
him either not to print his speech at all or to
omit that passage of it. Burr, in talking of
this to O'Conor, said that Walworth never
forgave him that advice. He did publish the
speech, which may be found in the first volume
of " Paige's Reports," * and Burr's cases were
thenceforth all decided against him, as llurr
thought, because of his unwelcome sugges-
tion. Apropos of Walworth's intoxication
with his new position as chancellor, O'Conor
quoted these lines from Defoe's "True-born
Englishman," where they are put into the
mouth of a magistrate — Jeffries, probably:
"With clouted iron shoes and sheepskin breeches,
More rags than manners and more dirt than riches,
From driving cows and calves to Laton Market,
While of my greatness there appeared no spark yet,
Behold, I come to let you see the pride
With which exalted beggars always ride."
Speaking of a somewhat conspicuous mem-
ber of the bar, who professed to be one of
his most ardent friends, and who was also
a frequent aspirant for political preferment,
which he failed to attain, I attempted to
explain his disappointment in part by the in-
ordinateness of his ambition, which made him
an unreliable ally and friend. O'Conor said
that an incident in his experience tended to
confirm what I said. During the "Greeley
campaign," a highly eulogistic article about
himself appeared in one of the New York
morning papers. He was ill at the time, but
some six months later, when he had sufficiently
recovered to go into the city, it occurred to
him to make an inquiry about the authorship
of the article in question. He accordingly
called upon the editor of the paper with a
copy of the article in question, and asked who
wrote it. The name of the writer was given.
To illustrate O'Conor's generosity of charac-
ter and freedom from religious bigotry,
the writer had dwelt upon a conversation
alleged to have taken place between O'Conor
and some Episcopalian minister from the
South or West, who asked help for a college
or church, or something of that sort, in distress.
The applicant was represented in the article
as being especially grateful to O'Conor be-
cause, being a Catholic, he was ready to give
so liberally to the suffering institutions of a
rival denomination. " This," said O'Conor,
" was entirely false. There was not a word
*As the Chancellor's address has at least the merit of being short, I venture to give it at length. It should
reassure the laudatores temporis acti who are wont to bewail the degeneration of our judiciary. The man who
could make such a speech of course could not see the wisdom of Burr's advice.
Chancellor Walworth 's address to the Chancery Bar of the State of New York, on assuming the duties of his
office, April 28, 1828.
" Gentlemen of the Bar : In assuming the duties of this highly responsible station, which at some
future day would have been the highest object of my ambition, permit me to say that the solicitations of my
too-partial friends, rather than my own inclination or my own judgment, have induced me to consent to
occupy it at this* time.
" Brought up a farmer until the age of seventeen, deprived of all the advantages of a classical education, and
with a very limited knowledge of Chancery law, I find myself, at the age of thirty-eight, suddenly and unex-
pectedly placed at the head of the judiciary of the State — a situation which heretofore has been filled by the
most able and experienced members of the profession.
" Under such circumstances, and where those able and intelligent judges who for the last five years have
done honor to the bench of the Supreme Court all decline the arduous and responsible duties of this station,
it would be an excess of vanity in me, or any one in my situation, to suppose he could discharge those duties
to the satisfaction even of the most indulgent friends. But the uniform kindness and civility with which I
have been treated by every member of the profession, and, in fact, by all classes of citizens, while I occupied
a seat on the bench of the Circuit Court, afford the strongest assurance that your best wishes for my success
will follow me here. And, in return, I can only assure you that I will spare no exertions in endeavoring to
deserve the approbation of an enlightened bar and an intelligent community."
732
SOME RECOLLECTIONS OF CHARLES O'CONOR.
said about my religion or any one else's. The
man asked me for money, and I gave him
some, — I was then making money very fast, —
and there was no reason whatever to suppose
from anything that passed between us that I
was any more or less a Catholic than he was."
O'Conor then said he supposed this story was
inserted, that, in fact, the whole article was
written by this precious friend, to spread the
information that he was a Roman Catholic,
and to prejudice him as a candidate for the
Presidency, to which office some friends in
the West had taken a fancy to nominate him.
He was very much annoyed that people per-
sisted in regarding him as an Irishman, though
himself, and, I think he said, his father,
and his grandfather were born Americans.
" But," I said to him one day, " has not this
impression stood you in good stead in a pro-
fessional and worldly point of view ? " " By
no means," he replied ; " so far from being an
advantage, the reputation of being an Irish-
man and a Catholic has been to me a most
serious political, social, and professional dis-
advantage." He then proceeded to enu-
merate important cases from which his re-
ligion excluded him, of which I remember
only two. Bishop Onderdonk, he said, wished
him retained to defend him, but the friends
of the bishop said it would never do to com-
mit his defense to a Catholic. President
Johnson also wished him employed in the
impeachment case. That, however, was over-
ruled on political rather than sectarian or
ethnical grounds. Pie insisted, with some
emotion, that his supposed nationality and
his faith had always obstructed his path. I in-
ferred from what he said that he attributed
his comparative want of success in public life
more to this cause than to any other.
He thought well of the abolition of the old
system of " pleading " and " forms of action."
He said they were the devices of a by-gone
age to get a simple issue when jurymen,
though commonly taken from the better
classes, were nearly always illiterate and
wholly unable to deal with the complicated
issues of a case presented in its unfermented
state. To cover the inconveniences resulting
from these methods, the Court of Chancery
was invented, the real function of which was'
to provide one juryman sufficiently intelligent
to do the work which twelve ignorant jury-
men could not be trusted with. He said that,
as far as he knew, he as much as any one was
entitled to the credit of originating the reform
of our system of procedure in 1847-8, the
abolition of forms of action, and the abolition
of the Court of Chancery. He said he made
the plea for those reforms in the Constitu-
tional Convention of 1846. He would on no
account, he said, claim for himself or have
any one claim for him the credit of these, but
he was quite willing to be instrumental in de-
feating the pretensions of any other person to
their authorship. This line of remark had
been suggested by the news then just re-
ceived that Governor Cornell had vetoed the
Field-Throop Civil Code — an act on the
governor's part with which he repeatedly ex-
pressed the greatest satisfaction. Recurring
to this subject of codification later, he said he
doubted whether our civil law could be codi-
fied successfully ; he inclined to think it could
not, and proceeded to place his doubts upon
grounds substantially the same as those which
have been more recently set forth in Mr.
James C. Carter's exhaustive and masterly
discussion of that subject. He concluded by
telling the following story, leaving me to
make its application :
The late John C. Spencer came to him one
day and asked him to join the late Benjamin
F. Butler and himself in a commission to
codify our civil law. He could think of no
third person in the State, Mr. Spencer said to
O'Conor, so fit as he for such a task. The
conditions which attached to the appointment
were :
First. That O'Conor was to give up his
practice for at least six years, the time which
it was supposed would be required for the
proper execution of such a work, and which
O'Conor said at that time he could as well do
as not.
Second. That they should undertake it in
full recognition of the strong probability that,
when done, they would conclude that the
fruits of their labor would not be worth re-
porting to the Legislature.
Spencer's influence at that time was such
that there was no doubt the commission
would be made up when and as he should
desire it. At a meeting of the three proposed
codifiers the subject was carefully canvassed,
and they severally and collectively came to
the conclusion that when they had done their
best they would not be able conscientiously
to recommend the result of their labors to the
Legislature for its adoption. The scheme was
therefore very deliberately abandoned.
O'Conor considered himself a very expert
special pleader ; he doubted "if he had his
superior in the country ; he knew almost by
heart every line of Chitty's elaborate treatise
on " Pleading"; and in speaking of a certain
suit in which his aid had been invoked, he
said he never knew a case in which the par-
ties had been pleading for an issue a year
that he could not find a defect of sufficient j
gravity to set their proceedings aside. He
thought, however, that the time of a young |
SOME RECOLLECTIONS OF CHARLES O'CONOR.
733
lawyer could now be better employed than in
trying to master the literature and art of spe-
cial pleading.
He spoke of the case in which Giles, the
Know-Nothing candidate for comptroller, at-
tempted to set aside the election of Flagg,
the incumbent, in the year 1854. Tilden and
Evarts were associated with him as counsel
for Flagg, and James T. Brady, Ambrose L.
Jordan, Judge Edmonds, and two others
whose names were not mentioned, were the
counsel for Giles. But, said he, the case was
won by Tilden. Giles had proved his case,
and proved it completely. When Tilden rose
to open for Flagg, he had not a witness to
produce that could testify to the merits of the
case. Tilden spoke some time before his line
of defense began to appear ; the audience be-
gan to yawn and those specially interested
for Flagg to despair. After he had spoken
some half hour or more, the clouds began to
lift and the sunlight to appear. Within two
minutes after the audience had struck his
trail they were still as mice, and their atten-
tion was riveted upon him until he took his
seat. He had been up all night preparing a
series of tables from the tally-lists of the poll
as proven by Giles, by the aid of which he re-
constructed a tally-list which had been lost or
stolen, and was thus enabled to demonstrate
from internal evidence that the vote of one
ward had been corruptly given to Giles.
These tables were printed and handed to the
judge, jury, and counsel, who were thus en-
abled to follow, step by step, the march of
his inexorable logic. Mr. O'Conor described
the speech as " exquisite." " It was perfect ;
it was as fine an argument as I ever heard."
I When Tilden sat down," continued Mr.
O'Conor, " the case was won. Evarts and
I said a few words, but Flagg was comptrol-
ler when Tilden finished, and nothing that
any one could have said would have made
him more or less so."
After his retreat to Nantucket Mr. O'Conor
tried to take very little interest in the current
affairs of the world, which he had in a great
measure left behind him. To the question
when he expected to be again in New York,
he replied that he did not know that he should
ever go. If anything should occur to require
it he would go, but he did not then anticipate
any occasion for again leaving the island of
Nantucket. He found such occasions, how-
ever, for he visited the city repeatedly after this
declaration was made. He had received the
degree of LL.D. from Harvard College at
the commencement just passed. An eminent
member of the college direction sent him a
special invitation to attend the commence-
ment, and be his guest. O'Conor declined,
and assigned as a reason that he had pre-
scribed for himself the rule to form no public
relations of any sort in his new home, and he
could not conveniently make an exception of
the occasion to which he was invited. He
probably was not conscious himself of the
delusion under which he was laboring in sup-
posing himself so absolutely dead to the
world as he tried to believe and to make
others believe him to be. His answer uncon-
sciously betrayed his unwillingness to divide
or sacrifice any portion of his birthright as a
New Yorker and as the bdtonnier of its bar.
One day, while we were sitting together in
his library, he asked me if I would like to
know the origin of the ring system of New
York. Of course I promptly said I would.
He proceeded to take down a volume of
" My Own Cases," and read to me a very
carefully written and pungent commentary
upon the case of Clark vs. The City of New
York. The facts, as I remember them, were in
general that Clark contracted to execute a
piece of work on the Croton aqueduct, in
the manner to be prescribed by the engineer
in charge, for a specified sum. The first plans
were modified by the engineer in a way to
increase the cost of the work, but, as the city
insisted, within the limits prescribed by the
contract. When the work was done Clark
sent in a bill for several thousand dollars
more than the stipulated price. The city re-
fused to pay the excess, and Clark brought a
suit to recover it, laying his venue in Albany,
which O'Conor described as the "paradise
for contractors." John Leveridge, who was
counsel for the corporation at that time,
strangely omitted to have the venue changed
to New York. Before the suit came on for
trial, Henry E. Davies succeeded Leveridge
as corporation counsel. He retained Mr.
O'Conor for the city, and placed the entire
charge of this particular case in his hands.
The history of its numerous vicissitudes and
the final triumph of the contractor is fully
set forth in the memorandum to which I was
invited to listen. The success of this suit had
the same effect upon the predatory horde
which always infest the State capital that the
wine and oil of Italy had upon the Goths and
Vandals when they first wandered across the
mountains into the plains of Lombardy. They
immediately struck hands with the freeboot-
ers of the metropolis and marked its wealth
and credit for their own. It is to be hoped
that this paper may be given to the public,
for it throws new light upon the mazy proc-
esses by which justice is baffled and the
treasury plundered directly or by the conni-
vance of officers specially selected to admin-
ister the one and to guard the other.
734
SOME RECOLLECTIONS OF CHARLES O'CONOR.
O'Conor for many years had a large income
from his profession, but he was noted always
among his brethren for the moderation of
his charges. It was not his habit to ask re-
taining fees, nor, indeed, any pay on account
of his services in a case till the work was done,
then receiving all his pay in a lump. He did
not pretend that this was the more profitable,
nor did he presume to commend his example
to others ; all he could say for it was, it was
somehow more to his taste. The day before
he told me this he had forwarded to New
York for deposit a check that had just come
to hand for the last piece of work he had
been engaged in before retiring from the pro-
fession some three years before. He had worked
in litigated cases sometimes for twenty years
before receiving a cent of compensation. He
usually fixed his price at the close, and told
his clients that while he thought he had named
the sum which his services were worth, they
might give him what they thought right or
felt they could afford. He added that he
never had his bill cut down but once, and
that was by a very prominent citizen of our
metropolis. The bill was one thousand dol-
lars, which, for reasons that he stated to me,
seemed to him very moderate, but, as usual,
he left it with the client to say what would
be satisfactory to him if that was not. The
client sent him seven hundred and fifty dol-
lars, with the remark that he thought that
was about the sum he expected. It was clear
from the manner and tone of O'Conor in
telling this incident that there was no danger
of his outliving the recollection of it.
He was a great admirer of De Witt Clin-
ton, and in early life shared all the prejudices
current among the Clintonians, besides those
he inherited from his father against Van Bu-
ren, whom, however, he told me, he subse-
quently learned to respect and appreciate.
Clinton's Celtic origin had, no doubt, much
to do with O'Conor's youthful passion for him.
Had Clinton, however, been a contemporary
of O'Conor's, I doubt if they could have sat to-
gether in a committee two hours without quar-
reling. Both had a partiality for their own par-
ticular ways and opinions which made every
other seem unreasonable, and both, like David
Copperfield's aunt, "could break, but not
bend."
O'Conor's miscellaneous library, though
tolerably rich and well selected, bore but a
small proportion to his professional books.
As if he thought the disproportion required
some explanation, he remarked that he had
never been much of a reader outside of his
profession. He said a lad once wrote to him
for advice about a course of reading, at the
same time enumerating a long list of books
which he had already read. O'Conor replied
to him that he not only had not read, but had
not known even by name, one-half of the
books his correspondent appeared to have
read. He would not, therefore, undertake to
advise him what to read, but he could safely
advise him to read less and to think more.
He thought the cheapness of printing in
America had made overmuch reading one of
the most pernicious forms of modern dissipa-
tion, an opinion with which I fully concurred.
Speaking of the impeachment of the Tweed
Ring judges, he said that was all Tilden's work
and no one's else. He repeated this several
times, very emphatically adding that upon that
point he was a competent witness. Tilden, he
said, went to the Legislature and forced the
impeachment against every imaginable ob-
stacle, open and covert, political and personal.
In illustration of the terror of his own
name as an adversary, to which one of us
had made some casual allusion, he told the
following story :
WThen he was ill in 1876, a man who had
no claim upon him whatever asked of him
the loan of $25,000. He yielded to the man's
solicitation without much reflection, taking
such security as the man had to offer. Not
long after, the borrower called upon him
again to say that he had an opportunity of
selling out his business at a profit, and for
some reasons which appeared to have grown
out of the trade proposed to give O'Conor
some Indiana railway bonds then paying six
per cent, as security in place of the bonds he
had previously left with him. To this also
O'Conor was too ill to make any objections.
The first semi-annual interest was paid, but
when the next payment fell due, the company
made default. Three or four years elapsed,
and the company showing no signs of resum-
ing payment, O'Conor, who by this time had
got settled at Nantucket, took up these bonds
one day and resolved to ascertain their
value. He procured the address of a law firm
in Indianapolis, and wrote for such in-
formation as they had and could procure
about his defaulted bonds. They sent him a
very discouraging report. He then directed
them to sue the company on their bonds and 1
get judgment. The lawyers wrote him in re-
ply that they thought they could sell the j
bonds for twenty-five per cent, of their face, j
if he would take that amount. He declined i
the offer and again directed them to bring |
suit upon the bonds. After waiting some j
time without hearing from them, he wrote j
again. At length he received from them a
letter stating that the mortgage had been]
foreclosed and the road sold for a compara- j
tively small sum. Mr. O'Conor wrote again, |
L
SOME RECOLLECTIONS OF CHARLES O'CONOR.
735
reproaching them for not advising him of the
foreclosure proceedings and directing them
in imperative terms to go on and get judg-
ment upon the bonds. They wrote him that
they thought the bonds might now be dis-
posed of on somewhat better terms than be-
fore, and asked if they should negotiate. He
wrote them promptly that he would take
nothing less than the entire principal and
interest, and as soon as they had entered up
judgment against the company they must
telegraph him and then he would go out
there himself and direct what further should
be done. In a few days he received a check
for the full amount of principal, interest, and
costs. When he concluded this story, he said :
" That is one instance in which my reputa-
tion as a persistent fighter was of use to me."
He presumed the company had in some way
learned in the progress of the affair that he
was a troublesome adversary in a lawsuit.
A part of the Tuesday and Wednesday
prior to Mr. O' Conor's last and fatal illness
he spent in professional consultations at the
residence of Governor Tilden in Gramercy
Park. At these consultations his memory of
cases and of the minutest judicial and statu-
tory distinctions, for which he was always so
famous, seemed unimpaired, and he threw
himself into the questions submitted to him
with all the intensity and confidence of his
professional prime. This, I presume, was the
last embrace he ever received from the pro-
fession of which he was so fond. The follow-
ing day, which was Thursday, he departed for
his island home. I have since learned, through
a note from Miss Elma Folger — who to the
distinction of being descended from the
maternal ancestors of the illustrious Dr.
Franklin enjoyed the further distinction of
holding the confidential relation of private
secretary to Mr. O'Conor during the last
three or four years of his life, and who ac-
companied him on his last visit to New
York — that it was in consequence of a cold
taken early in March, which had impaired
Mr. O'Conor's appetite and aggravated cer-
tain troubles with which he had been afflicted
for fifteen years or more, that he came to
New York to consult a physician.
" Several times last winter," says Miss Fol-
ger, " Mr. O'Conor spoke of the peaceful
year that he had passed in Nantucket, saying
that he had never in his life, i. <?., since he had
commenced the practice of law, been so quiet
and undisturbed. He was afraid something
awful was going to happen to him before
summer; this quiet was too unnatural. He
repeated this remark to a visitor in New
York. Once he said he was almost spoil-
* Charles O'Conor was born in New York,
ing for a fight with some one. We left Nan-
tucket in April at 5:30 a. m., which obliged him
to rise at about four o'clock in the morning. We
traveled through to New York in one day,
arriving there about 7 p. m. Although he had
eaten nothing through the day, and was suf-
fering greatly from the trouble which had taken
him to New York to consult Dr. Keyes, yet he
had an angry war of words with a hack-driver
whose carriage he had taken for us, which
astonished me very much, and resulted in our
leaving the man's carriage and hiring another.
" After we were seated in the second car-
riage, he said, ' I feel better already ; it was
worth coming to New York to beat that fellow.'
I do not mean to insinuate that Mr. O'Conor
was quarrelsome, — far from it, — but the fear
that things were going on too well with him
seemed to hang over him as something that
must be put an end to. On the tiresome
journey he was in a lovely, gentle mood,
as indeed he always was with me. In the
Providence depot, where we waited quite a
while, I suggested that we should give some
sandwiches we had brought with us to some
children also waiting. He was delighted, and
insisted that I should buy some oranges to
add to the attractions of the repast. We went
into the waiting-room, spread out our things
on one of the settees, and then invited the lit-
tle ones to the feast. I cannot tell you his de-
light at their enjoyment and appetite, and he
watched them until all the eatables had van-
ished, pacing up and down the length of the
room meanwhile. . . . While in the city,"
she added, " he seemed brighter and better,
and ate better than I had seen him all winter.
But the journey home was full of discomforts,
and the weather grew cold and stormy, so that
he arrived here much the worse for the ex-
posure. We arrived in Nantucket on Friday.
On Monday following he went to the bed
from which he never rose again." *
Mr. O'Conor was in many respects without
a peer at the American bar. I once heard
Governor Tilden say of him that he thought
he had a more precise knowledge of the
science of jurisprudence than any other per-
son living of the English-speaking race. His
powers of analysis were Aristotelian in their
proportions, his resources inexhaustible and
surprising. His industry and endurance
seemed to defy all the claims and protesta-
tions of nature. He was never known or even
suspected of appearing in a case in which his
preparation was not thorough. As a lawyer,
the public estimate of him was always above
his own estimate, though not above his merits ;
and hence it was for a period of fifty years
January 22, 1804, and died May 12, 1884.
736
GROWN OLD WITH NATURE.
that he was employed on one side or the other
of pretty much every important case that was
litigated in the great commercial capital of
the nation.
Mr. O' Conor never understood nor became
entirely reconciled to his want of success in
public life. Why every one loved to recognize
and do homage to his professional and per-
sonal supremacy, and so few cared to accept
him as their political guide, was a problem
which always puzzled him, and contributed not
a little, I think, to weaken his faith in popular
judgments. The true solution of it probably is
that the very qualities which gave him his pre-
eminence at the bar in a corresponding de-
gree unfitted him for the representative duties
of a statesman. He went so deeply into the
philosophy or the rationale of every subject
that he naturally had little respect for the
superficial and often puerile reasons which the
mass of mankind would assign even for the
best inspired actions. He could never pool
his opinions in a committee or in any repre-
sentative body, and be content as every states-
man, in a democracy at least, is required to
be, with the resultant decisions of a majority.
Thus it happened that in the Convention of
1846, to which he was chosen more especially
to secure his aid in remodeling our judiciary,
he usually voted alone on committees, and
opposed almost alone the Constitution as
finally adopted. The logic of his mind was so
inexorable that he could not bow to those
subtle forces or instincts which go to make up
public opinion, nor recognize the soundness
of Talleyrand's famous saying that " There is
one person wiser than Anybody, and that is
Everybody." He was so thoroughly loyal to
the conclusions of his own mind when they
had been deliberately formed that it seemed
to him pusillanimous to surrender them to
mere numbers or because of any possible con-
sequences that might result to himself or others
from adhering to them.
A mental nature of such imperious habits
and such imperial powers was not calculated
to submit to the restraints of the political har-
ness. In public affairs he was the iron pot of
the fable ; the earthen pots were afraid to go
to sea in his company. They knew he would
not care how often they jostled against him,
but that a single collision might dash them to
pieces. Had Mr. O' Conor possessed the
ability to subordinate his opinions to the opin-
ion of a party, and to represent its enlightened
and deliberate judgment with that cordiality
and good faith which are due to the superiority
of Everybody's wisdom to Anybody's, he
would probably have filled as large and hon-
orable a place in the political as in the profes-
sional annals of his country. As it is, his fame
must rest upon his achievements as a barrister,
and there it is as impregnable as the barrister's
fame can ever be.
John Bigelow.
GROWN OLD WITH NATURE.
If true there be another, better land,
A fairer than this humble mother shore,
Hoping to meet the blessed gone before,
I fain would go. But may no angel hand
Lead on so far along the shining sand,
So wide within the everlasting door,
'Twill shut away this good, green world. No more
Of Earth / — Let me not hear that dread, command.
Then must I mourn, unsoothed by harps of gold,
For sighing boughs, and birds of simple song,
For hush of night within the forest fold;
Yea, must bemoan, amid the joyous throng,
Mine early loves. The heart that has grown old
With Nature cannot, happy, leave her long.
John Vance Che?iey.
Vol. XXIX.— 73.
ggggr
THE FIRST FIGHT OF IRON-CLADS.
MARCH 9, 1862.
THE engagement in Hampton Roads on In this battle old things passed away, and
the 8th of March, 1862, between the Con- the experience of a thousand years of battle
federate iron-clad Virginia, or (as she is known and breeze was forgotten. The naval su-
at the North) the Merrimac, and the United premacy of England vanished in the smoke
States wooden fleet, and that next day be- of this fight, it is true, only to reappear some
tween the Virginia and the Monitor, was, years later more commanding than ever. The
in its results, in some respects the most mo- effect of the news was best described by the
mentous naval conflict ever witnessed. No London " Times," which said : " Whereas we
battle was ever more widely discussed or had available for immediate purposes one hun-
produced a greater sensation. It revolu- dred and forty-nine first-class war-ships: we
tionized the navies of the world. Line-
of-battle ships, those huge, overgrown craft,
carrying from eighty to one hundred and
twenty guns and from five hundred to twelve
hundred men, which, from the destruction
of the Spanish Armada to our time, had
done most of the fighting, deciding the fate
of empires, were at once universally con-
demned as out of date. Rams and iron-clads
were in future to decide all naval warfare.
THE UNITED STATES FRIGATE " MERRIMAC " BEFORE
AND AFTER CONVERSION INTO AN IRON-CLAD.
have now two, these two being the Warrior
and her sister Ironside. There is not now a
ship in the English navy apart from these
two that it would not be madness to trust to
an engagement with that little Monitor" The
Admiralty at once proceeded to reconstruct
the navy, cutting down a number of their lar-
gest ships and converting them into turret or
broadside iron-clads. The same results were
produced in France, which had but one sea-
going iron-clad, La Gloire,
and this one, like the Warrior,
was only protected amidships.
The Emperor Napoleon
promptly appointed a com-
mission to devise plans for
rebuilding his navy. And so
with all the maritime powers.
In this race the United States
took the lead, and at the
close of the war led all the
others in the numbers and effi-
ciency of its iron-clad fleet. It
is true that all the great pow-
ers had already experimented
with vessels partly armored,
but very few were convinced
of their utility, and none had
been tried by the crucial
test of battle,
if we except a
THE FIRST FIGHT OF IRON-CLADS.
739
few floating batteries, thinly clad, used during
the Crimean War.
In the spring of 1 86 1 Norfolk and its large
naval establishment had been hurriedly aban-
doned by the Federals, why or wherefore no
one could tell. It is about twelve miles of
Fortress Monroe, then held by a large force
of regulars. A few companies of these, with
a single frigate, could have occupied and
commanded the town and navy-yard, and
have kept the channel open. However, a year
later, it was as quickly evacuated by the Con-
federates, and almost with as little reason.
But of this I will speak later.
The yard was abandoned to a few volun-
teers, after it was partly destroyed, and a large
to Secretary Mallory to raise and rebuild this
ship as an iron-clad. His plans were ap-
proved, and orders were given to carry them
out. She was raised and cut down to the old
berth-deck. Both ends for seventy feet were
covered over, and when the ship was in fight-
ing trim were just awash. On the midship
section, one hundred and seventy feet in
length, was built at an angle of forty-five de-
grees a roof of pitch-pine and oak, twenty-
four inches thick, extending from the water-
line to a height over the gun-deck of 'seven
feet. Both ends of the shield were rounded
so that the pivot-guns could be used as bow
and stern chasers or quartering. Over the
gun-deck was a light grating, making a prom-
BURNING OF THE FRIGATE "MERRIMAC" AND THE NORFOLK NAVY.YARD.
number of ships were burnt. Among the spoils
were upward of twelve hundred heavy guns,
which were scattered among Confederate for-
tifications from the Potomac to the Missis-
sippi. Among the ships burnt and sunk was
the frigate Merrimac of thirty-five hundred
tons and forty guns, afterward rechristened
the Virginia, and so I will call her. During
the summer of 1861 Lieutenant George M.
Brooke, an accomplished officer of the old navy,
who with many others had resigned, proposed
enade about twenty feet wide. The wood
backing was covered with iron plates, rolled
at the Tredegar works at Richmond, two
inches thick and eight wide. The first tier
was put on horizontal, the second up and
down, — in all four inches, bolted through
the wood-work and clinched inside. The prow
was of cast-iron, projecting four feet, and badly
secured, as events proved. The rudder and
propeller were entirely unprotected. The pilot-
house was forward of the smoke-stack, and
74°
THE FIRST FIGHT OF IRON-CIADS.
REMODELING THE
"merrimac" AT THE
NORFOLK NAVY-YARD.
covered with the same thickness of iron as
the sides. Her motive power was the same
that had always been in the ship. Both en-
gines and boilers had been condemned on
her return from her last cruise, and were
radically defective. Of course, the fire and
sinking had not improved them. We could
not depend upon them six hours at a time.
A more ill-contrived or unreliable pair of
engines could only have been found in some
vessels of the United States navy.
Lieutenant Catesby ap R.Jones was ordered
to superintend the armament, and no more
thoroughly competent officer could have been
selected. To his experience and skill as her
ordnance and executive officer was due the
character of her battery, which proved so
efficient. It consisted of two seven-inch rifles,
heavily reenforced around the breech with
three-inch steel bands, shrunk on ; these
were the first heavy guns so made, and were
the bow and stern pivots ; there were also two
six-inch rifles of the same make, and six nine-
inch smooth-bore broadside, ten guns in all.
During the summer and fall of 1861 I had
been stationed at the batteries on the Poto-
mac at Evansport and Acquia Creek, block-
ading the river as far as possible. In January,
1862, I was ordered to the Virginia as one
of the lieutenants, reporting to Commodore
French Forrest, who then commanded the
navy-yard at Norfolk. Commodore Franklin
Buchanan was appointed to the command, —
an energetic and high-toned officer, who com-
bined with daring courage great professional
ability, standing deservedly at the head of his
profession. In 1845 he had been selected by
Mr. Bancroft, Secretary of the Navy, to locate
and organize the Naval Academy, and he
launched that institution upon its successful
career. Under him were as capable a set of
officers as ever were brought together in one
ship. But of man-of-war's men or sailors we
had scarcely any. The South was almost
without a maritime population. In the old
LIEUTENANT CATESBY AP R. JONES. (FROM A PHOTOGRAPH
BY COURRET HERMANOS, LIMA.)
THE FIRST FIGHT OF IRON-CLADS.
741
service the majority of officers were from the
South, and all the seamen from the North.*
Every one had flocked to the army, and
to it we had to look for a crew. Some few
seamen were found in Norfolk, who had es-
caped from the gun-boat flotilla in the waters
of North Carolina, on their occupation by
Admiral Goldsborough and General Burnside.
In hopes of securing some men from the army,
I was sent to General Magruder's headquar-
ters at Yorktown, who was known to have
under his command two battalions from New
Orleans, among whom might be a number
of seamen. The general, though pressed for
want of men, holding a long line with scarcely
a brigade, gave me every facility to secure
volunteers. With one of his staff I visited
every camp, and the commanding officers
were ordered to parade their men, and I ex-
plained to them what I wanted. About two
hundred volunteered, and of this number I
selected eighty who had had some experience
as seamen or gunners. Other commands at
Richmond and Petersburg were visited, and
so our crew of three hundred was made up.
They proved themselves to be as gallant
and trusty a body of men as any one would
wish to command, not only in battle, but in
reverse and retreat.
Notwithstanding every exertion to hasten
the fitting out of the ship, the work during
the winter progressed but slowly, owing to
delay in sending the iron sheathing from
Richmond. At this time the only establish-
ment in the South capable of rolling iron plates
was the Tredegar foundry. Its resources
were limited, and the demand for all kinds
of war material most pressing. And when we
reflect upon the scarcity and inexperience of
the workmen, and the great changes necessary
in transforming an ordinary iron workshop into
an arsenal in which all the necessary machin-
ery and tools had to be improvised, it is as-
tonishing so much was accomplished. The
unfinished state of the vessel interfered so with
the drills and exercises that we had but little
opportunity of getting things into shape. It
should be remembered the ship was an experi-
ment in naval architecture, differing in every
respect from any then afloat. The officers and
crew were strangers to the ship and to each
other. Up to the hour of sailing she was crowd-
ed with workmen. Not a gun had been fired,
hardly a revolution of the engines had been
made, when we cast off from the dock, and
started on what many thought was an ordi-
nary trial trip, but which proved to be a trial
such as no vessel that ever floated had under-
gone up to that time. From the start we saw
that she was slow, not over five knots; she
steered so badly that, with her great length, it
took from thirty to forty minutes to turn. She
drew twenty- two feet, which confined us to a
comparatively narrow channel in the Roads,
and, as I have before said, the engines were
our weak point. She was as unmanageable
as a water-logged vessel.
It was at noon on the 7th of March that we
steamed down the Elizabeth River. Passing by
our batteries, lined with troops, who
cheered us as we passed, and
through the obstructions
Craney Island, we took
the south channel
and headed for
Newport
News.
Water 1
SECTION OF
THE "MER-
RIMAC."
At anchor
at this time
off Fortress
Monroe were the
frigates Minnesota, Roan-
oke, and St. Lawrence, and sev-
eral gun-boats. The first two were
sister ships of the Virginia before the war;
the last was a sailing frigate of fifty guns.
Off Newport News, seven miles above, which
was strongly fortified, and held by a large Fed-
eral garrison, were anchored two frigates, the
Congress, 50 guns, and the Cumberland, 30.
The day was calm, and the last two ships
were swinging lazily by their anchors, to the
young flood. Boats were hanging to the
lower booms, washed clothes in the rigging.
Nothing indicated that we were expected ;
but when we came within three-quarters of a
* The officers of the Merrimac were : Flag-Officer, Franklin Buchanan ; Lieutenants, Catesby ap R. Jones,
executive and ordnance officer — Charles C. Simms — R. D. Minor (flag) — Hunter Davidson — John
Taylor Wood — J. R. Eggleston — Walter Butt; Midshipnten, Foute, Marmaduke, Littlepage, Craig, Long,
and Rootes ; Paymaster, James Semple; Surgeon, Dinwiddie Phillips; Assistant- Surgeon, Algernon S.
Garnett ; Captain of Marines, Reuben Thorn ; Engineers, H. A. Ramsey, Acting Chief — Assistants, Tynan,
Campbell, Herring, Jack, and White ; Boatswain, Hasker ; Gttnner, Oliver ; Carpenter, Lindsey ; Clerk,
Arthur Sinclair, Jr.; Volunteer Aide, Lieutenant Douglas Forrest, C. S. A. — Captain Kevil, commanding
detachment of Norfolk United Artillery ; Signal Corps, Sergeant Tabb.
Vol. XXIX.— 74.
742
THE FIRST FIGHT OF IRON-CLADS.
mile, the boats were dropped astern, booms
got alongside, and the Cumberland opened
with her heavy pivots, followed by the Con-
gress, the gun-boats, and the shore batteries.
We reserved our fire until within easy
range, when the forward pivot was pointed
and fired by Lieutenant Charles Simms, kill-
ing and wounding most of the crew of the after
pivot-gun of the Cumberland. Passing close to
the Congress, which received our starboard
broadside, and returned it with spirit, we
steered direct for the Cumberland, striking her
almost at right angles, under the fore-rigging
on the starboard side. The blow was hardly
perceptible on board the Virginia. Backing
clear of her, we went ahead again, heading up
the river, helm hard-a-starboard, and turned
slowly. As we did so, for the first time I had
an opportunity of using the after pivot, of
which I had charge. As we swung, the Con-
gress came in range, nearly stern on, and we
got in three raking shells. She had slipped
her anchor, loosed her foretop-sail, run up the
jib, and tried to escape, but grounded. Turn-
ing, we headed for her and took a position
within 200 yards, where every shot told. .In
the mean time the Cumberland continued the
fight, though our ram had opened her side
wide enough to drive in a horse and cart.
Soon she listed to port and filled rapidly.
The crew were driven by the advancing
water to the spar-deck, and there worked her
pivot-guns until she went down with a roar,
the colors still flying. No ship was ever fought
more gallantly.* The Congress continued the
unequal contest for more than an hour after
the sinking of the Cumberland. Her losses
were terrible, and finally she ran up the white
flag.
As soon as we had hove in sight, coming
down the harbor, the Roanoke, St. Lawrence,
and Minnesota had got under way, and started
up from Old Point to join their consorts,
assisted by tugs. They were under fire from
the batteries at Sewall's Point, but the dis-
tance was too great to effect much. The first
two, however, very prudently ran aground
not far above Fortress Monroe, and took but
little part in the fight. The Minnesota, taking
the middle or swash channel, steamed up half-
way between Old Point and Newport News,
when she grounded, but in a position to be
actively engaged.
Previous to this we had been joined by
the James River squadron, which had been
at anchor a few miles above, and came into
action most gallantly, passing the shore bat-
teries at Newport News under a heavy fire,
and with some loss. It consisted of the
Yorktown, ten guns, Captain Tucker; James-
town, ten ; and Teaser, two.
As soon as the Congress surrendered, Com-
mander Buchanan ordered the gun-boats
Beaufort and Raleigh to steam alongside,
take off her crew, and set fire to the ship.
Lieutenant Pendergrast, who had succeeded
Lieutenant Smith, who had been killed, sur-
rendered to Lieutenant Parker, of the Beau-
fort. Delivering his sword and colors, he
was directed by Lieutenant Parker to return
* According to the pilot of the Cumberland, A. B. Smith : "Near the middle of the fight, when the berth-
deck of the Cumberland had sunk below water, one of the crew of the Merrimac came out of a port to the
outside of her iron-plated roof, and a ball from one of our guns instantly cut him in two. . . . Finally,
after about three-fourths of an hour of the most severe fighting, our vessel sank, the Stars and Stripes still
waving. That flag was finally submerged, but after the hull grounded on the sands, fifty-four feet below the
surface of the water, our pennant was still flying from the topmast above the waves."
&.l'rcwiof steel
To. Wccdett Bulltrarh
THE " MERRIMAC, FROM A SKETCH MADE THE DAY EEFORE THE FIGHT.
MJLL.BLachford del. McWh 7^1S6£
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THE FIRST FIGHT OF IRON-CLADS.
743
to his ship and have the wounded transferred
as rapidly as possible. All this time the shore
batteries and small-arm men were keeping
up an incessant fire on our vessels. Two of
the officers of the Raleigh^ Lieutenant Tayloe
and Midshipman Hutter, were killed while
assisting the Union wounded out of the Con-
gress. A number of the enemy's men were
killed by the same fire. Finally it became
so hot that the gun-boats were obliged to
haul off with only thirty prisoners, leaving
Lieutenant Pendergrast and most of his crew
on board, and they all afterward escaped on
shore by swimming or in small boats. While
this was going on, the white flag was flying
at her mainmast-head. Not being able to
take possession of his prize, the commodore
ordered hot shot to be used, and in a short
time she was in flames fore and aft. While
directing this, both himself and his flag-
lieutenant, Minor, were severely wounded.
The command then devolved upon Lieuten-
ant Catesby Jones.
pilots would not attempt the middle channel
with the ebb tide and approaching night. So
we returned by the south channel to Sewall's
Point and anchored, the Minnesota escaping,
as we thought, only until morning.
Our loss in killed and wounded was twenty-
one. The armor was hardly damaged, though
at one time our ship was the focus on which
were directed at least one hundred heavy guns
afloat and ashore. But nothing outside escap-
ed. Two guns were disabled by having their
muzzles shot off. The ram was left in the side
of the Cumberland. One anchor, the smoke-
stack, and the steam-pipes were shot away.
Railings, stanchions, boat-davits, everything
was swept clean. The flag-staff was repeatedly
It was now five o'clock, nearly two hours of knocked over, and finally a boarding-pike was
daylight, and the Minnesota only remained, used. Commodore Buchanan and the other
She was aground and at our mercy. But the wounded were sent to the Naval Hospital, and
744
THE FIRST FIGHT OF IRON-CLADS.
after making preparations for the next day's
fight, we slept at our guns, dreaming of other
victories in the morning.*
But at daybreak we discovered lying be-
tween us and the Minnesota, a strange-looking
craft, which we knew at once to be Ericsson's
Monitor, which had long been expected in
Hampton Roads, and of which, from different
sources, we had a good idea. She could not
possibly have made her appearance at a more
inopportune time for us, changing our plans,
which were to destroy the Minnesota, and
then the remainder of the fleet below Fortress
Monroe. She appeared but a pigmy com-
pared with the lofty frigate which she guarded.
But in her size was one great element of her
success. I will not attempt a description of
the Monitor; her build and peculiarities are
well known.
After an early breakfast, we got under way
and steamed out toward the enemy, opening
fire from our bow pivot, and closing, we de-
livered our starboard broadside at short range,
which was returned promptly from her eleven-
inch guns. Both vessels then turned and
passed again still closer. The Monitor was
firing every seven or eight minutes, and nearly
every shot struck. Our ship was working
worse and worse, and after the loss of the
smoke-stack, Mr. Ramsay, chief engineer, re-
ported that the draught was so poor that it
was with great difficulty he could keep up steam.
Once or twice the ship was on the bottom.
Drawing twenty-three feet of water, we were
confined to a narrow channel, while the Mon-
itor, with only twelve feet immersion, could
take any position, and always have us in range
of her guns. Orders were given to concentrate
our fire on the pilot-house, and with good re-
sult, as we afterward learned. More than two
hours had passed, and we had made no im-
pression on the enemy so far as we could dis-
cover, while our wounds were slight. Several
times the Monitor ceased firing, and we were
in hopes she was disabled, but the revolution
again of her turret and the heavy blows of
her eleven-inch shot on our sides soon un-
deceived us.
Coming down from the spar-deck and ob-
serving a division standing " at ease," Lieu-
tenant Jones observed :
" Why are you not firing, Mr. Eggleston ?"
" Why, our powder is very precious," re-
plied the lieutenant; "and after two hours'
incessant firing I find that I can do her about
as much damage by snapping my thumb at
her every two minutes and a half."
Lieutenant Jones now determined to run
her down or board. For nearly an hour we
manoeuvred for a position. Now " go ahead ";
now "stop"; now "astern"; the ship was as
unwieldy as Noah's Ark. At last an oppor-
tunity offered. " Go ahead full speed." But
before the ship gathered headway, the Mon-
itor turned, and our disabled ram only gave
a glancing blow, effecting nothing. Again she
came up on our quarter, her bow against our
side, and at this distance fired twice. Both
shots struck about half-way up the shield,
abreast of the after pivot, and the impact forced
the side bodily in two or three inches. All
the crews of the after guns were knocked over
by the concussion, and bled from the nose
or ears. Another shot at the same place
would have penetrated. While alongside,
boarders were called away; but she dropped
astern before they could get on board. And so,
for six or more hours, the struggle was kept up.
At length, the Monitor withdrew over the
middle ground where we could not follow, but
always maintaining a position to protect the
Minnesota . To have run our ship ashore on a
falling tide would have been ruin. We awaited
her return for an hour; and at two o'clock
p. m. steamed to Sewall's Point, and thence to
the dock-yard at Norfolk, our crew thor-
oughly worn out from the two-days' fight.
Although there is no doubt that the Mon-
itor first retired, — for Captain Van Brunt,
commanding the Minnesota, so states in his
official report, — the battle was a drawn one,
so far as the two vessels engaged were con-
cerned. But in its general results the ad-
vantage was with the Monitor. Our casualties
in the second day's fight were only a few
wounded.
This action demonstrated for the first
time the power and efficiency of the ram as
a means of offense. The side of the Cumber-
land was crushed like an egg-shell. The
Congress and Minnesota, even with our disa-
bled bow, would have shared the same fate
but that we could not reach them on account
of our great draught.
It also showed the power of resistance of
two iron-clads, widely differing in construc-
tion, model, and armament, under a fire
which would have sunk any other vessel then
afloat in a short time.
The Moititor was well handled, and saved
the Minnesota and the remainder of the fleet
at Fortress Monroe. But her gunnery was
poor. Not a single shot struck us at the
water-line, where the ship was utterly unpro-
tected, and where one would have been fatal.
Or had the fire been concentrated on any one
* In his report to Captain Buchanan, Lieutenant Jones says : " It was not easy to keep a flag flying. The
flag-staffs were repeatedly shot away. The colors were hoisted to the smoke-stack and several times cut down
from it."— Ed.
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COMMANDERS OF THE " MERRIMAC.
COMMODORE FRANKLIN BUCHANAN. COMMODORE JOSIAH TATNALL.
Vol. XXIX.— 75.
746
THE FIRST FIGHT OF IRON-CLADS.
spot, the shield would have been pierced ; or
had larger charges been used, the result would
have been the same. Most of her shot struck
us obliquely, breaking the iron of both
courses, but not injuring the wood backing.
When struck at right angles, the backing
would be broken, but not penetrated. We
had no solid projectiles, except a few of large
windage, to be used as hot shot, and of
course made no impression on the turret.
But in all this it should be borne in mind
that both vessels were on their trial trips,
both were experimental, and both receiving
their baptism of fire.
On our arrival at Norfolk, Commodore
Buchanan sent for me. I found him at the
Naval Hospital, badly wounded and suffering
greatly. He dictated a short dispatch to Mr.
Mr. Mallory's office and with him went to
President Davis's, where we met Mr. Benja-
min, Secretary of State, Mr. Seddon, Secretary
of War, General Cooper, Adjutant-General,
and a number of others. I told at length what
had occurred on the previous two days, and
what changes and repairs were necessary to the
Virginia. As to the future, I said that in the
Monitor we had met our equal, and that the re-
sult of another engagement would be very
doubtful. Mr. Davis made many inquiries as re-
garded the ship's draught, speed, and capabili-
ties, and urged the completion of the repairs at as
early a day as possible. The conversation lasted
until near midnight. During the evening the
flag of the Congress, which was a very large
one, was brought in, and to our surprise, in un-
folding it, we found it in some places saturated
THE "MERRIMAC RAMMING THE "CUMBERLAND.
Mallory, Secretary of the Navy, stating the
return of the ship and the result of the two-
days' fight, and directed me to proceed to
Richmond with it and the flag of the Congress,
and make a verbal report of the action, con-
dition of the Virginia, etc.
I took the first train for Petersburg and the
Capitol. The news had preceded me, and at
every station I had an ovation, and to listen-
ing crowds was forced to repeat the story of
the fight. Arriving at Richmond, I drove to
with blood. On this discovery it was quickly
rolled up and sent to the Navy Department,
where it remained during the war, and was
doubtless burned with that building when
Richmond was evacuated.
The news of our victory was received every-
where in the South with the most enthusiastic
rejoicing. Coming, as it did, after a number of
disasters in the South and West, it was partic-
ularly grateful. Then again, under the cir-
cumstances, so little was expected from the
THE FIRST FIGHT OF IRON-CLADS.
747
navy that this success was entirely unlooked
for. So, from one extreme to the other, the
most extravagant anticipations were formed
of what the ship could do. For instance : the
blockade could be raised, Washington leveled
to the ground, New York laid under contri-
bution, and so on. At the North, equally
groundless alarm was felt. As an example
of this, Secretary Welles relates what took
place at a cabinet meeting called by Mr.
Lincoln on the receipt of the news. " ' The
Merrimac] said Stanton, ' will change the
whole character of the war; she will de-
stroy, seriatim, every naval vessel; she will
lay all the cities on the seaboard under con-
tribution. I shall immediately recall Burnside;
Port Royal must be abandoned. I will notify
the governors and municipal authorities in the
North to take instant measures to protect
their harbors.' He had no doubt, he said,
that the monster was at this moment on her
way to Washington ; and, looking out of the
window, which commanded a view of the Po-
tomac for many miles, ' Not unlikely, we shall
have a shell or cannon-ball from one of her
guns in the White House before we leave this
room.' Mr. Seward, usually buoyant and self-
reliant, overwhelmed with the intelligence,
listened in responsive sympathy to Stanton,
and was greatly depressed, as, indeed, were
all the members."
I returned the next day to Norfolk, and
notified Commodore Buchanan of his promo-
tion to be admiral, and that, owing to his
wound, he would be retired from the com-
mand of the Virginia. Lieutenant Jones should
have been promoted and should have suc-
ceeded him. He had fitted out the ship, armed
her, and commanded during the second day's
fight. However, the Department thoughtother-
wise,and selected Commodore Josiah Tathall;
apart from Lieutenant Jones, he was the best
man. He had distinguished himself in the
wars of 1812 and with Mexico. No one stood
higher as an accomplished and chivalrous
officer. WThil e in command of the United States
squadron in the East Indies, he was present
as a neutral at the desperate fight at the
Peiho Forts, near Pekin, between the English
fleet and the Chinese, when the first lost nearly
one-half of a force of twelve hundred engaged.
Seeing his old friend Sir James Hope hard
pressed and in need of assistance, having had
four vessels sunk under him, he had his
barge manned and with his flag-lieutenant,
S. D. Trenchard, pulled alongside the flag-
ship, through the midst of a tremendous fire, in
which his coxswain was killed and several of his
boat's crew wounded. He found the gallant
admiral desperately wounded, and all his crew
killed or disabled but six. Offering his ser-
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LIEUTENANT GEORGE U. MORRIS, ACTING COMMANDER OF
THE "CUMBERLAND."
In the absence of Captain Radford, the command of the Cumberland
devolved upon the executive officer, Lieutenant Morris, from whose
official report we quote the following : " At thirty minutes past three the
water had gained upon us, notwithstanding the pumps were kept actively
employed to a degree that, the forward-magazine being drowned, we had
to take powder from the after-magazine for the ten-inch gun. At thirty-
five minutes past three the water had risen to the main hatchway, and the
ship canted to port, and we delivered a parting fire — each man trying
to save himself by jumping overboard. Timely notice was given, and all
the wounded who could walk were ordered out of the cockpit ; but those
of the wounded who had been carried into the sick-bay and on the berth-
deck were so mangled that it was impossible to save them. ... I should
judge we have lost upward of one hundred men. I can only say, in con-
clusion, that all did their duty, and we sank with the American flag flying
at the peak." When summoned to surrender Morris replied, " Never, I'll
sink alongside ! " — ED.
vices, surprise was expressed at his action.
His reply was, "Blood is thicker than water."
Tatnall took command on the 29th March.
In the mean time the Virginia was in the dry
dock under repairs. The hull four feet below
the shield was covered with two-inch iron.
A new and heavier ram was strongly secured
to the bow. The damage to the armor was
repaired, wrought-iron port-shutters were fitted,
and the rifle-guns supplied with steel-pointed
solid shot. These changes, with one hun-
dred tons more of ballast on her fan-tails,
increased her draught to twenty-three feet, im-
proving her resisting powers, but correspond-
ingly decreasing her mobility and her speed
to four knots. The repairs were not completed
until the 4th of April, owing to our want of
resources and difficulty of securing workmen.
On the nth we steamed down the harbor to
the Roads with six gun-boats, fully expecting
to meet the Monitor again and other vessels; for
we knew their fleet had been largely reenforced,
748
THE FIRST FIGHT OF IRON-CIADS.
among others by the Vanderbilt, a powerful
side-wheel steamer fitted as a ram. We were
primed for a desperate tussle; but to our
surprise we had the Roads to ourselves. We
exchanged a few shots with the Rip-Raps
batteries, but the Monitor with the other ves-
sels of the fleet remained below Fortress
tenant Barney in the lamestowfi to go in and
bring them out. This was promptly and success-
fully accomplished, under a fire from the forts.
Two wTere brigs loaded with supplies for the
army. The capture of these vessels, within
gun-shot of their fleet, did not affect their
movements. As the Jamestown towed her
THE "MERRIMAC" DRIVING THE " CONGRESS " FROM HER ANCHORAGE.
Monroe, in Chesapeake Bay, where we could
not get at them except by passing between
the forts.
The day before going down, Commodore
Tatnall had written to Secretary Mallory, " I
see no chance for me but to pass the forts
and strike elsewhere, and I shall be gratified
by your authority to do so." This freedom
of action was never granted, and probably
wisely, for the result of an action with the
Monitor and fleet, even if we ran the gauntlet
of the fire of the forts successfully, was more
than doubtful, and any disaster would have
exposed Norfolk and James River, and prob-
ably would have resulted in the loss of Rich-
mond. For equally good reasons the Monitor
acted on the defensive ; for if she had been
out of the way, General McClellan's base and
fleet of transports in York River would have
been endangered. Observing three merchant
vessels at anchor close in shore and within the
bar at Hampton, the commodore ordered Lieu-
prizes under the stern of the English corvette
Rinaldo, Captain Hewitt (now an admiral
commanding the English fleet in the East
Indies and Red Sea), then at anchor in the
Roads, she was enthusiastically cheered. We
remained below all day and at night returned
and anchored off Sewall's Point.
A few days later we went down again to
within gun-shot of the Rip-Raps, and ex-
changed a few rounds with the fort, hoping
that the Monitor would come out from her lair
into open water. Had she done so, a deter-
mined effort would have been made to carry
her by boarding. Four small gun-boats were
ready, each of which had its crew divided
into parties for the performance of certain
duties after getting on board. Some were to
try to wedge the turret, some to cover the
pilot-house and all the openings with tarpau-
lins, others to scale with ladders the turret
and smoke-stack, using shells, hand-grenades,
etc. Even if but two of the gun-boats sue-
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ESCAPE OF THE CREW OF THE "CONGRESS."
75°
THE FIRST FIGHT OF IRON-CIADS.
THE EXPLOSION ON THE BURNING
' CONGRESS.
ceeded in grappling her, we were confident
of success. Talking this over since with Cap-
tain S. D. Greene, who was the first lieutenant
of the Monitor, and in command after Cap-
tain Worden was wounded in the pilot-house,
he said they were prepared for anything of
this kind and that it would have failed. Cer-
tain it is, if an opportunity had been given,
the attempt would have been made.
A break-down of the engines forced us to
return to Norfolk. Completing our repairs
on May 8th, and while returning to our old
anchorage, we heard heavy firing, and, going
down the harbor, found the Monitor, with the
iron-clads Galena, Naugainck, and a num-
ber of heavy ships, shelling our batteries at
Sewall's Point. We stood directly for the
Monitor, but as we approached they all ceased
firing and retreated below the forts. We fol-
lowed close down to the Rip-Raps, whose
shot passed over us, striking a mile or more
beyond the ship. We remained for some hours
in the Roads, and finally the commodore, in
a tone of deepest disgust, gave the order:
" Mr. Jones, fire a gun to windward, and take
the ship back to her buoy."
During the month of April, 1862, our forces,
under General J. E. Johnston, had retired
from the Peninsula to the neighborhood of
Richmond, to defend the city against McClel-
lan's advance by way of the Peninsula, and
from time to time rumors of the possible
evacuation of Norfolk reached us. On the
9th of May, while at anchor off Sewall's Point,
we noticed at sunrise that our flag was not fly-
ing over the batteries. A boat was sent ashore
LIEUTENANT JOSEPH B. SMITH, ACTING-COMMANDER OF THE
"CONGRESS." (PHOTOGRAPH BY BLACK & BATCHELDER.)
According- to the pilot of the Cumberland, Lieutenant Smith was
killed by a shot. His death was fixed at 4: 20 P. M. by Lieutenant Pender-
grast, next in command, who did not hear of it until ten minutes later.
When his father, Commodore Joseph Smith, who was on duty at Washing-
ton, saw by the first dispatch from Fortress Monroe that the Congress had
shown the white flag-, he said, quietly, " Joe's dead ! " After speaking of
the death of Lieutenant Smith, Lieutenant Pendergrast says, in his offi-
cial report : " Seeing that our men were being killed without the prospect
of any relief from the Minnesota, . . . not being able to get a single
gun to bear upon the enemy, and the ship being on fire in several places,
upon consultation with Commander William Smith we deemed it Pr0Per
to haul down our colors." Lieutenant Smith's sword was sent to his father
by the enemy under a flag of truce. — Ed.
THE FIRST FIGHT OF IRON-CLADS.
75*
and found them abandoned. Lieutenant Pem-
broke Jones was then dispatched to Norfolk,
some miles distant, to call upon General
Huger, who was in command, and learn the
condition of affairs. He returned during the
afternoon, reporting, to our great surprise, the
town deserted by our troops and the navy-
yard on fire. This precipitate retreat was
entirely unnecessary, for while the Virginia
remained afloat, Norfolk was safe, or, at all
events, not tenable by the enemy, and James
River was partly guarded, for we could have
retired behind the obstructions in the chan-
nel at Craney Island, and, with the batteries at
that point, could have held the place, certainly
until all the valuable stores and machinery had
been removed from the navy-yard. Moreover,
had the Virginia been afloat at the time of the
battles around Richmond, General McClellan
would hardly have retreated to James River ;
for, had he done so, we could at any time
have closed it, and rendered any position on
it untenable.
However, Norfolk evacuated, our occupa-
tion was gone, and the next thing to be de-
cided was what should be done with the ship.
Two courses of action were open to us: we
might have run the blockade of the forts and
done some damage to the shipping there and
at the mouth of the York River, provided they
did not get out of our way, — for, with our great
draughtand low rate of speed, the enemy's trans-
ports would have gone where we could not
follow them ; and the Monitor and other iron-
clads would engage us with every advantage,
playing around us as rabbits around a sloth,
and the end would have been the certain loss
of the vessel. On the other hand, the pilots
said repeatedly, if the ship were lightened to
eighteen feet, they could take her up James
River to Harrison's Landing or City Point,
where she could have been put in fighting
trim again, and be in a position to assist in
the defense of Richmond. The commodore
decided upon this course. Calling all hands
on deck, he told them what he wished done.
Sharp and quick work was necessary ; for, to
be successful, the ship must be lightened five
feet, and we must pass the batteries at New-
port News and the fleet below before day-
light next morning. The crew gave three
cheers, and went to work with a will, throwing
overboard the ballast from the fan-tails, as well
as that below, all spare stores, water, indeed
everything but our powder and shot. By mid-
night the ship had lightened three feet, when,
to our amazement, the pilots said it was use-
less to do more, that with the westerly wind
blowing, the tide would be cut down so that
the ship would not go up even to Jamestown
Flats ; indeed, they would not take the respon-
CAPTAIN VAN BRUNT, COMMANDER OF THE " MINNESOTA."
In his official report, Captain Van Brunt says of the fight, as viewed from
the Minnesota : "At 6 A. Ms the enemy again appeared, . . . and I
beat to quarters ; but they run past my ship and were heading for Fortress
Monroe, and the retreat was beaten to enable my men to get something to
eat. The Merrimac ran down near the Rip-Raps and then turned into
the channel through which I had come. Again all hands were called to
quarters, and opened upon her with my stern-guns, and made signal to the
Monitor to attack the enemy. She immediately ran down in my wake,
right within the range of the Merrimac, completely covering my ship, as
far as was possible with her diminutive dimensions, and, much to my aston-
ishment, laid herself right alongside of the Merrimac, and the contrast
was that of a pigmy to a giant. Gun after gun was fired by the Monitor,
which was returned with whole broadsides from the Rebels, with no more
effect, apparently, than so many pebble-stones thrown by a chilcL . . -
The Merrimac, finding that she could make nothing of the Monitor,
turned her atten tion once more to me. In the morning she had put one
eleven-inch shot under my counter, near the water-line, and now, on her
second approach, I opened upon her with all my broadside-guns and ten-
inch pivot — a broadside which would have blown out of water any timber-
built ship in the world. She returned my fire with her rifled bow-gun with
a shell which passed through the chief engineer's state-room, through the
engineers' mess-room amidships, and burst in the boatswain's room, tear-
ing four rooms all into one, in its passage exploding two charges of powder,
which set the ship on fire, but it was promptly extinguished by a party
headed by my first lieutenant."
sibility of taking her up the river at all. This
extraordinary conduct of the pilots rendered
some other plan immediately necessary. Moral:
All officers, as far as possible, should learn to
do their own piloting.
The ship had been so lifted as to be unfit
for action ; two feet of her hull below the
shield was exposed. She could not be sunk
again by letting in water without putting out
the furnace fires and flooding the magazines.
Never was a commander forced by circum-
stances over which he had no control into a
more painful position than was Commodore
Tatnall. But coolly and calmly he decided,
and gave orders to destroy the ship ; deter-
mining if he could not save his vessel, at all
events not to sacrifice three hundred brave
and faithful men. That he acted wisely, the
fight at Drury's Bluff, which was the salvation
of Richmond, soon after proved. She was run
ashore near Craney Island and the crew landed
with their small-arms and two days' provisions.
THE FIRST FIGHT OF IRON-CIADS.
753
Having only two boats, it took three hours to
disembark. Lieutenant Catesby Jones and
myself were the last to leave. Setting her on
fire fore and aft, she was soon in a blaze, and
by the light of our burning ship we pulled for
the shore, landing at daybreak. We marched 2 2
miles to Suffolk and took the cars for Richmond.
The news of the destruction of the Virginia
caused a most profound feeling of disappoint-
ment and indignation throughout the South,
particularly as so much was expected of the
ship after our first success. On Commodore
Tatnall the most unsparing and cruel asper-
sions were cast. He promptly demanded a
court of inquiry, and, not satisfied with this, a
court-martial, whose unanimous finding after
considering the facts and circumstances was :
" Being thus situated, the only alternative, in
the opinion of the court, was to abandon and
burn the ship then and there ; which, in the
judgment of the court, was deliberately and
wisely done by order of the accused. Where-
fore, the court do award the said Captain Jo-
siah Tatnall an honorable acquittal."
It only remains now to speak of our last
meeting. with the Monitor. Arriving at Rich-
mond, we heard that the enemy's fleet were
ascending James River, and the result was
great alarm; for, relying upon the Virginia, not
a gun had been mounted to protect the city
from a water attack. We were hurried to
Drury's Bluff, the first high ground below the
city, seven miles distant. [See map of the
Peninsula on page 774. — Ed.] Here, for two
days, exposed to constant rain, in bottomless
mud and without shelter, on scant provisions,
we worked unceasingly, mounting guns and
obstructing the river. In this we were aided
by the crews of small vessels which had es-
caped up the river before Norfolk was aban-
doned. The Jamestown and some small sailing-
vessels were sunk in the channel, but owing
to the high water occasioned by a freshet the
obstructions were only partial. We had only
succeeded in getting into position three thirty-
twos and two sixty-fours (shell guns) and were
without sufficient supply of ammunition, when
on the 15th of May the iron-clad Galena, fol-
lowed by the Monitor and three others, hove
in sight. We opened fire as soon as they came
within range, directing most of it on the Ga-
lena. This vessel was handled very skillfully.
Coming up within six hundred yards of the bat-
tery, she anchored, and, with a spring from her
quarter, presented her broadside ; this under
a heavy fire, and in a narrow river, with a
strong current. The Monitor and others an-
chored just below, answering our fire deliber-
ately ; but, owing to the great elevation of the
battery, their fire was in a great measure inef-
fectual, though two guns were dismounted
Vol. XXIX.— 76.
and several men were killed and wounded.
Wxhile this was going on, our sharp-shooters
were at work on both banks. Lieutenant
Catesby Jones, in his report, speaks of this ser-
vice: "Lieutenant Wood, with a portion of
the men, did good service as sharp-shooters.
The enemy were excessively annoyed by their
fire. His position was well chosen and gal-
lantly maintained in spite of the shell, shrap-
nel, grape and canister fired at them."
THE LATE COMMANDER SAMUEL DANA GREENE, EXECUTIVE
OFFICER OF THE "MONITOR." (FROM A PHOTOGRAPH
DURING THE WAR BY HALLECK.) [SEE PAGE 763.]
Finding they could make no impression on
our works, the Galena, after an action of four
hours, returned down the river with her
consorts. Her loss was about forty killed
and wounded.
This was one of the boldest and best-con-
ducted operations of the war, and one of
which very little notice has been taken. Had
Commodore Rodgers been supported by a
few brigades, landed at City Point or above
on the south side, Richmond would have
been evacuated. The Virginia's crew alone
barred his way to Richmond; otherwise the
obstructions would not have prevented his
steaming up to the city, which would have
been as much at his mercy as was New
Orleans before the fleet of Farragut.
It should be remembered that as spring
opened General McClellan was urged by the
administration and the press to make a for-
ward movement. Anticipating this, General
J. E. Johnston, better to cover Richmond
and to shorten his lines, retired to the Rap-
pahannock and later to the James. General
McClellan wisely determined to use the navi-
754
IN THE "MONITOR" TURRET
gable waters either of the James or the York
River to approach Richmond ; and as the
James was closed by the Virginia in a man-
ner he could not have foreseen, he was forced
to use the York as his base of action against
Richmond — a circumstance that saved that
city from capture tor three years.
The engagement at Drury's Bluff, or Fort
Darling, as it is sometimes called, was the last
service of the Virginia's crew as a body ; soon
after they were scattered among the different
vessels at Southern ports. The Monitor, too,
disappeared from sight a few months later, foun-
dering off Cape Hatteras while on a voyage to
Charleston. So short-lived were the two vessels
that revolutionized the navies of the world.
John Taylor Wood.
CAPTAIN JOHN ERICSSON, INVENTOR OF THE
"MONITOR." (FROM A PHOTOGRAPH BY
BRADY.)
IN THE "MONITOR" TURRET.*
MARCH 9, 1862.
THE keel of the most famous vessel of modern times,
Captain Ericsson's first iron-clad, f was laid in the ship-
yard of Thomas F. Rowland, at Greenpoint, Brooklyn,
in October, 1861, and on the 30th of January, 1862, the
novel craft was launched. On the 25th of February she
was commissioned and turned over to the Government,
and nine days later left New York for Hampton Roads,
where, on the 9th of March, occurred the memorable con-
test with the Merrimac. On her next venture on the open
sea she foundered off Cape Hatteras in a gale of wind
(December 29). During her career of less than a year,
she had no fewer than five different commanders ; but it
was the fortune of the writer to serve as her only executive
officer, standing upon her deck when she was launched, and
leaving it but a few minutes before she sank.
So hurried was the preparation of the Monitor that the
mechanics worked upon her night and day up to the hour
of her departure, and little opportunity was offered to drill
the crew at the guns, to work the turret, and to become famil-
iar with the other unusual features of the vessel. The crew
was, in fact, composed of volunteers. Lieutenant Worden,
having been authorized by the Navy Department to select his men from any ship-of-war in
New York harbor, addressed the crews of the North Carolina and Sabine, stating fully
* The general features of the Monitor are well known. The vessel was an iron-clad steam battery. The
thin lower hull was protected by an overhanging armor. A revolving turret, containing the guns, was situated
on deck, in the center of the vessel. The principal dimensions were: Length over all, 172 feet; breadth
over all, 41 feet 6 inches ; draught of water, 1 1 feet ; inside diameter of turret, 20 feet ; height of turret, 9
feet; thickness of turret, 8 inches ; thickness of side armor, 5 inches ; thickness of deck- plates, 1 inch; thick-
ness of pilot-house, 9 inches. Her deck was one foot above the water-line. She carried two 1 1 -inch smooth-
bore guns, firing solid shot weighing 180 pounds. Her speed was between four and five knots. A novel
feature was the absence of smoke-stacks in action; they and the pipes over the blowers were taken apart and
laid flat on deck, which gave an all-round fire abaft. The draught to the furnaces was maintained by powerful
blowers. The tops of the smoke-stacks were six feet above the deck, and the blower-pipes four and a half
feet. These openings in the deck were covered by iron gratings. Her people were : Lieutenant J. L.
Worden, commanding ; Lieutenant S. D. Greene, executive officer ; Acting Master, L. N. Stodder ; Acting
Master, J. N. Webber; Acting Master's Mate, George Frederickson ; Acting Assistant Surgeon, D. C. Logue;
Acting Assistant Paymaster, W. F. Keeler ; Chief Engineer, A. C. Stimers, inspector ; First Assistant Engi-
neer, Isaac Newton, in charge of steam machinery ; Second Assistant Engineer, A. B. Campbell ; Third
Assistant Engineer, R. W. Hands ; Fourth Assistant Engineer, M. T. Sunstrom ; Captain's Clerk, Daniel
Toffey; Quartermaster, Peter Williams ; Gunner's Mate, Joseph Crown ; Boatswain's Mate, John Stocking;
and forty-two others — a total of fifty-eight souls. — S. D. G.
t For details respecting the invention of the Monitor \ the reader is referred to a biographical paper on
Captain Ericsson by Colonel W. C. Church in this magazine for April, 1879. The origin of the name Monitor
is given in the following letter to Gustavus V. Fox, Assistant Secretary of the Navy. [Ed.] : —
New York, January 20th, 1862.
Sir :
In accordance with your request, I now submit for your approbation a name for the floating battery at
Green Point.
The impregnable and aggressive character of this structure will admonish the leaders of the Southern
Rebellion that the batteries on the banks of their rivers will no longer present barriers to the entrance of the
Union forces. The iron-clad intruder will thus prove a severe monitor to those leaders.
IN THE "MONITOR" TURRET
755
to them the probable dangers of
the passage to Hampton Roads
and the certainty of having im-
portant service to perform after
arriving. The sailors responded
enthusiastically, many more volun-
teering than were required. Of
the crew selected, Captain Worden
said, in his official report of the
engagement, " A better one no
naval commander ever had the
honor to command."
We left New York in tow of the
tug-boat Seth Low at n a. m. of
Thursday, the 6th of March. On
the following day a moderate
breeze was encountered, and it was at once evi-
dent that the Monitor was unfit for a sea- going
craft. Nothing but the subsidence of the wind
prevented her from being shipwrecked before
she reached Hampton Roads. The berth-deck
hatch leaked in spite of all we could do, and
the water came down under the turret like a
waterfall. It would strike the pilot-house
and go over the turret in beautiful curves,
and it came through the narrow eye-holes in
the pilot-house with such force as to knock
the helmsman completely round from the
wheel. The waves also broke over the blower-
pipes, and the water came down through them
SIDE ELEVATION AND DECK-PLAN OF THE
Propeller Blower-
well.
pipes.
Smoke-
stacks.
Turret.
Pilot-
house.
Anchor
well.
engines slipped, and the engines consequently
stopped for lack of artificial draught, without
which, in such a confined place, the fires
could not get air for combustion. Newton
and Stimers, followed by the engineer's force,
gallantly rushed into the engine-room and fire-
room to remedy the evil, but they were unable
to check the inflowing water, and were nearly
suffocated with escaping gas. They were
dragged out more dead than alive, and
carried to the top of the turret, where the fresh
air gradually revived them. The water con-
tinued to pour through the hawser-hole, and
over and down the smoke-stacks and blower-
in such quantities that the belts of the blower- pipes, in such quantities that there was immi-
nent danger that the
ship would founder.
The steam-pumps
could not be operated
because the fires had
been nearly extin-
guished, and the en-
gine-room was unin-
habitable on account
of the suffocating gas
with which it was filled.
The hand-pumps were
then rigged and
worked, but they had
not enough force to
throw the water out
through the top of the
turret, — the only open-
ing,— and it Mras use-
less to bail, as we had
to pass the buckets up
through the turret,
which made it a very
long operation. For-
VIEW SHOWING THE EFFECT OF SHOT ON THE " MONITOR" TURRET. (FROM A PHOTO-
GRAPH TAKEN SOON AFTER THE ENGAGEMENT.)
[The ridges shown in the nearer port are significant of the haste with which the vessel was built. An
opening of this shape is usually made by cutting three circles one above another and intersecting, and then
trimming the edges to an oval. In this instance there was no time for the trimming process. It was originally
designed that the armament should be 15-inch guns, but as these were not to be had in time, the 11-inch Dahl-
grens were substituted.— Ed.]
But there are other leaders who will also be startled and admonished by the booming of the gunsfrom the
impregnable iron turret. " Downing Street " will hardly view with indifference this last " Yankee notion," this
monitor. To the Lords of the Admiralty the new craft will be a monitor suggesting doubts as to the propriety
of completing those four steel-clad ships at three- and-a-half millions apiece. On these and many similar
grounds I propose to name the new battery Monitor.
Your obedient servant,
T. Ericsson.
756
IN THE "MONITOR" TURRET
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rear-admiral, u. s. n.
(from a photograph taken in 1875.)
[The sword was presented to Admiral Worden by the State of New York soon after the engagement in Hampton Roads. — Ed.]
tunately, towards evening the wind and sea their efforts to keep the novel craft afloat, that
subsided, and, being again in smooth water, the Monitor passed Cape Henry at 4 p. m. on
the engine was put in operation. But at mid- Saturday, March 8th. At this point was heard
night, in passing over a shoal, rough water was the distant booming of heavy guns, which our
again encountered, and our troubles were re- captain rightly judged to be an engagement
newed, complicated this time with the jam- with the Merrimac, twenty miles away. He at
ming of the wheel-ropes, so that the safety once ordered the vessel stripped of her sea-rig,
of the ship depended entirely on the strength the turret keyed up, and every preparation
of the hawser which connected her with the made for battle. As we approached Hampton
tug-boat. The hawser, being new, held fast ; Roads we could see the fine old Congress
but during the greater part of the night we burning brightly, and soon a pilot came on
were constantly engaged in fighting the leaks, board and told of the arrival of the Merri-
until we reached smooth water again, just be- mac, the disaster to the Cumberlatid and the
fore daylight. Congress, and the dismay of the Union forces.
It was at the close of this dispiriting trial The Monitor was pushed with all haste, and
trip, in which all hands had been exhausted in reached the Roanoke (Captain Marston),
IN THE "MONITOR" TURRET.
757
anchored in the Roads, at 9 p. m. Worden
immediately reported his arrival to Captain
Marston, who suggested that he should go
to the assistance of the Mi?inesota, then
aground off Newport News. As no pilot was
available, Captain Worden accepted the vol-
unteer services of Acting Master Samuel
Howard, who earnestly sought the duty. An
atmosphere of gloom pervaded the fleet, and
the pygmy aspect of the new-comer did not in-
spire confidence among those who had wit-
nessed the destruction of the day before.
Skillfully piloted by Howard, we proceeded on
our way, our path illumined by the blaze of the
Congress. Reaching the Minnesota, hard and
fast aground, near midnight, we anchored,
and Worden reported to Captain Van Brunt.
Between 1 and 2 a. m. the Congress blew up,
not instantaneously, but successively ; her
powder-tanks seemed to explode, each shower
of sparks rivaling the other in its height, until
they appeared to reach the zenith — a grand
but mournful sight. Near us, too, lay the Cum-
berland at the bottom of the river, with her si-
lent crew of brave men, who died while fight-
ing their guns to the water's edge, and whose
colors were still flying at the peak.*
The dreary night dragged slowly on; the
officers and crew were up and alert, to be
Van Brunt officially reports, " I made signal
to the Monitor to attack the enemy," but the
signal was not seen by us ; other work was in
hand, and Worden required no signal.
The pilot-house of the Monitor was situated
well forward, near the bow ; it was a wrought-
iron structure, built of logs of iron nine inches
thick, bolted through the corners, and covered
with an iron plate two inches thick, which was
not fastened down, but was kept in place merely
by its weight. The sight-holes or slits were
made by inserting quarter-inch plates at the
corners between the upper set of logs and the
next below. The structure projected four feet
above the deck, and was barely large enough
inside to hold three men standing. It pre-
sented a flat surface on all sides and on top. The
steering-wheel was secured to one of the logs
on the front side. The position and shape of this
structure should be carefully borne in mind.
Worden took his station in the pilot-house,
and by his side were Howard, the pilot, and
Peter Williams, quartermaster, who steered
the vessel throughout the engagement. My
place was in the turret, to work and fight the
guns ; with me were Stodder and Stimers and
sixteen brawny men, eight to each gun. John
Stocking, boatswain's mate, and Thomas
Lochrane, seaman, were gun-captains. New-
ARRIVAL OF THE " MONITOR AT HAMPTON ROADS.
ready for any emergency. At daylight on
Sunday the Merrimac and her consorts were
discovered at anchor near Sewall's Point. At
about half-past seven o'clock the enemy's ves-
sels got under way and steered in the direc-
tion of the Minnesota. At the same time the
Monitor got under way, and her officers and
crew took their stations for battle. Captain
ton and his assistants were in the engine and
fire rooms, to manipulate the boilers and en-
gines, and most admirably did they perform
this important service from the beginning to
the close of the action. Webber had charge
of the powder division on the berth-deck, and
Joseph Crown, gunner's mate, rendered valu-
able service in connection with this duty.
* The fortune of civil war was illustrated in the case of the Merrimac. Commodore Buchanan's brother
was an officer of the Congress, and each knew of the other's presence. The first and fourth lieutenants had
each a brother in the United States Army. The father of the fifth lieutenant was also in the United States
Army. The father of one of the midshipmen was in the United States Navy. Lieutenant Butt, of the Merri-
mac, had been the room-mate of Lieutenant Greene of the Monitor at the Naval Academy in Annapolis. — Ed.
75«
IN THE "MONITOR" TURRET
The physical condition of the officers and men of the
^ \ . two ships at this time was in striking contrast. The Mer-
|*|, rimac had passed the night quietly near Sewall's Point
1 1| her people enjoying rest and sleep, elated by thoughts of
j! the victory they had achieved that day, and cheered by
■g 1 the prospects of another easy victory on the morrow. The
2 | Monitor had barely escaped shipwreck twice within the
|!3 last thirty-six hours, and since Friday morning, forty-eight
ot8 hours before, few if any of those on board had closed
1 1 their eyes in sleep or had anything to eat but hard bread,
%* as cooking was impossible ; she was surrounded by wrecks
^ and disaster, and her efficiency in action had yet to be
£ proved.
| Worden lost no time in bringing it to test. Getting his
I ship under way, he steered direct for the enemy's vessels,
in order to meet and engage them as far as possible from
si | the Minnesota. As he approached, the wooden vessels
| quickly turned and left. Our captain, to the " astonish-
| ment " of Captain Van Brunt (as he states in his official
report), made straight for the Merrimac, which had already
commenced firing ; and when he came within short range,
he changed his course so as to come alongside of her,
g stopped the engine, and gave the order, " Commence
| firing ! " I triced up the port, ran out the gun, and, tak-
| £ ing deliberate aim, pulled the lockstring. The Merrimac
% 1 was quick to reply, returning a rattling broadside (for she
2 % had ten guns to our two), and the battle fairly began.
I | The turret and other parts of the ship were heavily struck,
* w but the shots did not penetrate ; the tower was intact, and
t it continued to revolve. A look of confidence passed over
% the men's faces, and we believed the Merrimac would not
> repeat the work she had accomplished the day before.
& > The fight continued with the exchange of broadsides
■s « as fast as the guns could be served and at very short
s % range, the distance between the vessels frequently being
% g not more than a few yards. Worden skillfully manoeuvred
5 H his quick-turning vessel, trying to find some vulnerable
| point in his adversary. Once he made a dash at her stern,
1 hoping to disable her screw, which he thinks he missed
|H by not more than two feet. Our shots ripped the iron of
9^ the Merrimac, while the reverberation of her shots against
b | the tower caused anything but a pleasant sensation. While
1*2 Stodder, who was stationed at the machine which con-
Hjj trolled the revolving motion of the turret, was incau-
* tiously leaning against the side of the tower, a large shot
si struck in the vicinity and disabled him. He left the turret
a and went below, and Stimers, who had assisted him, con-
£ tinued to do the work.
£ The drawbacks to the position of the pilot-house were
t soon realized. We could not fire ahead nor within several
points of the bow, since the blast from our own guns
■g would have injured the people in the pilot-house, only a
| few yards off. Keeler and Toffey passed the captain's
orders and messages to me, and my inquiries and answers
to him, the speaking-tube from the pilot-house to the
turret having been broken early in the action. They per-
I formed their work with zeal and alacrity, but, both being
$ z4 landsmen, our technical communications sometimes mis-
|s| carried. The situation was novel : a vessel of war was
engaged in desperate combat with a powerful foe; the
captain, commanding and guiding all, was inclosed in
IN THE "MONITOR" TURRET
759
JOHN TAYLOR WOOD, LIEUTENANT ON THE " MERRIMAC, AND
AFTERWARD COMMANDER OF THE PRIVATEER "TAL-
LAHASSEE." (FROM A DAGUERREOTYPE.)
one place, and the executive officer, work-
ing and fighting the guns, was shut up in
another, and communication between them
was difficult and uncertain. It was this expe-
rience which caused Isaac Newton, imme-
run in, the port-holes were covered by heavy-
iron pendulums, pierced with small holes to
allow the iron rammer and sponge handles to
protrude while they were in use. To hoist these
pendulums required the entire gun's crew and
vastly increased the work inside the turret.
The effect upon one shut up in a revolving
drum is perplexing, and it is not a simple mat-
ter to keep the bearings. White marks had
been placed upon the stationary deck immedi-
ately below the turret to indicate the direction
of the starboard and port sides, and the bow
and stern; but these marks were obliterated
early in the action. I would continually ask
the captain, "How does the Merrimac bear ? "
He replied, " On the starboard-beam," or
" On the port-quarter," as the case might be.
Then the difficulty was to determine the direc-
tion of the starboard-beam, or port-quarter, or
any other bearing. It finally resulted, that when
a gun was ready for firing, the turret would be
started on its revolving journey in search of
the target, and when found it was taken " on
the fly," because the. turret could not be accu-
rately controlled. Once the Merrimac tried to
ram us ; but Worden avoided the direct im-
pact by the skillful use of the helm, and she
struck a glancing blow, which did no damage.
At the instant of collision I planted a solid
one-hundred-and-eighty-pound shot fair and
square upon the forward part of her casemate.
Had the gun been loaded with thirty pounds
of powder, which was the charge subsequently
used with similar guns, it is probable that this
diately after the engagement, to suggest the shot would have penetrated her armor ; but
clever plan of putting the pilot-house on top the charge being limited to fifteen pounds, in
of the turret, and making it cylindrical in- accordance with peremptory orders to that ef-
stead of square; and his suggestions were feet from the Navy Department, the shot re-
subsequently adopted in this type of vessel. bounded without doing any more damage than
As the engagement continued, the working possibly to start some of the beams of her
of the turret was not altogether satisfactory, armor-backing.
It was difficult to start it revolving, or, when
once started, to stop it, on account of the im-
perfections of the novel machinery, which was
now undergoing its first trial. Stimers was an
It is stated by Colonel Wood, of the Merri-
mac, that when that vessel rammed the Cum-
berland her iron ram, or beak, was broken off
and left in that vessel. In a letter to me, about
active, muscular man, and did his utmost to two years since, he described this ram as " of
control the motion of the
turret ; but, in spite of his
efforts, it was difficult if not
impossible to secure accu-
rate firing. The conditions
were very different from
those of an ordinary broad-
side gun, under which we
had been trained on wood-
en ships. My only view ot
the world outside of the
tower was over the muzzles
of the guns, which cleared
the ports by a few inches
Only. When the guns were sinking of the "monitor," December 29, 1862.
760
IN THE "MONITOR" TURRET
PART OF THE CREW OF THE " MONITOR."* (FROM A PHOTOGRAPH TAKEN SOON AFTER THE FIGHT.)
cast-iron, wedge-shaped, about fifteen hundred
pounds in weight, two feet under water, and
projecting two and a half feet from the stem."
A ram of this description, had it been intact,
would have struck the Monitor at that part of
the upper hull where the armor and backing
were thickest. It is very doubtful if, under any
headway that the Merrimac could have ac-
quired at such short range, this ram could have
done any injury to this part of the vessel. That
it could by no possibility have reached the
thin lower hull is evident from a glance at the
drawing of the Monitor, the overhang or upper
hull being constructed for the express purpose
of protecting the vital part of the vessel.
The battle continued at close quarters with-
out apparent damage to either side. After a
time, the supply of shot in the turret being ex-
hausted, Worden hauled off for about fifteen
minutes to replenish. The serving of the car-
tridges, weighing but fifteen pounds, was a
matter of no difficulty ; but the hoisting of the
heavy shot was a slow and tedious operation,
it being necessary that the turret should re-
*The pride of Worden in his crew was warmly reciprocated by his men, and found expression in the fol-
lowing letter, written to him while he was lying in Washington disabled by his wound. We take it from
Professor Soley's volume, "The Blockade and the Cruisers " (New York : Charles Scribner's Sons). [Ed.] : —
To Captain Worden. Hampton Roads, April 24th, 1862.
To Our Dear and Honored Captain. U. S. Monitor.
Dear Sir : These few lines is from your own crew of the Monitor, with their kindest Love to you their
Honored Captain, hoping to God that they will have the pleasure of welcoming you back to us again soon,
for we are all ready able and willing to meet Death or anything else, only give us back our Captain again.
Dear Captain, we have got your Pilot-house fixed and all ready for you when you get well again ; and we all
sincerely hope that soon we will have the pleasure of welcoming you back to it. . . . We are waiting very
patiently to engage our Antagonist if we could only get a chance to do so. The last time she came out we
all thought we would have the Pleasure of sinking her. But we all got disappointed, for we did not fire one
shot, and the Norfolk papers says we are cowards in the Monitor — and all we want is a chance to show them
where it lies with you for our Captain We can teach them who is cowards. But there is a great deal that we
would like to write to you but we think you will soon be with us again yourself. But we all join in with our
kindest love to you, hoping that God will restore you to us again and hoping that your sufferings is at an end
now, and we are all so glad to hear that your eyesight will be spaired to you again. We would wish to write
more to you if we have your kind Permission to do so but at present we all conclude by tendering to you
our kindest Love and affection, to our Dear and Honored Captain.
We remain untill Death your Affectionate Crew The Monitor Boys.
IN THE "MONITOR" TURRET.
761
main stationary, in order that the two scuttles,
one in the deck and the other in the floor of
the turret, should be in line. Worden took ad-
vantage of the lull, and passed through the
port-hole upon the deck outside to get a bet-
ter view of the situation. He soon renewed the
attack, and the contest continued as before.
Two important points were constantly kept
in mind : first, to prevent the enemy's pro-
jectiles from entering the turret through the
port-holes, — for the explosion of a shell inside,
by disabling the men at the guns, would have
ended the fight, there being no relief gun's
crews on board ; second, not to fire into our
own pilot-house. A careless or impatient
hand, during the confusion arising from the
whirligig motion of the tower, might let slip
one of our big shot against the pilot-house.
For this and other reasons I fired every
gun while I remained in the turret.
Soon after noon a shell from the enemy's
gun, the muzzle not ten yards distant, struck
the forward side of the pilot-house directly in
the sight-hole, or slit, and exploded, cracking
the second iron log and partly lifting the top,
leaving an opening. Worden was standing
immediately behind this spot, and received in
his face the force of the blow, which partly
stunned him, and, filling his eyes with powder,
utterly blinded him. The injury was known
only to those in the pilot-house and its im-
mediate vicinity. The flood of light rushing
through the top of the pilot-house, now partly
open, caused Worden, blind as he was, to be-
lieve that the pilot-house was seriously in-
jured, if not destroyed; he therefore gave
orders to put the helm to starboard and
" sheer off." Thus the Monitor retired tempo-
rarily from the action, in order to ascertain the
extent of the injuries she had received. At
the same time Worden sent for me, and leav-
ing Stimers the only officer in the turret, I
went forward at once, and found him standing
at the foot of the ladder leading to the pilot-
house.
He was a ghastly sight, with his eyes closed
TRANSVERSE SECTION OF THE " MONITOR " THROUGH THE CENTER OF THE TURRET
Vol. XXIX.— 77.
FIRST ASSISTANT-ENGINEER ISAAC NEWTON. (FROM A MEDAL-
LION PORTRAIT BY LAUNT THOMPSON.)
[At the time of Mr. Newton's death (September 25, 1884) he had been for
several years Chief Engineer of the Croton Aqueduct. The plans which
have been adopted for the new aqueduct were his, both in the general
features and the details. — Ed.]
and the blood apparently rushing from every
pore in the upper part of his face. He told me
that he was seriously wounded, and directed
me to take command. I assisted in leading
him to a sofa in his cabin, where he was ten-
derly cared for by Doctor Logue, and then I
assumed command. Blind and suffering as he
was, Worden's fortitude never forsook him ; he
frequently asked from his bed of pain of
the progress of affairs, and when told that the
Minnesota was saved, he said, " Then I can die
happy."
When I reached my station in the pilot-
house, I found that the iron log was fractured
and the top partly open ; but the steering-gear
was still intact, and the pilot-house was not
totally destroyed, as had been feared. In the
confusion of the moment resulting from so
serious an injury to the commanding officer,
the Monitor had been moving without direc-
tion. Exactly how much time elapsed from
the moment that Worden was wounded until I
had reached the pilot-house and completed the
examination of the injury at that point, and de-
termined what course to pursue
in the damaged condition of the
vessel, it is impossible to state ;
but it could hardly have ex-
ceeded twenty minutes at the
utmost. During this time the
Merrimac, which was leaking
badly, had started in the di-
rection of the Elizabeth River;
and, on taking my station in the
pilot-house and turning the ves-
sel's head in the direction of the
Merrimac, I saw that she was
already in retreat. A few shots
were fired at the retiring vessel,
762
IN THE "MONITOR" TURRET.
and she continued on to Norfolk. I returned
with the Monitor to the side of the Minnesota,
where preparations were being made to aban-
don the ship, which was still aground. Shortly
afterward Worden was transferred to a tug, and
that night he was carried to Washington.
The fight was over. We of the Monitor
thought, and still think, that we had gained a
great victory. This the Confederates have de-
nied. But it has never been denied that the
object of the Merrimac on the 9th of March
was to complete the destruction of the Union
fleet in Hampton Roads, and that in this she
was completely foiled and driven off by the
Monitor; nor has it been denied that at the
close of the engagement the Merri??zac re-
treated to Norfolk, leaving the Monitor in pos-
session of the field.*
In this engagement Captain Worden dis-
played the highest qualities as an officer and
man. He was in his prime (forty-four years
old), and carried with him the ripe experience
of twenty-eight years in the naval service.
He joined the ship a sick man, having
but recently left a prison in the South. He
was nominated for the command by the late
Admiral Joseph Smith, and the result proved
the wisdom of the choice. Having accepted
his orders against the protests of his physi-
cians and the entreaties of his family, nothing
would deter him from the enterprise. He
arrived on the battle-ground amidst the dis-
aster and gloom, almost despair, of the Union
people, who had little faith that he could beat
back the powerful Merrimac, after her experi-
ence with the Cumberland and Congress.
Without encouragement, single-handed, and
without specific orders from any source, he
rose above the atmosphere of doubt and de-
pression which surrounded him, and with un-
flinching nerve and undaunted courage he
hurled his little untried vessel against his
huge, well-proved antagonist, and won the
battle. He was victor in the first iron-clad
battle of the world's history.
The subsequent career of the Monitor needs
but a few words.
On the day after the fight I received the
following letter from Mr. Fox, Assistant Sec-
retary of the Navy :
" U. S. Steamer Roanoke, Old Point,
" March 10, 1862.
" My dear Mr. Greene :
" Under the extraordinary circumstances of the
contest of yesterday, and the responsibilities devolv-
ing upon me, and your extreme youth,t I have sug-
gested to Captain Marston to send on board the Mon-
itor, as temporary commanding, Lieutenant Selfridge,
until the arrival of Commodore Goldsborough, which
will be in a few days. I appreciate your position, and
you must appreciate mine, and serve with the same
zeal and fidelity.
" With the kindest wishes for you all, most truly,
"G. V. Fox."
For the next two months we lay at Hamp-
ton Roads. Twice the Merrimac came out
of the Elizabeth River, but did not attack.
We, on our side, had received positive orders
not to attack in the comparatively shoal
waters above Hampton Roads, where the
Union fleet could not manoeuvre. The Mer-
rimac protected the James River, and the
Monitor protected the Chesapeake. Neither
side had an iron-clad in reserve, and neither
wished to bring on an engagement which
might disable its only armored naval defense
in those waters.
With the evacuation of Norfolk and the
destruction of the Merrimac, the Monitor
moved up the James River with the squadron
under the command of Commander John
Rodgers, in connection with McClellan's
advance upon Richmond by the Peninsula.
We were engaged for four hours at Fort
Darling, but were unable to silence the guns
or destroy the earthworks.
Probably no ship was ever devised which
was so uncomfortable for her crew, and cer-
tainly no sailor ever led a more disagreeable
life than we did on the James River, suffo-
cated with heat and bad air if we remained
below, and a target for sharp-shooters if we
came on deck.
With the withdrawal of McClellan's army,
we returned to Hampton Roads, and in the
autumn were ordered to Washington, where
the vessel was repaired. We returned to
Hampton Roads in November, and sailed
thence (December 29) in tow of the steamer
Rhode Island, bound for Beaufort, N. C.
Between up. m. and midnight on the follow-
ing night the Monitor went down in a gale,
a few miles south of Cape Hatteras. Four
officers and twelve men were drowned, forty-
nine people being saved by the boats of the
steamer. It was impossible to keep the vessel
free of water, and we presumed that the upper
and lower hulls thumped themselves apart.
No ship in the world's history has a more
imperishable place in naval annals than the
Monitor. Not only by her providential arrival
* u My men and myself were perfectly black with smoke and powder. All my underclothes were perfectly
black, and my person was in the same condition. ... I had been up so long, and been under such a state
of excitement, that my nervous system was completely run down. . . . My nerves and muscles twitched
as though electric shocks were continually passing through them. ... I lay down and tried to sleep — I
might as well have tried to fly." From a private letter of Lieutenant Greene, written just after the fight. — Ed.
1 1 was twenty-two years of age, and previous to joining the Monitor had seen less than three years of
active service, with the rank of midshipman. — S. D. G.
WATCHING THE "MERRIMAC?
76;
at the right moment did she secure the safety
of Hampton Roads and all that depended on
it, but the ideas which she embodied revolu-
tionized the system of naval warfare which
had existed from the earliest recorded history.
The name of the Mo?iitor became generic,
representing a new type ; and, crude and de-
fective as was her construction in some of its
details,* she yet contained the idea of the tur-
ret, which is to-day the central idea of the
most powerful armored vessels.
S. D. Greene,]
Commander U. S. Navy.
* In regard to this criticism of the Monitor, Captain Ericsson has sent to the Editor the following statement :
" Evidently the author refers to sea-going qualities, forgetful of the fact that the Monitor was constructed
to perform the functions of a river-battery, impregnable to Confederate ordnance of the heaviest caliber.
With reference to its properties as a fighting machine, the maritime world deemed it not only a complete
success, but a remarkable specimen of naval engineering. The Emperor of Russia accordingly sent the
accomplished Admiral Lessoffsky to study its construction and watch the building of the new fleet of Passaic
class of monitors — which, in all essential features, resembled the original. The Russian admiral, after hav-
ing been present during a trial trip from New York to Fortress Monroe, of the monitor Montauk (subse-
quently hit by Confederate shot 214 times) reported so favorably to his government that the Emperor ordered
twelve vessels to be built to Captain Ericsson's plans, precisely like the American monitors. This fleet paid
a visit to Stockholm immediately after completion, causing a profound sensation among the Swedes."
t On account of the recent death of the writer of this paper, which occurred December 11, 1884, soon after its
preparation, the proofs did not receive the benefit of his revision. The article appears substantially in the
form in which it was written, without changes other than verbal ones and a slight rearrangement of paragraphs.
Commander S. Dana Greene was the son of General George S. Greene, who was graduated at West
Point in 1823, and served with distinction throughout the Civil War, being severely wounded in the face at
the battle of Wauhatchje, near Chattanooga, Tenn., in October, 1863. He was appointed to the Naval Acad-
emy from Rhode Island in 1855, and was graduated in 1859. He served as midshipman on the Hartford in
the China Squadron from 1859 to 1862; as lieutenant on the Monitor in 1862; on the Florida in 1863, block-
ading on the coast of North Carolina; on the Iroquois, under Commander (nowRear- Admiral) C. R. P. Rodgers,
in 1864-65, making a cruise around the world in search of the Alabama, but without finding her, that honor
having fallen to the Kearsarge ; as lieutenant-commander on the Ossipee, Saranac, and Pensacola, in the Pacific
Squadron, in 1868 to 1871 ; as commander of the Juniata and Monongahela in the Atlantic Squadron, in 1875 to
1878, and of the Despatch in 1883-84; with intervals of shore duty in various positions at the Naval Academy
— 1865-68, 1872-74, 1878-83. He died at the Portsmouth Navy Yard, December 11, 1884, aged 44.
Of the services of Mr. Greene in connection with the Monitor, Captain Worden made the following offi-
cial record in a letter to the Secretary of the Navy : " I was ordered to her (the Monitor') on the 13th of January,
1862, when she was still on stocks. Prior to that date Lieutenant S. D. Greene had interested himself in
her and thoroughly examined her construction and design and informed himself as to her qualities, and, not-
withstanding the many gloomy predictions of naval officers and officers of the mercantile marine as to the
great probability of her sinking at sea, volunteered to go in her, and, at my request, was ordered. From the
date of his orders he applied himself unremittingly and intelligently to the study of her peculiar qualities
and to her fitting and equipment. . . . Lieutenant Greene, after taking his place in the pilot-house and
finding the injuries there less serious than I had supposed, had turned the vessel's head again in the direc-
tion of the enemy to continue the engagement ; but before he could get at close quarters with her she retired.
He therefore very properly returned to the Minnesota and lay by her until she floated. . . . Lieutenant
Greene, the executive officer, had charge in the turret, and handled the guns with great courage, coolness,
and skill ; and throughout the engagement, as in the equipment of the vessel and on her passage to Hampton
Roads, he exhibited an earnest devotion to duty unsurpassed in my experience." — Ed.
THE "MONITOR" IN BATTLE TRIM,
WATCHING THE "MERRIMAC."
In March, 1862, I was in command of a constant and rapid communication through
Confederate brigade and of a district on the relays of couriers and signal stations with
south side of the James River, embracing all my department commander, Major-General
the river forts and batteries down to the mouth Huger, stationed at Norfolk.
of Nansemond River. My pickets were posted About 1 p. m. on the 8th of March, a cour-
all along the shore opposite Newport News, ier dashed up to my headquarters with this
From my headquarters at Smithfleld I was in brief dispatch : " The Virginia is coming up
'M
WATCHING THE "MERRIMACr
■*.XiS#a=.:
14 ■• •
^-j W ?.J
'■■■■ -' ~
THE "MERRIMAC" PASSING THE CONFEDERATE BATTERY ON CRANEY ISLAND, ON HER WAY TO ATTACK THE FEDERAL FLEET.
the river." Mounting at once, it took me but
a very short time to gallop twelve miles down
to Ragged Island. Newport News, exactly
opposite, was an important Federal position
completely commanding the entrance of the
James. Powerful land batteries had been con-
structed, and a blockading squadron consisting
of the United States frigates the Cumberland
and the Congress (both sailing-vessels) had
been stationed there for many months.
I had hardly dismounted at the water's
edge, when I descried the Merrimac ap-
proaching. The Congress was moored about
a hundred yards below the land batteries,
and the Cumberland a little above them. As
soon as the Me?rimac came within range,
the batteries and war-vessels opened, fire.
She passed on up, exchanging broadsides
with the Congress, and making straight for
the Cumberland, at which she made a dash,
firing her bow-guns as she struck the doomed
vessel with her prow. I could hardly believe
my senses when I saw the masts of the Cum-
berland begin to sway wildly. After one or
two lurches, her hull disappeared beneath the
water, her guns firing to the last moment. Most
of her brave crew went down with their ship,
but not with their colors, for the Union flag still
floated defiantly from the masts, which pro-
jected obliquely for about half their length
above the water after the vessel had settled
unevenly upon the river bottom. This first act
of the drama was over in about thirty minutes,
but it seemed to me only a moment.
The commander of the Congress recognized
at once the impossibility of resisting the
assault of the ram which had just sunk the
Cumberland. With commendable promptness
and presence of mind, he slipped his cables,
and ran her aground upon the shallows, where
the Merrimac, at that time drawing twenty-
three feet of water, was unable to approach
her, and could attack her with artillery alone.
But, although the Congress had more guns
than the Merrimac, and was also supported
by the land batteries, it was an unequal con-
flict, for the projectiles hurled at the Merri-
mac glanced harmlessly from her iron-cov-
ered roof, while her rifled guns raked the
Congress from end to end with terrific effect.
A curious incident must be noted here.
Great numbers of people from the neighbor-
hood of Ragged Island, as well as soldiers
from the nearest posts, had rushed to the
shore to behold the spectacle. The cannon-
ade was visibly raging with redoubled intens-
ity ; but, to our amazement not a sound was
heard by us from the commencement of the bat-
tle. A strong March wind was blowing direct
from us toward Newport News. We could
see every flash of the guns and the clouds of
white smoke arising after each discharge, but
not a single report was audible. The effect was
unspeakably strange. It seemed a picture of a
battle rather than the reality. This flashing and
moving but silent panorama continued to fas-
cinate our gaze until near sunset, when the
wind suddenly falling, the roar of the cannon-
ade burst upon us in thundering majesty.
The Merrimac, taking no notice of the
land batteries, concentrated her fire upon the
ill-fated Congress. The latter replied gallantly
until her commander, Joseph B. Smith, was
killed and her decks were reeking with
slaughter. Then her colors were hauled down
and white flags appeared at the gaff and
mainmast. Meanwhile, the James River gun-
boat flotilla had joined the Merrimac after
WATCHING THE "MERRIMAC"
765
the sinking of the Cumberland. The Beau-
fort ran alongside, carrying her commander,
Lieutenant Parker, who received the flag
of the Congress and the swords of Commander
William Smith and Lieutenant Pendergrast.
These two officers were taken on board of the
Beaufort, but at their own request were al-
lowed to return to the Congress to aid in
the transfer of their wounded to the Beaufo?i.
But the land batteries kept up such a terrible
fire from heavy guns and small arms, that
the boats were driven back with loss, Lieu-
tenant Minor, of the Merrimac, among others,
being wounded in one of the boats of. that
vessel. Through my field-glass I could see
the crew of the Congress making their escape
to the shore over the bow. Unable to secure
her prize, the Merrimac set her on fire with
hot shot, and turned to face new adversaries
just appearing upon the scene of conflict.
As soon as it was known at Fortress Mon-
roe that the Merrimac had come out, the
frigates Minnesota, Roanoke, and St. Lawrence
were ordered to the assistance of the block-
ading squadron. The first was one of the
most powerful of her class, mounting forty
guns. The Roanoke was also a large steam-
frigate, and the St. Lawrence was a sailing-
vessel. The Minnesota, assisted by two tugs,
was the first to reach the scene, but the Cum-
berland and Congress were already past help-
ing. As soon as she came within range, a
rapid cannonade commenced between her
and the Merrimac, aided by the Patrick Henry
and the Jamestown, side- wheel river steamers
transformed into gun-boats. The Minnesota,
drawing nearly as much water as the Merri-
mac, grounded upon a shoal in the North
Channel. This at once put an end to any
further attacks by ramming; but the lofty
frigate, towering above the water, now ^of-
fered an easy target to the rifled gunt of
the Merrimac and the lighter artillery of the
gun-boats. The Merrimac narrowly escaped
getting aground herself, and had to keep at
a considerable distance, but she and the gun-
boats could choose their position, and they
raked their motionless antagonist from stem
to stern, inflicting great damage and slaughter.
She replied, undaunted, with her formidable
battery, and the gun-boats were soon driven
back; a shot exploded the Patrick Henry's
boiler, causing much loss of life, and disabling
that vessel for a considerable time.
In the mean time the Roanoke and St. Law-
rence were approaching, aided by steam-tugs.
As they passed Sewall's Point, its batteries
opened fire upon them, and they replied
with broadsides. Just at that moment the
scene was one of unsurpassed magnificence.
The bright afternoon sun shone upon the
glancing waters. The fortifications of New-
port News were seen swarming with soldiers,
now idle spectators of a conflict far beyond
the range of their batteries, and the flames
were just bursting from the abandoned Con-
gress. The stranded Minnesota seemed a huge
monster at bay, surrounded by the Merrimac
and the gun-boats. The entire horizon was
lighted up by the continual flashes of the
artillery of these combatants, the broadsides
of the Roanoke and St. Lawreiice and the
Sewall's Point batteries; clouds of white
smoke rose in spiral columns to the skies,
illumined by the evening sunlight, while land
and water seemed to tremble under the thun-
ders of the incessant cannonade.
The Minnesota was now in a desperate
situation. It is true that, being aground, she
could not sink, but looking through the glass,
I could see a hole in her side, made by the
Merrimac's rifle shells. She had lost many
men, and had once been set on fire. Her
destruction or surrender seemed inevitable,
since all efforts to get her afloat had failed.
But just then the Merrimac turned away from
her toward the Roanoke and the St. Lawrence.
These vessels had suffered but little from the
distant fire of the Sewall's Point batteries, but
both had run aground, and had not been
floated off again without great difficulty, for
it was very hazardous for vessels of deep
draught to manoeuvre over these compara-
tively shallow waters. When the Merrimac
approached, they delivered broadsides, and
were then towed back with promptness. The
Merrimac pursued them but a short distance
(for by this time darkness was falling upon
the scene of action, the tide was ebbing, and
there was great risk of running aground), and
then steamed toward Norfolk with the Beau-
fort, leaving her wounded at the Marine Hos-
pital. Among these was her brave commander,
Admiral Franklin Buchanan, who had handled
her that day with unsurpassed skill and cour-
age. The command now devolved upon Lieu-
tenant Catesby Jones, who the next day proved
himself a most able and gallant successor.
And now followed one of the grandest epi-
sodes of this splendid yet somber drama.
Night had come, mild and calm, refulgent
with all the beauty of Southern skies in early
spring. The moon in her second quarter was
just rising over the rippling waters, but her
silvery light was soon paled by the conflagra-
tion of the Congress, whose lurid glare was re-
flected in the river. The burning frigate four
miles away seemed much nearer. As the
flames crept up the rigging, every mast, spar,
and rope, glittered against the dark sky in
dazzling lines of fire. The hull, aground upon
the shoal, was plainly visible, and upon its
766
WATCHING THE "MERRIMAC"
black surface each port-hole seemed the
mouth of a fiery furnace. For hours the
flames raged, with hardly a perceptible change
in the wondrous picture. At irregular inter-
vals, loaded guns and shells, exploding as the
fire reached them, sent forth their deep re-
verberations, reechoed over and over from
every headland of the bay. The masts and
rigging were still standing, apparently almost
intact, when, about two o'clock in the morn-
ing, a monstrous sheaf of flame rose from the
vessel to an immense height. The sky was rent
in twain by the tremendous flash. Blazing frag-
ments seemed to fill the air, and after a long
interval, a deep, deafening report announced
the explosion of the ship's powder-magazine.
When the blinding glare had subsided, I sup-
posed every vestige of the vessel would have
disappeared; but apparently all the force of
the explosion had been upward. The rigging
had vanished entirely, but the hull seemed
hardly shattered ; the only apparent change
in it was that in two places two or three of the
port-holes had been blown into one great gap.
It continued to burn until the brightness of
its blaze was effaced by the morning sun.
During the night I had sent an order to
bring down from Smithfield to Ragged Island
the twelve-oared barge that I used when in-
specting the river batteries, and at the first
dawn of day I embarked with some of my
staff, and rowed in the direction of the Min-
nesota, confident of witnessing her destruction
or surrender ; and, in fact, nothing could have
saved her but the timely arrival of the
anxiously expected Monitor.
The sun was just rising when the Merrimac,
having anchored for the night at Se wall's Point,
headed toward the Minnesota. But a most
important incident had taken place during the
night. The Monitor had reached Old Point
about ten o'clock ; her commander had been
informed of the events of the day, and ordered
to proceed at once to the relief of the Mi?ine-
sota. His comparatively small vessel, scarcely
distinguishable at night from an ordinary tug-
boat, made her way unperceived while all atten-
tion was concentrated upon the conflagration of
the Congress, and. she anchored alongside of the
Minnesota about two o'clock in the morning.
As soon as the Merrimac approached her
old adversary, the Moiiitor darted out from
behind the Mi?inesota, whose immense bulk
had effectually concealed her from view. No
words can express the surprise with which we
beheld this strange craft, whose appearance
was tersely and graphically described by the
exclamation of one of my oarsmen, " A tin
can on a shingle ! " Yet this insignificant
looking object was at that moment the most
powerful war-ship in the world. The first
shots of the Merrimac were directed at the
Minnesota, which was again set on fire, while
one of the tugs alongside of her was blown
up, creating great havoc and consternation ;
but the Monitor, having the advantage of
light draught, placed herself between the
Merrimac and her intended victim, and from
that moment the conflict became a heroic
single combat between the two iron-clads.
For an instant they seemed to pause, as if to
survey each other. Then advancing cautious-
ly, the two vessels opened fire as soon as they
came within range, and a fierce artillery duel
raged between them without perceptible ef-
fect, although the entire fight was within close
range, from half a mile at the farthest down
to a few yards. For four hours, from eight to
twelve (which seemed three times as long), the
cannonading continued with hardly a mo-
ment's intermission. I was now within three-
quarters of a mile of them, and more than once
stray shots came near enough to dash the spray
over my barge, but the grandeur of the spec-
tacle was so fascinating that they passed by un-
heeded. Like gladiators in the arena, the an-
tagonists would repeatedly rush at each other,
retreat, double, and close in again. During
these evolutions, in which the Monitor had the
advantage of light draught, the Merrimac ran
aground. After much delay and difficulty she
was floated off. Finding that her shot made
no impression whatever upon the Monitor, the
Merrimac, seizing a favorable chance, suc-
ceeded in striking her foe with her stem.
Soon afterward they ceased firing and sep-
arated as if by common consent. The Monitor
steamed away toward Old Point. Captain
Van Brunt, commander of the Minnesota
states in his official report that when he saw
the! Monitor disappear, he lost all hope of
saving his ship. But, fortunately for him, the
Merrimac steamed slowly toward Norfolk,
evidently disabled in her motive power. The
Monitor, accompanied by several tugs, re-
turned late in the afternoon, and they suc-
ceeded in floating off the Mitinesota and con-
veying her to Old Point.
During the battle the Merrimac had lost
two killed and nineteen wounded. Her star-
board anchor, all her boats, her smoke-stack,
and the muzzles of two of her guns were shot
away ; but the important fact was established
that the guns then in use had proved unable
to inflict any injury upon the Monitor, and
that even the improvised armor of the Merri-
mac had suffered no very important damage
from the superior guns of the Monitor.
R. E. Colston.
RECOLLECTIONS OF A PRIVATE.— III.*
UP THE PENINSULA WITH MCCLELLAN.
/
/ / B\,
AN ORDERLY AT HEADQUARTERS.
THE manner in which orders are trans-
mitted to the individual groups of an army
might be compared to the motion that a boy
gives to a row of bricks which he has set up
on end within striking distance of each other.
He pushes the first brick, and the impetus thus
given is conveyed down the line in rapid suc-
cession, until each brick has responded to the
movement. If the machine is well adjusted in
all its parts, and the master mechanic, known
as the commanding general, understands his
business, he is able to run it so perfectly as to
control the movements of brigades, divisions,
and corps. In the early
spring of 1862, when the
Army of the Potomac was
getting ready to move from
Washington, the constant
drill and discipline, the
brightening of arms and
polishing of buttons, and
the exasperating fussiness
on the part of company and
regimental officers during
inspections, conveyed to us
a hint, as one of our com-
rades expressed it, that
"some one higher in com-
mand was punching them
to punch us." There was
unusual activity upon the
Potomac in front of our
camp. Numerous steam
tugs were pulling huge sailing vessels here and
there, and large transports, loaded with sol-
diers, horses, bales of hay, and munitions for
an army, swept majestically down the broad
river. Every description of water conveyance,
from a canal-boat to a huge three-decked
steamboat, seemed to have been pressed into
the service of the army.
The troops south of the city broke camp,
and came marching, in well-disciplined regi-
ments, through the town. I remember that the
Seventh Massachusetts seemed to be finely dis-
ciplined, as it halted on the river-banks before
our camp. I imagined the men looked serious
over leaving their comfortable winter-quarters
at Brightwood for the uncertainties of the
coming campaign. At last, when drills and
inspections had made us almost frantic with
neatness and cleanliness, we got marching
orders. I shall not forget that last inspection.
Our adjutant was a short old fellow, who had
seen much service in the regular army. He
gave his orders in an explosive manner, and
previous to giving them his under lip would
work in curious muscular contractions, so that
the long imperial which decorated it would be
worked up, under and over his nose, like the
rammer of a musket in the act of loading. At
that last inspection, previous to the opening
campaign, he gave the order with a long roll
to the r's : " Preparrrre to open rrrranks."
The ranks were open, and he was twisting his
mouth and elevating his imperial for another
TRANSPORTS ON THE POTOMAC.
Copyright, 1884, by The Century Co. All rights reserved.
768
RECOLLECTIONS OF A PRIVATE.
order, when an unlucky citizen, who was not
conversant with military rules, passed between
the ranks. The adjutant, pale with anger,
hastily followed the citizen, who was very tall.
The distance from the toe of our adjutant's
boot to the citizen's flank was too great for
the adjutant, who yet kept up a vigorous
kicking into air, until at last, with a prodig-
ious outlay of muscular force, his foot reached
the enemy, but with such recoil as to land him
on his back in the mud.
We formed in two ranks and marched on
board a little steamer lying at the wharf near
our quarters. " Anything for a change," said
Wad Rider, really delighted to move. All
heavy baggage was left behind. I had clung
to the contents of my knapsack with dogged
tenacity; but, notwithstanding my most earnest
protest, I was required to disgorge about one-
half of them, including a pair of heavy boots
and my choice brick from the Harper's Ferry
engine-house. To my mind I was now entirely
destitute of comforts.
The general opinion among us was that at
last we were on our way to make an end of the
Confederacy. We gathered in little knots on the
deck, here and there a party playing " penny
ante " ; others slept or dozed, but the majority
smoked and discussed the probabilities of
our destination, about which we really knew
as little as the babes in the wood. That we
were sailing down the Potomac was apparent.
The next day we arrived at Old Point
Comfort, and looked with open-eyed wonder
at Fortress Monroe, huge and frowning. Ne-
groes were plentier than blackberries, and
went about their work with an air of impor-
tance born of their new-found freedom. These
were the " contrabands " for whom General
Butler had recently invented that sobriquet.
We pitched our tents amid the charred and
blackened ruins of what had been the beauti-
ful and aristocratic village of Hampton. The
first thing I noticed about the ruins, unaccus-
tomed as I was to Southern architecture, was
the absence of cellars. The only building left
standing of all the village was the massive
old Episcopal church. Here Washington had
worshiped, and its broad aisles had echoed to
the footsteps of armed men during the Revo-
lution. In the church-yard the tombs had been
broken open. Many tombstones were broken
and overthrown, and at the corner of the church
a big hole showed that some one with a greater
desire for possessing curiosities than reverence
for ancient landmarks had been digging for
the corner-stone and its buried mementos.
Along the shore which looks towards
Fortress Monroe were landed artillery, bag-
gage-wagons, pontoon trains and boats, and
the level land back of this was crowded with
the tents of the soldiers. Here and there were
groups frying hard-tack and bacon. Near at
hand was the irrepressible army mule, hitched
to and eating out of pontoon boats; those
who had eaten their ration of grain and hay
were trying their teeth, with promise of suc-
cess, in eating the boats. An army mule was
hungrier than a soldier, and would eat any-
thing, especially a pontoon boat or rubber
blanket. The scene was a busy one. The
red cap, white leggins, and baggy trousers
of the Zouaves mingled with the blue uniforms
and dark trimmings of the regular infantry-
men, the short jackets and yellow trimmings
of the cavalry, the red stripes of the artillery,
and the dark blue with orange trimmings of
the engineers; together with the ragged,
many-colored costumes of the black laborers
and teamsters, all busy at something.
During our short stay here I made several
excursions, extending two or three miles
from the place, partly out of curiosity, and
partly from the constant impression on a sol-
dier's mind that his merits deserve something
better to eat than the commissary furnishes. It
seemed to me in all my army experience that
nature delighted in creating wants and with-
holding supplies, and that rations were want-
ing in an inverse proportion to my capacity to
consume them.
One morning we broke camp and went
marching up the Peninsula. The roads were
very poor and muddy with recent rains, and
were crowded with the indescribable material
of the vast army which was slowly creeping
through the mud over the flat, wooded country.
It was a bright day in April — a perfect Vir-
ginia day; the grass was green beneath our feet,
the buds of the trees were just unrolling into
leaves under the warming sun of spring, and in
the woods the birds were singing. The march
was at first orderly, but under the unaccustom-
ed burden of heavy equipments and knapsacks,
and the warmth of the weather, the men strag-
gled along the roads, mingling with the bag-
gage-wagons, ambulances, and pontoon trains,
in seeming confusion.
During our second day's march it rained,
and the muddy roads, cut up and kneaded, as
it were, by the teams preceding us, left them
in a state of semi-liquid filth hardly possible
to describe or imagine. When we arrived at
Big Bethel the rain was coming down in
sheets. A dozen houses of very ordinary
character, scattered over an area of a third
of a mile, constituted what was called the
village. Just outside and west of the town
was an insignificant building from which the
town takes its name. It did not seem large
enough or of sufficient consequence to give
name to a village as small as Big Bethel.
RECOLLECTIONS OE A PRIVATE.
769
MAJOR THEODORE WINTHROP. (AFTER THE PORTRAIT BY ROUSE.)
Before our arrival it had evidently been oc-
cupied as officers' barracks for the enemy,
and looked very little like a church.
I visited one of the dwelling-houses just
outside the fortifications (if the insignificant
rifle-pits could be called such) for the purpose
of obtaining something more palatable than
hard-tack, salt beef, or pork, which, with cof-
fee, were the marching rations. The woman
of the house was communicative, and ex-
pressed her surprise at the great number of
Yanks who had " come down to invade our
soil." She said she had a son in the Confed-
erate army, or, as she expressed it, " in our
army," and then tearfully said she should
tremble for her boy every time she heard
of a battle. I expressed the opinion that
we should go in-
to Richmond with-
out much fighting.
" No ! " said she, with
the emphasis of con-
viction, " you uns will
drink hot blood be-
fore you uns get
thar ! " I inquired if
she knew anything
about the skirmish
which took place at
Big Bethel. She re
plied by saying,
"Why, Major Win
throp died right in
yer ! " pointing to a
small sleeping-room
which opened from
the main room in
which we were. She
Vol. XXIX.— 78.
added, " When you uns were fighting, Major
Winthrop was way ahead and was shot; he was
a brave man, but we have brave men too." I
asked her if she knew who shot him, and she
replied that a colored boy belonging to one
of the officers shot him. During the en-
gagement, the colored boy, standing by his
master, saw Winthrop in advance, and said,
" See that officer ! Can I take your rifle
and shoot him ? " The master assented, and
the boy shot Major Winthrop. He was then
brought to this house. One or two days after
the fight, she said, the boy was " playing over
yon, in that yer yard," — pointing to the yard
of a neighboring house, — with his mate, when
the rifle they were playing with was acci-
dentally discharged, and the colored boy who
shot Winthrop was killed. " How old was the
boy ? " I asked. " About forty," she replied. At
the right of the road was an open, marshy piece
of land, and it was over this Major Winthrop
was leading his men when shot. The woody
intervale just beyond the marshy land was
occupied by the enemy's works, which con-
sisted of five rifle-pits, each a few rods in
length, and one of them commanding the
marshy opening mentioned. [Note. — The
above is but one of several different accounts
as to the manner of Winthrop's death. All
the facts that can be vouched for by his fam-
ily are given in the " Life," by his sister, Mrs.
Laura Winthrop Johnson (N. Y. : Henry Holt
& Co.) — Ed.]
While wandering about, I came to the house
of a Mrs. T — , whose husband was said to
be a captain in the Confederate service and a
" fire-eating " secessionist. Here some of our
men were put on guard for a short time, until
relieved by guards from other parts of the
army as they came up, whereupon we went on.
MRS. T S EXODUS.
77°
RECOLLECTIONS OE A PRIVATE.
A large, good-looking woman, about forty
years old, who, I learned, was Mrs. T ,
was crying profusely, and I could not induce
her to tell me what about. One of the sol-
diers said her grief was caused by the fact
that some of our men had helped themselves
to the contents of cupboard and cellar. She
was superintending the loading of an old farm-
wagon, into which she was putting a large
family of colored people, with numerous
bundles. The only white person on the load
as it started away was the mistress, who sat
amid her dark chattels in desolation and tears.
Returning to the house after this exodus, I
found letters, papers, and odds and ends of
various kinds littering the floor, whether over-
turned in the haste of the mistress or by the
visiting soldiers I could only guess. As I
passed into what had evidently been the
best room, or parlor, I found a fellow-
soldier intently poring over the illustrations
of a large book, which proved to be an
elegantly bound and illustrated family Bible.
Upon my approach he began tearing out
the illustrations, but I arrested his hand
and rebuked him. He resented my inter-
ference, saying, " Some one is going for
these things before the army gets through
here if I don't." It was impossible to keep
out the vandal "Yanks "; they flowed through
Mi;V
FEDERAL MORTAR BATTERY BEFORE YORKTOWN.
(FROM A PHOTOGRAPH.)
the house, a constant stream, from cellar to
garret, until there was no more any need of
a guard, as there was no longer anything
to guard. I felt so hopeless of protecting
the family Bible, that at last it occurred to
me that the only way to save it was to carry
it off myself. I gave it to one of our colored
teamsters to carry into camp for me. After
our arrival at Yorktown I hunted him up, but
he informed me that he had " drapped it."
No other building at Big Bethel was so dev-
astated, and I did not see another building
so treated on our whole route. The men
detailed to guard it declined to protect the
property of one who was in arms fighting
against us.
"GET THOSE MULES OUT OF THE MUD ! "
RECOLLECTIONS OE A PRIVATE.
After leaving Big Bethel we began to feel
the weight of our knapsacks. Castaway over-
coats, blankets, parade-coats, and shoes were
scattered along the route in reckless profu-
sion, being
dropped
by the
overload-
ed soldiers,
as if after
plowing
the roads
with heavy
teams thev
were sow-
ing them
771
home over comfortable breakfast-tables, with-
out impediments of any kind to circumscribe
their fancied operations ; it is so much easier to
manoeuvre and fight large armies around the
corner grocery, where the
destinies of the human race
have been so often discussed
and settled, than to fight,
march, and manoeuvre in
mud and rain, in the face of
a brave and vigilant enemy.
To each baggage-wagon
were attached four or six
I. — FEDERAL WATER-BATTERY
IN FRONT OF YORKTOWN.
3. — CONFEDERATE WATER-BAT-
TERY, CALLED BATTERY
MAGRUDER, YORKTOWN.
(FROM PHOTOGRAPHS.)
2. — EXPLODED GUN,
CONFEDERATE FOR-
TIFICATIONS AT
YORKTOWN.
4. AN ANGLE OF
THE CONFEDERATE
FORTIFICATIONS AT
YORKTOWN.
for a harvest. I lightened my knapsack with-
out much regret, for I could not see the sense
of carrying a blanket or overcoat when I could
pick one up almost anywhere along the march.
Very likely the same philosophy actuated those
who preceded me or came after. The colored
people along our route occupied themselves in
picking up this scattered property. They had
on their faces a distrustful look, as if uncertain
of the tenure of their harvest. The march up
the Peninsula seemed very slow, yet it was im-
possible to increase our speed, owing to the
bad condition of the roads. I learned in time
that marching on paper and the actual march
made two very different impressions. I can
easily understand and excuse our fireside
heroes, who fought their or our battles at
/
mules, driven usually by a colored man, with
only one rein, or line, and that line at-
tached to the bit of the near leading mule,
while the driver rode in a saddle upon the
near wheel mule. Each train was accom-
panied by a guard, and while the guard urged
the drivers the drivers urged the mules. The
drivers were usually expert and understood
well the wayward, sportive natures of the
creatures over whose destinies they presided.
On our way to Yorktown our pontoon and
baggage trains were sometimes blocked for
miles, and the heaviest trains were often un-
loaded by the guard to facilitate their removal
from the mud. Those wagons which were
loaded with whisky were most lovingly guarded,
and when unloaded the barrels were often
772
RECOLLECTIONS OF A PRIVATE.
lightened before they were returned to the
wagons. It did seem at times as if there were
needless delays with the trains, partly due, no
doubt, to fear of danger ahead. While I was
guarding our pontoon trains after leaving Big
Bethel, the teams stopped all along the line.
Hurrying to the front, I found one of the lead-
ing teams badly mired, but not enough to justify
the stopping of the whole train. The lazy
colored driver was comfortably asleep in the
saddle. "Get that team out of the mud!"
I yelled, bringing him to his senses. He
flourished his long whip, shouted his mule
lingo at the team, and the mules pulled frantic-
ally, but not together. " Can't you make your
mules pull together ? " I inquired. " Dem mules
pull right smart!" said the driver. Cocking
and capping my unloaded musket, I brought
it to the shoulder, and again commanded
the driver, " Get that team out of the mud ! "
The negro rolled his eyes wildly and woke up
all over. He first patted his saddle mule, spoke
to each one, and then, flourishing his long whip
with a crack like a pistol, shouted, " Go 'long
dar ! what I feed yo' fo' ! " and the mule team
left the slough in a very expeditious manner.
Thereafter I had an unfailing argument, which,
if but seldom used, was all the more potent.
The teamsters of our army would have been
much more efficient if they had been organ-
ized and uniformed as soldiers. Our light
artillery was seldom seen stuck in the mud.
When procuring luxuries of eggs or milk
we paid the people at first in silver, and they
gave us local scrip in change ; but we found
on attempting to pay it out again that they
were rather reluctant to receive it, even at that
early stage in Confederate finance, and much
preferred Yankee silver or notes.
On the afternoon of April 5, 1862, the ad-
vance of our column was brought to a stand-
still, with the right in front of Yorktown and
the left by the enemy's works at Lee's mills.
We pitched our camp on Wormly Creek, near
the Moore house on the York River, in sight
of the enemy's water battery and their defen-
sive works at Gloucester Point. One of the
impediments to an immediate attack on York-
town was the difficulty of using light artillery
in the muddy fields in our front, and at that
time the topography of the country ahead
was but little understood, and had to be
learned by reconnaissance in force. We had
settled down to the siege of Yorktown; be-
gan bridging the streams between us and the
enemy, constructing and improving the roads
for the rapid transit of supplies, and for the
advance. The first parallel was opened about
a mile from the enemy's fortifications, ex-
tending along the entire front of their works,
which reached from the York River on the
RECOLLECTIONS OE A PRIVATE.
773
FEDERAL CAMP AT CUMBERLAND LANDING, ON THE PAMUNKEY RIVER, FIVE MILES (BY LAND) BELOW WHITE HOUSE.
left to Warwick Creek on the right, along a
line about four miles in length. Fourteen bat-
teries and three redoubts were planted, heavily
armed with ordnance.
We were near Battery No. i, not far
from the York River. On it were mounted
several two-hundred-pound guns, which com-
manded the enemy's water batteries. One
day I was in a redoubt on the left, and saw
General McClellan with the Prince de Join-
ville, examining the enemy's works through
their field-glasses. They very soon drew the
fire of the observant enemy, who opened
with one of their heavy guns on the group,
sending the first shot howling and hissing
over and very close to their heads ; another,
quickly following it, struck in the parapet of
the redoubt. The French prince, seemingly
quite startled, jumped and glanced nervously
around, while McClellan quietly knocked the
ashes from his cigar. When I afterwards heard
McClellan accused of cowardice, I knew the
accusation was false.
Several of our war- vessels made their ap-
pearance in the York River, and occasionally
threw a shot at the enemy's works ; but most
of them were kept busy at Hampton Roads,
watching for the iron-clad Merrimac, which
was still afloat. The firing from the enemy's
lines was of little consequence, not amounting
to over ten or twelve shots each day, a num-
ber of these being directed at the huge bal-
loon which went up daily on a tour of inspec-
tion, from near General Fitz John Porter's
headquarters. One day the balloon broke
from its mooring of ropes and sailed majestic-
ally over the enemy's works ; but fortunately
for its occupants, it soon met a counter-cur-
rent of air which returned it safe to our lines
The month of April was a dreary one, much
of the time rainy and uncomfortable. It was a
Vol. XXIX.— 79.
common expectation among us that we were
about to end the rebellion. One of my com-
rades wrote home to his father that we should
probably finish up the war in season for him
to be at home to teach the village school the
following winter ; in fact, I believe he partly
engaged to teach it. Another wrote to his
mother : " We have got them hemmed in on
every side, and the only reason they don't run
is because they can't." We had at last cordu-
royed every road and bridged every creek;
our guns and mortars were in position ;
Battery No. 1 had actually opened on the
enemy's works, Saturday, May 4, 1862, and it
was expected that our whole line would open
on them in the morning. About two o'clock
of Saturday night, or rather Sunday morning,
while on guard duty, I observed a bright illu-
mination, as if a fire had broken out within
the enemy's lines. Several guns were fired
from their works during the early morning
hours, but soon after daylight of May 5th it
was reported that they had abandoned their
works in our front, and we very quickly found
the report to be true. As soon as I was re-
lieved from guard duty, I went over on
" French leave " to view our enemy's fortifi-
cations. They were prodigiously strong. A
few tumble-down tents and houses and seventy
pieces of heavy ordnance had been abandoned
as the price of the enemy's safe retreat.
Upon returning to camp I found rations
being issued and preparations for pursuit be-
ing made, and that very afternoon we struck
our tents and took up our lines of march, with
our faces turned hopefully towards Richmond.
A sergeant belonging to a neighboring regi-
ment, whose acquaintance I had formed
before Yorktown, jocosely remarked, as he
passed me on the march, " I shall meet you
on the road to glory ! " Later, in looking
774
RECOLLECTIONS OF A PRIVATE.
over the rude over to the Hampton road, and did not halt
head -boards till eleven in the evening, when we lay down
which were in our blankets, bedraggled, wet, and tired,
used to mark chewing hard-tack and the cud of reflection,
the soldiers' the tenor of which was, ' Why did we come
for a soldier ? ' Before day-
light we were on the march,
plodding in the rain through
the mire. By daybreak we
came out on the edge of the
dense woods in front of Fort
Magruder and its cordon of
redoubts stretching across
the Peninsula, which is here
OUTLINE MAP OF THE PENINSULA CAMPAIGN, BASED ON THE U. S.
MILITARY MAP OF SOUTH-EASTERN VIRGINIA.
graves near Williamsburg, I
found his name.
There was much talk of
buried torpedoes in front of
the enemy's works, and it was
rumored that one officer and
several men had been blown
to atoms by them; also that
the officer in command had a
force of Confederate prisoners
at work removing them. We
saw a number of sticks stuck in the ground narrowed by the head-waters of two streams
both inside and outside the earthworks, with which empty into the York on the one hand and
white rags attached, which were said to indi- the James River on the other. Here we had
cate the location of the buried torpedoes an opportunity of viewing the situation while
already discovered. waiting for orders to attack. The main fort,
Williamsburg is twelve miles from York- called Magruder, was a strong earthwork with
town, but the women and children, of whom a bastioned front and a wide ditch. In front
we were continually inquiring the distance, of this muddy-looking heap of dirt was a
gave us very indefinite but characteristic re- level plain, sprinkled plentifully with smaller
plies. A comrade in Hooker's division gave earthworks; while between us and the level
me an account of his experiences about as plain the dense forest, for a distance of a
follows : " Marching over the muddy road quarter of a mile, had been felled, thus form-
late in the afternoon, we found our farther ing a labyrinth of tangled abatis difficult to
advance prevented by a force which had pre- penetrate. A mile away lay the village of
ceded us, and we halted in the mud by the Williamsburg.
roadside just as it began to rain. About five " We were soon sent out as skirmishers, with
o'clock we resumed our march by crossing orders to advance as near the enemy's rifle-
RECOLLECTIONS OF A PRIVATE.
775
pits as possible. They immediately opened
fire upon us with heavy guns from the fort,
while from their rifle-pits came a hum of
bullets and crackle of musketry. Their heavy
shot came crushing among the tangled abatis
of fallen timber, and plowed up the dirt in
our front, rebounding and tearing through
the branches of the woods in our rear. The
constant hissing of the bullets, with their
sharp ping or bizz whispering around and
sometimes into us, gave me a sickening feel-
ing and a cold perspiration. I felt weak
around my knees — a sort of faintness and
lack of strength in the joints of my legs, as if
they would sink from under me. These symp-
toms did not decrease when several of my
comrades were hit. The little rifle-pits in our
front fairly blazed with musketry, and the con-
tinuous snap, snap, crack, crack was murder-
ous. Seeing I was not killed at once, in spite
of all the noise, my knees recovered from
their unpleasant limpness, and my mind grad-
ually regained its balance and composure. I
never afterwards felt these disturbing influ-
ences to the same degree.
" We slowly retired from stump to stump
and from log to log, finally regaining the edge
of the wood, and took our position near Web-
ber's and BrumhalPs batteries, which had just
got into position on the right of the road,
not over seven hundred yards from the hos-
tile fort. While getting into position, several
of the battery men were killed, as they imme-
diately drew the artillery fire of the enemy,
which opened with a noise and violence that
astonished me. Our two batteries were admi-
rably handled, throwing a number of shot and
shell into the enemy's works, speedily silenc-
ing them, and by nine o'clock the field in
our front, including the rifle-pits, was com-
pletely ' cleaned out ' of artillery and infantry.
Shortly afterwards we advanced along the
edge of the wood to the left of Fort Magru-
der, and about eleven o'clock we saw emerg-
ing from the little ravine to the left of the fort
a swarm of Confederates, who opened on us
with a terrible and deadly fire. Then they
charged upon us with their peculiar yell. We
took all the advantage possible of the stumps
and trees as we were pushed back, until we
reached the edge of the wood again, where
we halted and fired upon the enemy from be-
hind all the cover the situation afforded. We
were none of us too proud, not even those
who had the dignity of shoulder-straps to
support, to dodge behind a tree or stump. I
called out to a comrade, ' Why don't you
get behind a tree ? ' ' Confound it,' said
he, ' there ain't enough for the officers.' I
don't mean to accuse officers of cowardice,
but we had suddenly found out that they
showed the same general inclination not to
get shot as privates did, and were anxious to
avail themselves of the privilege of their rank
by getting in our rear. I have always thought
that pride was a good substitute for courage,
if well backed by a conscientious sense of
duty ; and most of our men, officers as well as
privates, were too proud to show the fear
which I have no doubt they felt in common
with myself. Occasionally a soldier would
show symptoms which pride could not over-
l 'tkf/
fMrt,
A TEMPTING BREASTWORK.
come. One of our men, Spinney, ran into the
woods and was not seen until after the en-
gagement. Some time afterwards, when he
had proved a good soldier, I asked him why
he ran, and he replied that every bullet which
went by his head said ' Spinney,' and he
thought they were calling for him. In all the
pictures of battles I had seen before I ever
saw a battle, the officers were at the front on
prancing steeds, or with uplifted swords were
leading their followers to the charge. Of course,
I was surprised to find that in a real battle
the officer gets in the rear of his men, as is his
right and duty, — that is, if his ideas of duty
do not carry him so far to the rear as to make
his sword useless.
" The ' Rebs ' forced us back by their
charge, and our central lines were almost
broken. The forces withdrawn from our right
had taken the infantry support from our bat-
teries, one of which, consisting of four guns,
was captured. We were tired, wet, and ex-
hausted when supports came up, and wre
were allowed to fall back from under the
enemy's fire, but still in easy reach of the
battle. I asked one of my comrades how he
felt, and his reply was characteristic of the
prevailing sentiment : ' I should feel like a
hero if I wasn't so blank wet.' The bullets
had cut queer antics among our men. A
private who had a canteen of whisky when
he went into the engagement, on endeav-
776
RECOLLECTIONS OF A PRIVATE.
oring to take a drink found the canteen
quite empty, as a bullet had tapped it for
him. Another had a part of his thumb-
nail taken off. Another had a bullet pass
into the toe of his boot, down between
two toes, and out along the sole of his foot,
without much injury. Another had a scalp
wound from a bullet, which took off a strip of
hair about three inches in length from the top
of his head. Two of my regiment were killed
outright and fourteen badly wounded, besides
quite a number slightly injured. Thus I have
chronicled my first day's fight, and I don't
believe any of my regiment were ambitious
to ' chase the enemy any farther ' just at pres-
ent. Refreshed with hot coffee and hard-tack,
we rested from the fight, well satisfied that we
had done our duty. When morning dawned,
with it came the intelligence that the enemy
had abandoned their works in our front, and
were again in full retreat, leaving their
wrounded in our hands."
After the engagement I went over the field
in front of the enemy's fort. Advancing
through the tangled mass of logs and stumps,
I saw one of our men aiming over the
branch of a fallen tree, which lay among
the tangled abatis. I called to him, but
he did not turn or move. Advancing nearer,
I put my hand on his shoulder, looked in
his face, and started back. He was dead! —
shot through the brain ; and so suddenly had
the end come that his rigid hand grasped his
musket, and he still preserved the attitude
of watchfulness — literally occupying his post
after death. At another place we came upon
one of our men who had evidently died from
wounds. Near one of his hands was a Testa-
ment, and on his breast lay an ambrotype
picture of a group of children and another of
a young woman. We searched in vain for his
name. It was neither in his book nor upon
his clothing ; and, unknown, this private hero
was buried on what was doubtless his first
battle-field. The pictures were afterwards put
on exhibition for identification.
The sixth of May was a beautiful morning,
with birds singing among the thickets in which
lay the dead. The next morning we marched
through quaint, old-fashioned Williamsburg.
The most substantial buildings of the town
were those of William and Mary College,
which were of brick. In most of the houses
there were no signs of life ; blinds and shut-
ters were closed, but a white hand was occa-
sionally seen through the blinds, showing that
a woman was gazing stealthily at us. Occa-
sionally a family of black people stood in the
doorway, the women and children greeting
us with senseless giggles, and in one instance
waving their red handkerchiefs. I asked one
of the black women where the white people
were, and she replied, " Dey's done gone and
run away." We kindled fires from that almost
inexhaustible source of supply, the Virginia
fences, cooked our coffee, sang our songs, and
smoked our pipes, thoughtless of the morrow.
And we quarreled with nothing, except the
pigs that wandered at will in field and wood,
and which we occasionally converted into
pork.
On our tramp to White House Landing,
on the Pamunkey River, we began to realize
some of the more substantial discomforts of a
march; the dust, rising in clouds, filled our
nostrils and throats, and thoroughly impreg-
nated our clothing, hair, and skin, producing
intolerable choking and smothering sensa-
tions ; our usual thirst was intensified, and
made us ready to break ranks at sight of a
brook, and swarm like bees around every well
on the route. No one can imagine the intol-
erable thirst of a dusty march who has not
had a live experience of it ; canteens often re-
plenished were speedily emptied, and, unless
water was readily attainable, there was great
suffering. During the frequent showers, which
came down with the liberality common to
the climate, it was not unusual to see men
drinking from a puddle in the road ; and at
one place where water was scarce I saw men
crowding round a mud-puddle drinking heart-
ily, while in one edge of it lay a dead mule.
There was little to choose between the mud
and the dust, and we usually had one or the
other in profusion.
Near New Kent Court-House, a little settle-
ment of two or three houses, we came upon
several Confederate sick. One of them was
full of fighting talk. I asked him what he was
fighting for. He said he didn't know, except
it be " not to get licked ! " "I reckon you uns
have got a powerful spite against we uns, and
that's what you uns all come down to fight
we uns for, and invade our soil ! " I could
not argue with a prisoner, and a sick man at
that, on equal terms; so I replenished his
canteen, and induced one of my comrades to
give him some of his rations. From the num-
ber of interviews held at different times with
our Confederate prisoners, I gathered the
general impression that their private soldiers
knew but very little about the causes of the
war, but were fighting " not to get licked,"
which is so strong a feeling in human nature
that I may say it will account for much hard
fighting on both sides. In one of the little
cabins surrounding the principal residence
were a mulatto woman and her children. She
was quite comely, and, with her children, was
pretty well dressed. She was a bitter Yankee-
hater, and, we inferred, the domestic manager
MEMORANDA ON THE CIVIL WAR.
777
of the household. She declared that " the col-
ored people didn' want to be niggers for the
Yanks ! "
Our corps arrived at White House Land-
ing, May 22, 1862, and here we found a large
portion of our army, which was encamped on
the wide, level plain between the wood-
skirted road and the Pamunkey River, oc-
cupying tents of all descriptions. Another
camp was located at Cumberland Landing,
a few miles below White House. The first
night of our arrival was a stormy and tem-
pestuous one, and it was evident that an at-
tack from the enemy was expected, as we
received orders to lay upon our arms. The
Pamunkey is navigable to this point, having
sufficient depth, but is very narrow, — in fact,
so narrow that some of the larger steamers
could not turn, for their stem and stern would
reach either bank, except at selected places.
The broad plain was crowded with tents,
baggage-wagons, pontoon trains, and artillery,
— all the accompaniments of a vast army.
Here some of the regiments who came out
from home in a Zouave uniform changed their
bright clothes for the regular army blue, and,
as marching orders came with the sunrise,
moved off the field, leaving windrows of old
clothes on the plain.
Warren Lee Goss.
MEMORANDA ON THE CIVIL WAR.
General R. S. Ewell at Bull Run.
WITH UNPUBLISHED LETTERS OF GENERALS FITZHUGH LEE,
EWELL, AND BEAUREGARD.
In General Beauregard's article on Bull Run, on
page 101 of the November Century, is this severe
criticism of one of his subordinates :
"The commander of the front line on my right,
who failed to move because he received no immediate
order, was instructed in the plan of attack, and should
have gone forward the moment General Jones, upon
whose right he was to form, exhibited his own order,
which mentioned one as having been already sent to
that commander I exonerated him after the battle,
as he was technically not in the wrong ; but one could
not help recalling Desaix, who even moved in a direc-
tion opposite to his technical orders when facts plainly
showed him the service he ought to perform, whence
the glorious result of Marengo, or help believing that
if Jackson had been there, the movement would not
have balked."
The officer referred to is the late Lieutenant-Gen-
eral R. S. Ewell, and the censure is based on the fol-
lowing statement on page 95 :
" Meanwhile, in rear of Mitchell's Ford, I had been
waiting with General Johnston for the sound of con-
flict to open in the quarter of Centreville upon the
Federal left flank and rear (making allowance, how-
ever for the delays possible to commands unused to
battle), when I was chagrined to hear from General
D. R. Jones that, while he had been long ready for
the movement upon Centreville, General Ewell had
not come up to form on his right, though he had sent
him between seven and eight o'clock a copy of his
own order, which recited that Ewell had been already
ordered to begin the movement. I dispatched an im-
mediate order to Ewell to advance ; but within a quar-
ter of an hour, just as I received a dispatch from him
informing me that he had received no order to ad-
vance in the morning, the firing on the left began to
increase so intensely as to indicate a severe attack,
whereupon General Johnston said that he would go
personally to that quarter."
These two short extracts contain at least three er-
rors, so serious that they should not be allowed to
pass uncorrected among the materials from which
history will one day be constructed :
1. That Ewell failed to do what a good soldier of
the type of Desaix or Stonewall Jackson would have
done — namely, to move forward immediately on hear-
ing from D. R. Jones.
2. That Beauregard was made aware of this sup-
posed backwardness of Ewell by a message from
D. R. Jones.
3. That on receiving this message he at once or-
dered Ewell to advance.
The subjoined correspondence, now first in print,
took place four days after the battle. It shows that
Ewell did exactly what Beauregard says he ought to
have done — namely, move forward promptly; that his
own staff-officer, sent to report this forward move-
ment, carried also to headquarters the first intelli-
gence of the failure of orders to reach him ; that no
778
MEMORANDA ON THE CIVIL WAR.
such message was received from D. R. Jones as is
here ascribed to him ; and that the order sent back
by Beauregard to Ewell was not one to advance, but
to retire from an advance already begun.
These mistakes, I am sure, are unintentional ; but it
is not easy to understand them, as General Beaure-
gard has twice given a tolerably accurate though
meager account of the matter — once in his official
report, and once in his biography published by
Colonel Roman in 1884. Neither of these accounts
can be reconciled with that in The Century.
Upon reading General Beauregard's article, I wrote
to General Fitzhugh Lee, who was Ewell's assistant
adjutant-general at Manassas, asking his recollection
of what took place. I have liberty to make the follow-
ing extracts from his reply. After stating what troops
composed the brigade, he goes on :
" These troops were all in position at daylight on
the 2 1st July, ready for any duty, and held the extreme
right of General Beauregard's line of battle along
Bull Run, at Union Mills. As hour after hour passed,
General Ewell grew impatient at not receiving any or-
ders (beyond those to be ready to advance, which came
at sunrise), and sent me between nine and ten A. M.
to see General D. R. Jones, who commanded the
brigade next on his left at McLean's ford, to ascer-
tain if that officer had any news or had received any
orders from army headquarters. I found General
Jones making preparations to cross Bull Run, and was
told by him that, in the order he had received to do
so, it was stated that General Ewell had been sent
similar instructions.
" Upon my report of these facts, General Ewell at
once issued the orders for his command to cross the
run and move out on the road to Centre ville."
General Lee then describes the recall across Bull
Run and the second advance of the brigade to make a
demonstration toward Centreville, and adds that the
skirmishers of Rodes's Fifth Alabama Regiment, which
was in advance, had actually become engaged, when
we were again recalled and ordered to " move by the
most direct route at once and as rapidly as possible,
for the Lewis house " — the field of battle on the left.
Ewell moved rapidly, sending General Lee and an-
other officer ahead to report and secure orders. On
his arrival near the field they brought instructions to
halt, when he immediately rode forward with them to
General Beauregard, " and General Ewell begged
General Beauregard to be allowed to go in pursuit of
the enemy, but his request was refused." General
Lee adds : " That this splendid brigade shared only the
labor, and not the glory, of that memorable July day
was not the fault of its commander ; and when Gen-
eral Beauregard says that he cannot help believing
that if Jackson had been on his right flank at Man-
assas the ' movement would not have balked,' he does
great injustice to the memory of a noble old hero and
as gallant a soldier as the war produced."
As to the real causes of the miscarriage of General
Beauregard's plan of attack there need be little doubt.
They are plainly stated by his immediate superior in
command, General Joseph E. Johnston, in his official
report, as being the " early movements of the enemy
on that morning and the non-arrival of the expected
troops " from Harper's Ferry. He adds : " General
Beauregard afterward proposed a modification of the
abandoned plan, to attack with our right, while the
left stood on the defensive. This, too, became im-
practicable, and a battle ensued, different in place and
circumstances from any previous plan on our side."
There are some puzzling circumstances connected
with the supposed miscarriage of the order for our ad-
vance. The delay in sending it is unexplained. Gen-
eral Beauregard says it was sent " at about eight A. m.,"
but D. R. Jones had received his corresponding order
at ten minutes past seven, and firing had begun at
half-past five.
The messenger was strangely chosen. It was the
most important order of the day, for the movements
of the army were to hinge on those of our brigade.
There was no scarcity of competent staff-officers ;
yet it was intrusted to " a guide," presumably an en-
listed man, perhaps even a citizen, whose very name
was unknown.
His instructions were peculiar. Time was all-im-
portant. He was ordered riot to go direct to Ewell,
but first to make a ditour to Holmes, who lay in re-
serve nearly two miles in our rear.
His disappearance is mysterious. He was never
heard of after receiving the order ; yet his route lay
wholly within our lines, over well-beaten roads and
far out of reach of the enemy.
Lastly, General Beauregard, in his official report,
gives as his reason for countermanding the move-
ment begun by Ewell at ten o'clock, that in his judg-
ment it would require quite three hours for the troops
to get into position for attack. Had the messenger
dispatched at eight been prompt, Ewell might have
had his orders by nine. But at nine we find Beaure-
gard in rear of Mitchell's Ford, waiting for an attack
which, by his own figures, he should not have ex-
pected before twelve.
It is not for me to reconcile these contradictions.
Campbell Brown,
Formerly Aide-de-camp and Assistant Adjutant-
General on General Ewell's staff.
Spring Hill, Tenn., December 29, 1884.
[correspondence.]
Union Mills, July 25, 1861.
General Beauregard.
Sir : In a conversation with Major James, Louis-
iana Sixth Regiment, he has left the impression on
my mind that you think some of your orders on the
21 st were either not carried out or not received by me.
My first order on that day was to hold myself in
readiness to attack — this at sunrise. About ten,
General Jones sent a copy of an order received by him
in which it was stated that I had been ordered to cross
and attack, and on receipt of this I moved on until
receiving the following :
IO & 1-2 A. M.
On account of the difficulties of the ground in our front, it is
thought advisable to fall back to our former position.
(Addressed) General Ewell. (Signed) G. T. B.
If any other order was sent to me, I should like to
have a copy of it, as well as the name of the courier
who brought it.
Every movement I made was at once reported to
you at the time, and this across Bull Run, as well as
the advance in the afternoon, I thought were explained
in my report sent in to-day.
If an order were sent earlier than the copy through
General Jones, the courier should be held responsible,
MEMORANDA ON THE CIVIL WAR.
779
as neither General Holmes nor myself received it. I
send the original of the order to fall back in the morn-
ing. The second advance in the afternoon and recall
to Stone Bridge were in consequence of verbal orders.
My chief object in writing to you is to ask you to
leave nothing doubtful in your report, both as regards
my crossing in the morning and recall — and not to
let it be inferred by any possibility that I blundered
on that day. I moved forward as soon as notified by
General Jones that I was ordered and he had been.
If there was an order sent me to advance before the
one I received through General Jones, it is more than
likely it would have been given to the same express.
Respectfully,
R. S. Ewell, B. G.
Manassas, Va., July 26, 1861.
General : Your letter of the 25 th inst. is received.
I do not attach the slightest blame to you for the fail-
ure of the movement on Centreville, but to the guide
who did not deliver the order to move forward, sent
at about eight A. m. to General Holmes and then to you
— corresponding in every respect to the one sent to
Generals Jones, Bonham, and Longstreet — only their
movements were subordinate to yours. Unfortunately
no copy, in the hurry of the moment, was kept of said
orders ; and so many guides, about a dozen or more,
were sent off in different directions, that it is next to
impossible to find out who was the bearer of the orders
referred to. Our guides and couriers were the worst
set I ever employed, whether from ignorance or over-
anxiety to do well and quickly I cannot say ; but many
regiments lost their way repeatedly on their way
toward the field of battle, and of course I can attach
no more blame to their commanding officers than I
could to you for not executing an order which I am
convinced you did not get.
I am fully aware that you did all that could have
been expected of you or your command. I merely ex-
pressed my regret that my original plan could not be
carried into effect, as it would have been a most com-
plete victory with only half the trouble and fighting.
The true cause of countermanding your forward
movement after you had crossed was that it was then
too late, as the enemy was about to annihilate our left
flank, and had to be met and checked there, for other-
wise he would have taken us in flank and rear and all
would have been lost.
Yours truly,
G. T. Beauregard.
General R. S. Ewell, Union Mills, Va.
P. S. Please read the above to Major James.
N. B. The order sent you at about eight A. M., to
commence the movement on Centreville, was addressed
to General Holmes and yourself, as he was to support
you, but being nearer Camp Pickens, the headquarters,
than Union Mills, where you were, it was to be com-
municated to him first, and then to you ; but he has
informed me that it never reached him. With regard
to the order sent you in the afternoon to recross the
Bull Run (to march toward the Stone Bridge), it was
sent you by General J. E. Johnston, as I am informed
by him, for the purpose of supporting our left, if nec-
essary. G. T. B.
Do not publish until we know what the enemy is
going to do — or reports are out — which I think will
make it all right. B.
Names of Western Gun-boats.
Mr. A. H. Markland, who had charge of the mail
service of the Union armies, and whom General Grant
has credited with the origination of that service, but
who disclaims the honor in favor of General Grant
himself, writes us that General Wallace is in error in
speaking of the steamboat which was the headquarters
of General Grant during the advance upon Fort Donel-
son as the Tigress. It was not till the Vicksburg cam-
paign that this boat was so used, the New Uncle Sam
being the vessel referred to at Donelson. By order of
General Grant, Mr. Markland took the latter boat from
Fort Henry to Fort Donelson, with letters for the
army. As the Union soldiers marched into the fort
on one side, messengers started to meet them from
the other with letters from home.
Mr. Markland also challenges Admiral Walke's
correctness in calling the boat commanded by the
latter at Belmont the Taylor. He says : " The boat
was never known as the Taylor while she was in the
service. Some of the officers wrote of her as the Tay-
lor, which was probably a slip of the pen. I was per-
sonally acquainted with the officers who commanded
her after Captain Walke, and without exception they
called her the Tyler when speaking of her. Every
official report of Captain Walke while in command
of her speaks of her as the Tyler. The official re-
ports of Admiral Porter speak of her as the Tyler.
In all the correspondence of General Grant, as well as
in his official reports, when he refers to her, he refers
to the Tyler."
To this Admiral Walke makes rejoinder by refer-
ring to the reports of the Secretary of the Navy of
1862, where, he says, " It will be found Flag-Officers
Foote and Davis and all the commanders of the boat
called her the Taylor (so named in honor of the
memory of General Zachary Taylor) instead of A. O.
Tyler, the name she had when she was purchased by
our Government ; and in all my correspondence she
retained the name of President Taylor (a national
name for a national vessel) while I had command of
her and until about a year after, when her name was
changed again to Tyler. (See Report of Sec'y of
Navy, July 11, 1863.)"
Editor.
Erratum.
Major D. W. Reed, late of the Twelfth Iowa, on
behalf of several members of that regiment, calls atten-
tion to a clerical error in General Wallace's article on
the capture of Fort Donelson, by which the Fourteenth
Iowa is credited to both Cook's and Lauman's bri-
gades of General C. F. Smith's division. In the first in-
stance it should be the Twelfth, which was engaged
in General Smith's assault. General Wallace probably
took the organization of the brigades from the official
table of casualties, where the same error occurs.
Ed.
THE WORSHIP OF SHAKSPERE.
A few years ago an enthusiastic admirer
of Shakspere, a fine critic of the plays, an ad-
mirable writer, in a lecture on "Antony and
Cleopatra," remarking on the death of one
of the dramatic characters of Shakspere, who
was described as " turning his face to the wall,"
said, sinking his voice to a reverential whisper :
" How did the poet know that ? Plutarch
does not mention the circumstance; none of
the old biographies contains it ; Shakspere
knew it by divination." The speaker evidently
regarded Shakspere as a prodigy of discern-
ment, a prophet and seer, who could look into
the deepest recesses of human character and
motive ; a profound philosopher ; a psychol-
ogist, to whose all-seeing eye the secret of
every heart was disclosed ; an intuitive soul ;
one who could foresee all the contingencies
of emotion, and trace to their predetermined
results the issues of feeling ; a king of spiritual
phenomena, whom the highest vision only
was adequate fully to understand, and whom
none who saw with conventional judgment
could understand in any measure ; one, there-
fore, whom the earlier critics misapprehended,
and later mastery, with finer discernment, first
appreciated ; a miraculous, universal, creative
man, prodigious, manifold, a paragon of hu-
manity, if indeed he might be called human
in any accepted sense of the word. That he
was no saint simply proves how far he stood
above every kind of technical excellence,
surveying like a god all forms of accredited
virtue, and from the serene heights of intelli-
gence looking down on the distinctions of the
ordinary moral sense. This is the tone of the
commanding criticism of our day. Shakspere's
brain is presumed to have teemed with thoughts
of life and death, of providence and destiny.
The book of human existence is supposed to
have lain open before him, and our attitude
must be simply that of adoring humility. The
deepest minds can only partly comprehend his
almost divine wisdom; the profoundest spirits
can but drop their plummets into this bottom-
less abyss.
Whoever would get the opposite theory
of Shakspere should read M. Taine's chapter
in the " History of English Literature." The
acute Frenchman gives the poet no credit
for superior elevation of mind, but rather
ranks him with inordinately passionate natures,
below humanity oftener than above it, of in-
finite variety, but of limited insight, grotesque,
excessive, fantastical, heated to inflammation
by overwrought fancy, and therefore distorted.
" Shakspere spreads metaphors profusely over
all he writes." " Metaphor is not his whim,
but the form of his thought." " The meta-
phors are all exaggerated." " His master
faculty is an impassioned imagination freed
from the fetters of reason and morality."
" He does not dream of ennobling but of
copying human life." " He accepts nature as
a whole, and finds it beautiful." " If Shaks-
pere had framed a psychology, he would have
said with Esquirol : ' Man is a nervous ma-
chine governed by a mood, essentially unrea-
soning, a mixture of animal and poet, having
no rapture but mind, and led at random by
the most determinate and complex circum-
stances to pain, crime, madness, and death.' "
" He had a sympathetic genius." " The most
creative that ever engaged in the exact copy
of the details of actual existence." " A spirit
wide enough to embrace at the same time
the two extremes of things." " Equally master
of the sublime and the groveling." "All-pow-
erful, excessive." The " Venus and Adonis "
M. Taine appears to regard as being Shaks-
pere's most characteristic performance out-
side of the plays. M. Taine, it may be
observed, fits Shakspere into a line of devel-
opment, as a naturalist might a plant, and
has no faith in any theory of idealism that
demands abnormal growths of mind. He
therefore is indisposed to allow faculties in
his subject which do not properly belong to
his circumstances. In other words, the poet
is a creature of his age, and may not in any
important particular transcend it. A poet
cannot, strictly speaking, be universal either
in his accomplishments or his aims. He is
tethered to his generation, and cannot surpass
his contemporaries in the substantial qualities
of thought.
In curious accord with this estimate of
M. Taine, though from a radically different
point of view, was the theory proposed by
Jones Very nearly fifty years ago. Very was
a spiritualist of an extreme type, a believer
in the soul's immediate intercourse with God,
a Christian who was convinced of the real-
ity of a supersensuous experience through
communion with Christ, a friend of Emer-
son in the early flush of the transcendental
period. He wrote an essay on Shakspere
which was printed in a little volume pub-
lished in 1839, under Emerson's auspices,
now out of print and rarely found. The
THE WORSHIP OF SHAKSPERE.
781
papers are not contained in the recent edition
of Very's pieces, which embraces poetical
works only. The essay on Shakspere is re-
markable for clearness as well as for maturity
of conception. The tone is thoughtful; the
spirit is pure and sweet. There is not a sen-
tence, not a word, that could give offense to
any adoring disciple of the English bard.
The effort is simply to get at the soul of the
poet. " Shakspere," says the critic, " only
elicits our wonder." At the same time the
claim to extraordinary insight into spiritual
realities is denied. Shakspere was a child of
nature, spontaneous and impulsive as a child.
He acted on instinct, had no egotism, was
full of life. The key to his works is the desire
for action. " For him everything lives and
moves." He is unconscious, impersonal, "not
so much a man as a natural phenomenon."
Natural existence was his permanent domain;
here he was supreme, unlimited in range, in-
exhaustible in detail. His fancy was exuber-
ant, and disported itself among phenomena
with the playful energy of creative power.
His mind was unceasing in its activity; every
kind of intellectual production was absorbing
to him; every sort of intellectual display inter-
ested him. He was not endowed with definite
will or purpose so much as with overflowing,
resistless force. He had no moral enthusiasm,
no moral emotion. Alike to him were high
things and low, good things and evil. He
was neither religious nor irreligious, neither
Christian nor unchristian. He was of no sect
in belief, of no school in philosophy. He was
not Catholic; he was not Protestant. He
was neither realist nor idealist. He was a
marvelous creature, but not a divine creator;
generate, but not regenerate ; instinctive, but
not inspired ; gifted with spontaneity, but not
serene as under law. Such is the notion con-
veyed by Very. On another occasion, re-
ported by Mr. Andrews in his introductory
memoir to the " Poems by Jones Very,"
while fullest acknowledgment is made of
Shakspere's genius, a distinction is drawn be-
tween genius and " wisdom." The question,
it is suggested, is not one of power, but one
concerning the source of power, whether
celestial or terrestrial. It is aside from the
matter in hand to speak of beauty, for there
are kinds of beauty. The verses are sweet
until a sweeter is discovered. In the essay
Very quotes Wordsworth's line in the " Ode
to Duty," in which the poet speaks of those
" Who do God's will and know it not,"
as describing a class to which Shakspere does
not belong, as suggesting a species of moral
instinct whereof he knew nothing, and with
which he could not be in sympathy.
Vol. XXIX.— 80.
From this passionate feeling of life results
the abhorrence of death as the cessation of
joyous energy that is so conspicuous a feature
in the plays. " The thought of death touched
him to the very center." The most forcible
expression of this aversion is contained in
Claudia's appeal to his sister in " Measure
for Measure " :
" Ay, but to die, and go we know not where ;
To lie in cold obstruction, and to rot;
This sensible warm motion to become
A kneaded clod ; and the delighted spirit
To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside
In thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice;
To be imprisoned in the viewless winds,
And blown with restless violence round about
The pendant world; or to be, worse than worst,
Of those that lawless and incertain thoughts
Imagine, howling ! — 'tis too horrible.
The weariest and most loathed worldly life
That age, ache, penury, and imprisonment
Can lay on nature, is a paradise
To what we fear of death."
This horror of dissolution as the possible
end is, it is surmised, the leading thought in
the tragedy of " Hamlet," the tormenting
agony of the prince, the secret cause of the
hero's procrastination.
"To be or not to be, that is the question."
The whole of the famous soliloquy throbs
with this one apprehension. " What dreams
may come ! " " This is the respect that makes
calamity of so long life." If death were noth-
ing but a sleep ! If one might his quietus
make with a bare bodkin ! His murdered
father has reappeared from the grave and
talked with him, yet he can speak of " that
bourn from which no traveler returns." " The
native hue of his resolution is sicklied o'er by
the pale cast of thought." He cannot deter-
mine, because he cannot make up his mind
respecting the future. He has no faith; he is
a skeptic. His reluctance to kill his uncle
at his prayers may be ascribed to the same
uncertainty with regard to the future, may
be, in fact, a mere suspicion that " something
after death " may be worse than life. This
doubt ' paralyzes his arm, makes him pause
before consigning the king to a happier fate
than' a remorseful life on earth. Death is hid-
eous, but the bare fancy that what may suc-
ceed death will possibly be more hideous still
checks his hand. He cannot strike, for he
cannot decide. His hatred is held in abey-
ance by his misgiving. A hesitating intellect
dominates his moral will. The crafty transac-
tion in the case of Rosencra?itz and Guilden-
stern betrays a distempered mind, over-
wrought by thinking. The horror of personal
dissolution, foreshadowed in the purloined
782
THE WORSHIP OF SHAKSPERE.
dispatches, renders him indifferent to the un-
merited fate of his companions. Shakspere
may here have simply followed the story, but
it is easy to see how the leading idea of death
and the future runs through the scene and
controls the conduct of the prince, which
otherwise would be at once treacherous and
cruel. His own life must be saved, for the
accomplishment of his purpose, ostensibly
at all events, as being his life. When at last
it becomes evident that he cannot live longer,
his purpose is executed in sheer desperation.
His doubts are not removed, but he cannot
deliberate further. The hour for thinking has
expired.
I have no intention of discussing the play
of " Hamlet," which so many eminent critics
have spent their strength on, but I cannot
forbear to mention the circumstances of the
conversation with Horatio by Ophelia's grave,
as throwing light on this theory of Very.
The possible future of great men, captains,
philosophers, clowns, as considered by a skep-
tical intellect, could not be more vividly
portrayed.
The notion that Shakspere was possessed
by the spirit of activity, by the joy of super-
abundant life, that he was instinctive, imper-
sonal, unconscious, a vital force of nature,
explains many things that perplex us when
we put the man alongside his works. It
accounts for the coarseness of which we have
heard so much. It is hardly enough to say
that this is due to the age he lived in, for it
conveys no more pollution than a Venus by
Titian or a Grace by Raphael. Indeed, the
marvel is that there is no more dirt in the
plays. The grossness resembles the ugliness
of nature, which is so subordinate to loveli-
ness that we scarcely remark it. The corrup-
tion is part of the scheme of things, which
could not be conceived without decay and
noisomeness. There are some facts that we
contemplate with disgust; but an expurgated
Shakspere is very much like an expurgated
universe, a world without a shadow. The en-
tire system would have to be altered and
made over new, if every disagreeable element
were excluded. The frolic glee must be
checked. The rotting leaves must be swept
up. The exuberant animal spirits must be
repressed. The riotous creative power must
be limited in sway. For the thread of fancy
runs through the whole composition, and can-
not be drawn out in a portion here and
there without injury to the work itself. Were
Shakspere the moral, spiritual, or even the
intellectual prodigy he has been represented,
he would have avoided ugliness and evil, like
Philip Sidney, or Thomas Moore, or the author
of" Religio Medici"; but he was no philos-
opher, or ethical teacher, or apostle of the
humanities. He was coarse because he was
natural, not from conscious purpose or from
the contamination of his age so much as from
overflow of impulse.
This theory explains the extent of his popu-
lar acquaintance with science, art, literature,
history, the performances of the human mind
in all its variety; his knowledge of law, medi-
cine, divinity, commerce, affairs, the manifold
concerns of men. He absorbed information
without seeking it. Facts gravitated to him.
He knew instinctively what the world was
doing. There is no evidence that he searched
problems profoundly, that he was versed, as
an expert may be expected to be, in knowl-
edges that lay out of his beaten track. The
arguments — there are a good many of them —
that are constructed to prove that Shakspere
belonged to one of the learned professions
because he had so much technical learning,
are more ingenious than convincing. By dint
of vigorous imagination, by straining expres-
sions, by putting into the poet's mind thoughts
he never entertained, by forcing popular lan-
guage to exact conclusions, it is easy to prove
him an adept in almost any science ; but the
words themselves bear no such weight of sig-
nificance. Among those who were often in
his society, there must have been many legal
authorities, medical practitioners, experts in
public and private affairs. His various sym-
pathy, his affluent conversation, his dazzling
wit, his adaptability, his approachableness,
must have drawn them to him and induced
them to open their stores of experience. His
democratic disposition — for we must presume
that before such a temperament as his all
barriers of rank and class disappeared — made
him at home with people of every degree,
and elicited from each the peculiar information
he possessed. To such a mind there could
be no secrets, no hidden places. But it does
not follow that there was special knowledge.
Indeed, this would be impossible except to
Omniscience. No created mind can know
everything. Besides, the arguments in question
refute each other. Shakspere could not have
been master of all professions, though he
might have imbibed the current ideas of each;
nay, could hardly, with his swift intelligence,
have avoided doing so. He had but to lie
abroad to do that, to act the part of a spider
at watch in the center of his web. Many
years ago I bought a little book entitled
" The Wit and Wisdom of Shakspere," and,
on reading it, was struck by the range of
consideration, the rapidity of glance, the
felicity of phrase, the familiarity with prevalent
conceptions, the intimate acquaintance with
proverbs, laws, allusions, sentences ; but I was
THE WORSHIP OF SHAKSPERE.
7*3
equally impressed by the absence of insight
into principles. The province of religious
sentiment was particularly vague, thin, unsatis-
factory; while of spiritual penetration there
was little or nothing, — convincing me of the
purely human level of his flight.
The impersonality of the poet is accounted
for on this theory of his passion for activity.
Instinct is ever impersonal. So is childhood.
Nature gives no sign of personal willfulness.
It flows inaudibly. One cannot hear the grass
grow. Day uttereth wisdom unto day, and
night showeth knowledge unto night. There
is no speech nor language ; their voice is not
heard ; yet their sound goeth forth to all gen-
erations. Whether it be true or not, as Car-
lyle taught, that self-consciousness is an evi-
dence of depravity, certain it is that the
intrusion of private peculiarities, whether per-
sonal, intellectual, or moral, is felt to be a
deduction from power. It is associated with
the controversial temper, with obstinacy, with
partisan or sectarian feeling. Saintliness is
impersonal, but such impersonality does not
belong to Shakspere, who, by general admis-
sion, was no saint. He was impersonal as
nature is, not as God is ; impersonal as one
may be who is entirely a creature, who is im-
mersed in the world, not as one may be who
is above the world. The ethical indifference
of Shakspere has been already referred to.
It is the moral unconsciousness of a child
who has not experienced the difference be-
tween good and evil, not of an angel who
dwells serenely aloft in the presence of abso-
lute perfection. One is not sensible of being
rebuked by these dramas. At most he won-
ders at the display of power. He may be
astonished ; he is not touched or overawed.
He does not fall prostrate to the ground.
Oftenest he is absorbed as in the unaccount-
able gambols of a kitten whose torrent of
strength is amazing. No sentiment of blame
attaches to its recklessness or its cruelty. It
is unprincipled, but it is bewitching.
Does not Very's view go far to render
conceivable Shakspere's strange disappearance
behind his works ? One of the hardest prob-
lems connected with the authorship of the
plays is the difficulty of supposing him to
have written them. It is not easy, on any
hypothesis of self-centered genius, to put the
dramas and their author together. This con-
sideration lends the chief strength to Judge
Holmes's argument against the Shaksperian
origin of the dramas. One is sometimes
tempted to regard them as a literature, the
product of an age, not of an individual
mind; but such a supposition is rendered
extremely improbable by the unity of the
whole series, as well as by the early associa-
tion of the collection with the name of the
actor. The failure of all attempts to show
that Bacon or any society of wits wrote the
pieces for a purpose, political or other, is
strong negative proof that they proceeded
from the brain of this man. The arguments
have so much value, to say the least. Had
they not been produced, the case they were
meant to overthrow might not have been es-
tablished. But the mystery remains why
Shakspere, having written as he did, so spon-
taneously and affluently, wrote no more.
Why did the flow cease except with life itself?
W hy were the poet's closing years conventional,
commonplace, ordinary, worldly, cheap ? Two
explanations of this may be offered. On
one hand, it may be said, the author had
written as much as he was compelled to. He
was well-to-do, prosperous, famous. He had
attained to the height of his ambition, and
could afford to indulge his inclinations, which
were those of a quiet citizen of a provincial
town. Stratford being his native place, it
was natural that, after the turmoil of a metro-
politan existence, he should wish to go back
there, buy a house, and spend the remainder
of his days in respectable ease. This account
of the matter would be sufficient if the plays
themselves had been of a character different
from what they are, less irresistible, more ar-
tificially planned and composed. But they
are not the work of a man of letters, or of any
mere artisan in literature. They do not seem
to have been deliberately purposed for an
object, to make money, express the feelings
of an artist, add to the number of existing
manuscripts. They read like the overflow
of a living mind. They are a stream from a
full fountain that ran because it could not
help it. A man who could have produced
those plays might, we should suppose, have
produced plays without end ; nay, must have
done so, as inevitably as nature creates grass.
It is not a question of age, but merely of
creative power. Nature does not sow flowers
everywhere. There are sandy wastes and
heaps of rocks where no verdure can take
root; the conditions for verdure do not exist.
So it may have been in the experience of
Shakspere. For, on the other hand, it maybe
urged that the period of energy was ended.
May it not be true that instinctive force has
a limit ; that the flood must ebb as well as
flow; that even an ocean is not always at high
tide ? The years of creative vitality having
passed, the teeming mind is at rest, quiet,
motionless, if you will. Shakspere becomes
an ordinary person, sauntering along the
streets, hanging over the gate, chatting with
his neighbors, in no way distinguished frcm
other townsmen. His energy is devoted to
784
THE WORSHIP OF SHAKSPERE.
the task of gathering up the fragments of his
former diligence. He cannot make new
dramas ; has no intellectual strength to make
them. The water is out. It never comes
again. He dies exhausted, in the fullness of
his physical vigor. What he did abides, but
to do more of the same sort was impossible.
Emerson agrees in the main with his
friend. His wonderful lecture on Shakspere
in "Representative Men" was delivered long
after he had read Very's essay. The spe-
cific views of that essay do not appear in
the lecture, which is learned and brilliant
far beyond Very's modest performance.
Emerson, nevertheless, suggests the earlier
critic's opinion from an independent study of
the poet's works. He cannot reconcile the
man with the plays, or any theory of conscious
effort. Without trying to pull Shakspere down,
he will not accord to him all the inspiration
that his adorers claim. " He was master of
the revels to mankind "; but the office of
master of the revels is by no means the high-
est. The master of the revels is not king or
duke, statesman or judge. The impression
left by Emerson's lecture is that, in his esti-
mation, Shakspere was a phenomenon, of
wonderful beauty, but destitute of spiritual
completeness. The absence of moral feeling
afflicted that serene and lofty mind. " Are
the agents of nature, and the power to under-
stand them, worth no more than a street
serenade or the breath of a cigar ? " " The
world still wants the poet-priest, a reconciler
who shall not trifle, with Shakspere the player,
but who shall see, speak, and act with equal
inspiration." " Solitude weighs Shakspere also,
and finds him to share the halfness and im-
perfections of humanity." " He never took a
step which seemed inevitable to such genius,
namely, to explore the virtue which resides in
these symbols and imparts this power, — what
is that which they themselves say ? He con-
verted the elements which waited on his com-
mand into entertainments." It is Emerson's
doctrine, to which Shakspere is no exception,
but a striking confirmation rather, that great
men are great only as they express the burden
of thought in humanity. " It is easy to see,"
he says in this very lecture, " that what is
best written or done by genius, in the world,
was no man's work, but came by wide social
labor, when a thousand wrought like one,
sharing the same impulse." " In the compo-
sition of such works the time thinks, the mar-
ket thinks, the mason, the carpenter, the mer-
chant, the farmer, the fop, — all think for us."
In conformity with this idea, no individual, it
would seem, could far outstrip his generation.
All views must be partial.
A serious, profoundly thoughtful man, who
had given years to the study of the subject,
used to say that Shakspere was deficient in
imagination philosophically apprehended. He
had infinite fancy, a boundless reach of sym-
pathy, endless variety, a keen sense of beauty,
a marvelous fund of imagery ; but he was
fantastical, eccentric, grotesque, wayward;
he lacked the sentiment of order, harmony,
symmetry, subordination of lower to higher,
that we associate with imagination ; his in-
sight into principles was neither sharp nor
deep ; his perception of analogy between
heavenly and earthly things was blunt. In
other words, Shakspere was not, in this critic's
judgment, a prophet or a seer, but simply a
poet whose eye,
" With a fine frenzy rolling,"
took in the appearances of terrestrial phe-
nomena. This man had no patience with
clergymen who quoted Shakspere to fortify
their opinions. Their duty, he considered,
was to proclaim the eternal truths of reason,
the intuitions of the soul, the divine messages
of God to men, not to indulge in the fanciful
lucubrations of the natural understanding.
This verdict, though on quite other, indeed
on precisely opposite, grounds, corresponds
with M. Taine's sentence. Taine is a nat-
uralist who confines himself to the region of
visible forms. The person I speak of was a
supernaturalist who dwelt in the world of
ideas, and believed in celestial creations, in
communications through Christ to mankind.
The concurrence of two such differently con-
stituted intelligences lends plausibility to their
view. There are certainly no more unlike
minds than Taine, Very, Emerson, and the
thinker I speak of; yet their judgment is es-
sentially, though not formally, the same.
Starting from opposite points, calling up dif-
ferent details of illustration, they nevertheless
arrive at similar conclusions, namely, that
Shakspere was not a seraphic creature ; that
even as a poet he had his limitations, if not his
idiosyncrasies, peculiar to his time and genius.
It is not denied that the " bard of Avon"
used a vast accumulation of stories that were
current among the playwrights of his day,
and in some instances may have followed
them literally, as in the tale of the caskets
and the quibble about the drop of blood in
the " Merchant of Venice," the episodes in
" Hamlet," and many instances besides. Some
of these remain as inconsistencies in the con-
ception of character, as in the sacrifice of
poor Rosencmntz and Guildenstern, the demo-
niac refusal to assassinate the king at his
prayers, which a great actor regarded as a
sign of moral depravity in the prince, and quite
incompatible with the idea of philosophic
THE WORSHIP OF SHAKSPERE.
7^5
virtue. The words and deeds of the Chris-
tians in the " Merchant of Venice " cannot
be reconciled with any lofty conception either
of justice or of mercy, though strictly accord-
ing to the sentiment of the age. Sometimes,
as in " Antony and Cleopatra," he adhered
closely to the story. Plutarch's " Lives " were
readily accessible through translations. An
immense fund of dramatic literature existed,
the property of the theater, not of individual
authors, and it was quite permissible for any
new playwright to submit plays to fresh treat-
ment. Along line of brilliant men — Marlowe,
Greene, Dekker, Webster, Heyvvood, Middle-
ton, Ford, Massinger, Beaumont, Fletcher,
Jonson — preceded or were contemporaries of
Shakspere. Into this rich heritage Shakspere
entered, and faithfully he used his opportunity.
He was an unscrupulous borrower, a debtor
in all directions. Malone computes that in
" Henry VI." there are 6043 lines, of which
1 77 1 were written by some author preceding
Shakspere, 2373 were written by him on the
form prescribed by others, while but 1899 were
wholly his own. Scarcely a single drama, if
one, was of his absolute invention. The argu-
ment that quality outranks quantity, that one
of Shakspere's lines is worth a thousand by
lesser men, that his touch changed dross into
gold, his glance turned nebulas into stars, is
valid only where Shakspere's lines are discov-
ered, orhis touches detected. Emerson is confi-
dent that Wolsefs soliloquy in "Henry VIII.,"
and the subsequent talk with Cromwell, betray
the first performer's hand. Perhaps he is right,
but the passages are of the more obvious de-
scription. Can plays of greater subtlety be
so analyzed ? Is it possible to take to pieces
I Othello " or " Macbeth " ? " The Tem-
pest " or " As You Like It"? Is not eulo-
gium of Shakspere on this score made on
general principles, and more or less in the
dark ?
That Shakspere was an actor is conceded.
The making and producing of dramas was
his business — a business then very popular
in London, much patronized by the multitude.
The player's calling was followed by the
brightest wits, as well as by strolling ranters,
•when they wanted to catch the- attention of
the people. The conditions of successful la-
bor on the stage were combinations of skill
in pleasing. Was not Shakspere, who made
money by the profession, obliged to conform
to these conditions ? Could he venture to
play the philosopher even if he were inclined
to ? Must he not attract the^ crowd to his
theater ? Did they go to be instructed, or to
be entertained ? Did they not demand that
I their mood should be met ? Did they give
their shillings for metaphysics, or for high
speculations, or for profound psychological
analyses of character ? Were they not drawn
by the hope of finding amusement ? The
familiar stories must have been in their minds
with such flavor of wit or brilliancy as made
them welcome to the palate. Dullness or dog-
matism or pedantry would have soon emp-
tied even those benches, as none knew better
than the manager. The supposition that Ba-
con and others made these tragedies and
comedies the covert vehicle for putlishing
their political heresies is sane in comparison
with the notion that Shakspere used them as
a medium for his philosophical lucubrations.
The psychology must have been as completely
hidden as the statesmanship. Success as a
playwright referred directly to popularity,
and popularity meant variety combined with
ease. It is evident that Shakspere did not go
far out of the path of common applause; that
he struck the happy mean of truth to the
current expectation, and was able, therefore,
after a few years, to leave the stage a pros-
perous man, having reaped the reward of his
surprising talent. Had he been a sage in dis-
guise, he would neither have fared so well
nor have stopped so soon. His mask would
have been stripped off or thrown off. If he
could have preserved his incognito as an
actor, — which is hardly conceivable, — he had
abundant leisure afterwards for expressing his
real ideas. The plays were not his amuse-
ment, as in Bacon's case they are feigned to
have been. They exhausted the mind that
made them, yet were the works of a player
still.
The plain truth about Shakspere is what
we wish to arrive at. No theories about him,
whether such as pull him down to the level
of his generation or such as exalt him above
all generations, are in demand at this junc-
ture. An instance of the latter tendency is
found in the common interpretation of the
character of Shylock in the " Merchant of
Venice." It is customary to make the play
end with the trial scene, as if that was the
natural close of the piece, the fate of the Jew
being regarded as the crowning feature of
the plot. The personification of the Israelite
by the leading performer, and the interpreta-
tion of the character in the light of modern
conceptions, add to the illusion. As originally
designed, however, Shylock was a secondary
and incidental personage, intended to repre-
sent the comical aspects of the situation. The
interest of the play centers in the loves of
Portia and Bassanio, of Lorenzo and Jessica.
Antonio is the grand figure. The Christianity
of Shakspere's day was a thing of creed and
ceremony, not of sentiment, still less of con-
duct. The Tew was a despised creature,
786
THE WORSHIP OF SHAKSPERE.
cringing and base, fit only to spit on and
kick about, and laugh at — a contemptible
being who can be cheated, robbed, derided
with absolute impunity. His daughter steals
his jewels and runs away from his house with-
out blame or compunction. The theft is a
good joke because it was practiced on a Jew
in the interest of a Christian. The elopement
is praiseworthy because Lorenzo is of the true
belief. The traits of Shy lock are described as
being greed for gold and aversion to Antonio,
whom he hates because he brings down the
" rate of usance " in Venice, and because he
is " a Christian." As I sat, a few evenings
since, and listened to Mr. Irving's Shylock,
the reflection forced itself upon me that the
Hebrew of Shakspere's time was not in any re-
spect the Hebrew of ours, that religion had
put on new attributes, and that it is prepos-
terous to apply modern ideas of equity or of
pity to the creations of three hundred years
ago. Think of Antonio 's petition to the Duke
that Shylock might have his life on condition
of his becoming a Christian ! After all that
had happened ! Would not the author of the
play open his eyes in astonishment if he
could see it acted in New York to-day ? The
picture of a Jew as cherishing pride of race,
or any kind of personal pride, would strike
him as inconceivably strange. Can it be be-
lieved that Shakspere anticipated the author-
ess of " Daniel Deronda," and the religious
hospitality of the nineteenth century ; that
the ideal Hebrew was in his mind, or the
vision of a brotherhood of faiths in his
heart ?
This example is chosen because it furnishes
the most obvious instance of the practice of
putting new wine into old bottles. There is
no objection to the practice so long as the
bottles keep the wine sound and good; but
what if the bottles burst ? What if the text
of " Lear," " Othello," " Hamlet," fails to
embody the various interpretations that are
put upon the main personages, upon Iago,Lady
Macbeth, Desdemona, Cordelia ? What if the
author was quite innocent of any metaphys-
ical intention ? An ancient jar, of accustomed
or graceful form, may contain water, milk,
beer, various kinds of vintage ; but surely it is
not just to credit the vase with its contents,
to say the jar turns the water into wine. We
are so much in the habit of imputing to
Shakspere premature ideas, that it is exceed-
ingly difficult to measure his language. One
is tempted either to make serious deductions
from his expressions as being overwrought
and excessive, as M. Taine does, or to load
them with thoughts which the words may sug-
gest but do not implicitly convey. Either
course is vicious, though the first is, perhaps,
nearer the truth of criticism as at present ap-
prehended. Even Emerson falls into the
vein of eulogy, as when he ascribes to
Shakspere the qualities of lover, statesman,
humorist, philosopher, sage. I well remember
how I was scandalized once by reading in a
now forgotten book, entitled " Woman and
her Era," how Shakspere painted women ac-
cording to his notions of the sex, and how
unfortunate the man must be who had not
met with finer girls than any he described, —
or something to that effect. I confess that to
this day, though my acquaintance with society
has been pretty large, the superiors of Portia,
Miranda, Rosalind, Isabella, to name these
alone, have not been seen. Thus there may
be exaggeration on one side and on the other.
What we want is the exact truth, if we can
find it. Much might be gained if we could
make allowance for the imperfections of the
plays, their defects of plot and development ;
their inconsistencies of character; the author's
indebtedness to his predecessors and contem-
poraries ; the literary usages of the period ;
the diction of poets and prose-writers, of
historians and wits, of courtiers and leaders
of society ; the peculiarities of the writer's
genius. The Shakspere Society has done some-
thing; the critics have done a good deal; but
scientific scholarship has still a task before it,
and the task in great measure consists in
the effort to get rid of the associations that
cluster round the name, and render apprecia-
tion all but impossible, so that none but
people of considerable discernment are able
to read Shakspere at all. They who peruse
his writings with ordinary eyes cannot under-
stand him, wonder often where his greatness
lies. The verdict of general readers, including
the multitude of bright-minded men and
women, would probably be adverse to the
claim of a few that here is a world-wide poet,
an " eternal man " ; while, if we could get at
the estimate of his time, we should possibly
be surprised at the difference of their judgment
from that of the commentators of our own
generation. The grudging commendation of
his contemporaries goes for something. Ben
Jonson's tribute has been taken for all it is
worth, probably for more. It points at qual-
ities which are not usually attributed to the
poet, whom we think we know better than he
did. With fullest acknowledgment of the
likelihood that Jonson thought himself the
better poet of the two, the greatness of Shaks-
pere could hardly have been so transcendent
if it was so easily overlooked. The silence
of his compeers is not without its significance
for us. Can all this be ascribed to inadequate
perception ? Matthew Arnold, in his sonnet
to Shakspere, says:
THE WORSHIP OF SHAKSPERE.
787
" And thou,' who didst the stars and sunbeams know,
Self-schooled, self-scanned, self-honored, self-secure,
Didst tread on earth unguessed at. — Better so! "
But is not this the very question, whether
Shakspere did know the stars and sunbeams,
— whether he was self-schooled, self-scanned,
self-honored, self-secure ? Would he have
been unguessed at if he had possessed these
high qualities ? Of course there is such
a thing as unappreciated genius, but a good
many have always paid it homage in its living
day. No Milton ever was " mute and in-
glorious " to almost the whole of his contem-
poraries. There was a large party that con-
fessed his greatness and admired his powrer.
The merely literary beauty was praised more
afterwards, when party passion had died
away, but the commanding mind was seen
and felt as it worked. In the case of Shaks-
pere there was no party passion, and the
mind worked freely on materials of its own
choosing.
It is a curious if not a noteworthy circum-
stance that Shakspere flourished near the be-
ginning of the century that is famous for the
decline of the sacerdotal and fanatical spirit,
and for the advent of the opposite spirit of
rationalism in politics as in religion. The ob-
stinate association of his name with that of
Lord Bacon, whose reputed authorship of the
plays, fanciful in many respects, is yet signifi-
cant in this, attests the drift of his teaching.
With the spread of " humanism," as it is
called now, with the final outbreak of the
genius of the renascence, the downfall of re-
ligious intolerance, the passion for Shakspere
augmented. The silence of his contemporaries
has been already alluded to. For a hundred
ye£rs his greatness was not suspected. Two
hundred years passed after his death before
laudatory voices were raised in any consider-
able number in his praise. The prevailing
traditions of the stage were all of another
character — heroic, sentimental, "classical."
The first clear notes came from Germany,
the land of anti-supernatural speculation, and
from Goethe, the apostle of literary excellence
as distinguished from evangelical credence,
the man of letters, the " realist," as it was the
fashion to term him half a century ago. We
all remember the penetrating glance that he
threw into the motive of Hamlet. The emi-
nent merits of Shakspere were made known
to the English-speaking world, unless my
memory betrays me, by Coleridge, a student
of German philosophy. The transcendental-
ists of New England, men and women who
exalted nature and who raised ordinary fac-
ulty to the heavenly sphere, celebrated the
poet of human nature and human life simul-
taneously with Goethe, Wordsworth, Shelley,
Coleridge. Shakspere's fame goes hand in
hand with the cause of education, nurture,
accomplishment, science, art, elegant cultiva-
tion, the varied play of social forces. The
serious people who dread dancing, frolic,
amusement, joyousness, the revelry of animal
spirits, dread the influence of this literature.
The renowned dramatist is too secular for
them. Should the new doctrine of evolution,
with its implications in regard to the origin
of mind, come to prevail, we may expect to
see the worship of Shakspere disappear ; for
this doctrine tends to remove the prestige of
individual intellects, takes mountains from
their place, and substitutes a slow, gradual
advance along an inclined plane for abrupt
invasions of genius. Until such a time shall
come, and it may not arrive within computed
distance of years, the name of Shakspere will
stand first in the list of those who have glori-
fied humanity in its terrestrial aspects. His
tragedies will report the movements of the
human conscience and the devices of the
human will. His comedies will present the
manifold capriciousness of human nature and
the singular eventualities of human existence.
He will be the favorite of the vigorous and
the bright-hearted, but not the companion of
the solitary or the oracle of the sage; a rank,
luxuriant creature who " warbled his native
wood-notes wild," but hardly an authority for
the theologian, or a pattern for saintly souls.
It is easy to concede his supremacy in his
sphere. It is difficult to grant that he was the
poet of all time, or of the upper regions of
space. To literary men he must always be
dear on account of the brilliancy of his style,
the terseness of his sentences, the variety and
aptness of his illustrations, the momentum
and the beauty of his expression ; but to purely
spiritual insight he will ever seem defective.
O. B. Frothi?ighani.
TOPICS OF THE TIME.
The "Century" War Series.
The reception which has been accorded to the first
papers of the series on the Civil War has more than
confirmed our belief in the timeliness and expediency of
non-political discussion of the leading events in the
great conflict. We had anticipated a cordial interest
in a subject of such immediate historic importance
upon which there is little or no systematic popular edu-
cation ; but we were hardly prepared for the almost
unbroken response of welcome which has greeted the
enterprise, whether in the generous notice of the press,
or in the large number of encouraging and helpful
letters that have come to us from all sections of the
country, or, last and most practical of all, in the ex-
traordinary increase of the circulation of the magazine.
For all this support, and especially for the courtesies
and valuable suggestions received from officers of the
War Department, and of the volunteer and regular
armies, and others, it is a pleasure as well as a duty
to make grateful acknowledgment here.
If the welcome has been somewhat greater than we
expected, so also the series is increasing every week
in resources of entertainment and instruction. Its an-
nouncement has brought to us unpublished original
documents of marked significance, and contributions
of both text and illustrations which will noticeably re-
enforce our plans. As we proceed, there is a larger
fund of pictorial material to be drawn upon, espe-
cially in the history of the Army of the Potomac.
Moreover, as those who had the direction of military
affairs awake to the fact that the enterprise has ar-
rested the attention of the public, and that it is con-
ducted without bias, they are increasingly willing to
contribute to it.
It must be confessed there are thousands of intelli-
gent people who would be ashamed to be ignorant of the
outlines of the Napoleonic wars to whom probably the
greatest conflict of ideas and arms of the nineteenth cen-
tury appears like "men as trees walking." There is
something perfunctory and sentimental about the belief
in the heroism of past ages ; we need to become familiar
with the valor of our own limes to realize of what man-
kind is capable. To many a reader of the younger gene-
ration who has begun these papers, the war was a sort
of miracle concerning which he knew little ; as his
knowledge of it increases it will be, like nature her-
self, more and more of a miracle ; and when he has
reached the Grand Review of 1S65 he will then be all
the better prepared by inclination and temper for an
examination of the real causes of the struggle, con-
cerning which the last word has by no means yet been
spoken.
We are aware that the present series is not all his-
tory, but even in its errors, its bias, its temper, and
its personalities, it is the material of history — what the
French call memoires pour seruir. It is not too much
to claim that when completed it will probably consti-
tute a more authoritative and final statement of the
events of the war as seen through the eyes of com-
manders and participants than has before been made
on a single plan. Collected, it will be an intimate and
authentic record such as has never before been made
of the war for the Union, or indeed of any military
conflict.
To literary and historical clubs these papers offer
a convenient adjunct and nucleus for a systematic
study of the general subject. Various veteran as-
sociations are wisely engaged in making record of the
personal experiences of their members, and to these a
generation hence the historian will resort for the sub-
stance of his final judgments. Meanwhile, the civilian
and the student have little or no benefit from these
rich materials. In every town or city to which The
Century goes a most interesting study of the war
could be carried on by the aid of the reminiscences of
officers and soldiers, and of the diaries and letters
penned in camp and bivouac, to say nothing of the
books and documents accessible in every library.
Doubtless investigations conducted in a historical
spirit would be the occasion of shedding important
light on the character of the conflict, or (as recently in
the case of a literary club of Cincinnati) the occasion
of clearing up misapprehensions concerning its origin.
To the thousands of new readers who have been
brought to the magazine by their interest in the war, as
well as to those older constituents to whom the war
papers are not an attraction, — if such there be, — we
recommend special attention to the other contents of
the magazine — to the fiction, the travel, the domestic
papers, the public discussion, the art, the humor — for
the most part drawn from American life. We are well
aware that its permanent increase of prosperity will
depend, not upon any special series or feature, but
upon the general character of the magazine.
An Undesired Guest.
The recent horrible continental outbreak of Asiatic
cholera has stimulated medical investigators generally
to make fresh attempts in the direction of penetrating
the mysteries of its pathology. Dr. John Chapman,
of England, the inventor of and strong believer in an
ice-bag, advances in the "Westminster Review " a new
theory, viz. : that cholera is essentially a nervous dis-
ease which is non-contagious, and owes its genesis to
causes which reduce the vigor of the sympathetic ner-
vous system. In riding his hobby, which he does in all
sincerity, and in a graceful literary manner, the author
puts out of the question to a great degree all the well-
established climatic, topographical, and other facts that
have been found to play so important an etiological
part. The element of local filth seems to have no
weight with him, and he regards Koch's microbe
theory as of no moment whatever. This is indeed a
bold way of accounting for the disease. Dr. Chap-
man's article is clever and suggestive, but he makes
the same mistake that he would if he were to consider
typhus and other zymotic diseases as essentially neu-
rotic affections, because the nervous symptoms are
dominant. In these diseases, as well as cholera, the
great derangement of the cerebro-spinal and sympa-
TOPICS OF THE TIME.
789
thetic systems is undoubtedly due to the specific influ-
ence of some poison, which we agree with him is but
imperfectly known ; that it does exist, however, can
hardly be gainsaid.
Dr. Chapman points out a fact which is and has
been known for a long time, viz. : the serious influ-
ence of fright, exhaustion, and other depressing cir-
cumstances in their relation to the spread of epidemics.
There can be no dispute about the fact that in time of
epidemics the ravages of disease are greatly helped by
panic and its belongings, and we are furnished with
numerous historical instances. The sweating sickness
of 1485 and 1506 was largely due to the superstition
and ignorance of the soldiers of the army of Henry
VII. Before the epidemic of 1506 the fears of the
common people were aroused, and a state of supersti-
tious horror was excited by the falling of a large golden
eagle from the tower of St. Paul's, which crushed in
its way to th£ ground a black eagle which ornamented
a lower building. This with other enfeebling causes
so demoralized the inhabitants of London that they
fell ready victims to the pestilence.
The psychological interest attached to panic is
worthy of close study. " Expectant attention," espe-
cially when of a depressive nature, is always likely to
lower the energy of all nervous functions. We find
isolated evidence of this every day, but there can be
no doubt that it has been an important factor in the
recent cholera epidemic, especially in Italy, where
instances of fanaticism and wild superstitious fear
were found among all classes.
The first outbreak of cholera in Moscow was at-
tended by a display of popular insanity which was
simply incredible, the mob breaking open the hospitals
and killing or wounding the medical officers. From
the history of other epidemics, it would appear that
the mental disturbance may even amount to halluci-
nations which are shared by many persons of a com-
munity. The prostrating effects of fear are well illus-
trated in those medical cases where collapse follows
the unfavorable dictum of the attending physician,
and individuals with a reasonable hope of recovery sink
and die. This is precisely what happens in time of epi-
demic disease. It therefore behooves the public, when-
ever a visitation of cholera is threatened, to keep cool,
to allay the fears of the excitable and to prevent
panic. The comparatively slight extent of the disease
in America in 1849 was largely due to this self-pos-
session ; and one of the English medical writers then
expressed himself as follows :
" The manner in which the epidemic that visited us
in 1849 was met and submitted to is a decisive proof
of this " (self-possession), " and shows that the mental
capacity and docility of the masses of mankind are
very materially exalted in the scale of moral beings.
Our Transatlantic brethren, the Americans of the
United States, surpassed us, we must own, in this re-
spect. No superstitious propensities were evinced on
either side of the ocean ; no fatal delusions, instigating
the populace to public outbreaks of a terrifying nature;
no disabling panics, no shameless libertinism ; nay, no
profane outcry, or brutish infidelity. But everything
was conducted with the most perfect self-possession —
soberly, humanely, and discreetly. The best means,
suggested by the best reason and knowledge, as far as
they went, were listened to, adopted, and resolutely
put into practice."
All this augurs well for the ordeal through which
we in America may be obliged to pass next summer.
Our present efforts, however, should be directed to the
removal of existing nuisances, which may tend to favor
the spread of the disease, should it come to us. New
York, despite its admirable situation, washed as it is
upon either side by rivers with rapid tideway, is
badly drained, the space between the piers containing
deposits of foul mud, organic matter, and sewerage
sediment.* This is due to the fact that the sewer out-
lets end abruptly at the ends of streets. In no other
great city in the world would such a state of things be
permitted to exist. Another grave and alarming dan-
ger is that which must arise from the scarcity of
water. For over two years the occupants of many
houses below Thirty-fourth street have not had water
above the first floor, and even the most carefully con-
structed hygienic plumbing must become a disease-
breeding nuisance. Upon either side of the city are
fat-boilers and "gut-scrapers," while thousands of tons
of decaying manure upon the river front fill the air with
noxious gases. These and many other evils must be
abolished, and such overcrowding as the papers tell
us existed not long ago in one house, where there were
fifteen cases of typhus fever, should be prevented.
Bearing in mind the fact that cholera is in large
measure a disease which begins with gastric derange-
ment, the importance is apparent of a rigid system of
food inspection, something much more rational than
that now followed.
But New York is not alone in the necessity for
prompt and continuous precautions. Every seaboard
town should be alive to its particular needs, which in
many cases are great indeed. Above all things, let
there be pure air and plenty of good water and whole-
some food. With these requisites, and with the vigi-
lance of intelligent, systematic officials, cholera, if it
should arrive at all, may be kept within bounds, and
the danger of a general pestilence may be averted.
Freedom of Discussion.
Thoughtful and unpartisan observers of the
Southern situation have long been watching with in-
terest the signs which show that the South is emerg-
ing from provincialism into a genuine spirit of nation-
ality and of intellectual freedom. The great test of
this advance is the growing liberty of opinion, as
manifested in the press and on the platform, and in
other quarters as well. Without this liberty of opinion
there can be, of course, no genuine solution of any
social or political question whatever — in the South
or anywhere else.
No essay on the subject of the freedmen published
for many years has attracted wider attention than Mr.
Cable's "The Freedman's Case in Equity," in the
January Century. The reception of this essay in the
Southern States (though not unaccompanied by some
amusing reminders of the good old-fashioned bowie-
knife and fire-eating days) would seem to be a new proof
that the Southern people admit of the honest and free
discussion of burning questions in a manner which has
not always been characteristic of that section. Not
only does the South admit the distasteful opinions of
*See Colonel Waring on "The Sanitary Condition of New
York," in this magazine for May and June, 1881.
79°
OPEN LETTERS.
thinkers from other sections, but, what is still more
noticeable, it is increasingly tolerant of differences of
opinion among its own writers. When one considers
the intolerance recently manifested in the North and
West in the matter of political independence, and the
spirit of " boycotting " shown toward certain North-
ern leaders and periodicals, and when one sees this
new attitude of Southern newspapers and leaders,
one has food for reflection. Evidently a great many
changes have taken place in this country during the
past twenty years.
A number of more or less dissenting essays and
" Open Letters " have come to us from the South since
the publication of Mr. Cable's last article, but we
have thought best to confine the reply, at present, to
a single representative essay of some length, which is
now in preparation, and which will appear in an early
number of The Century.
OPEN LETTERS.
The Claims ol Chicago.
In the September number of The Century, 1883, is
an article entitled " Will New York be the Final World
Metropolis ? " in which the author aims to prove the
affirmative of this inquiry. Now, while every one is
willing to acknowledge that, so far as this country is
concerned, New York from the stand-point of to-day
is far in advance of any competitor, it is not so very
clear that she will ultimately have the predicted world-
wide preeminence. But, dismissing all question of
competition from other countries, let us consider
whether there may not be in our own land, and far
removed from salt water, some aspirant to a higher
position in population, trade, and finance.
The great majority of mankind " have no way of
judging of the future but by the past." In deference
to this characteristic trait of the many, let us consider
for a while what the world's history thus far teaches
us in the way of urban development. The great cities
of Europe, notwithstanding the wonderful change
which has taken place in the methods by which busi-
ness has been conducted, maintain very nearly the
same relative rank as they did sixty years ago, and
the establishment of seaports does not seem mate-
rially to affect the cities of the interior. London and
Paris, Vienna and Berlin, still hold their own, and a
good deal more ; and if Venice has long since been
"crushed" and gone to seed, it is mainly because it
had no territory of its own, and the conditions regu-
lating trade in its day of prosperity, some four or fiva
hundred years ago, have passed away.
It is from the land, and not from the sea, that the
larger cities of to-day must derive their main support
and continued prosperity. The sea in itself produces
but little in comparison, and serves in matters of busi-
ness chiefly as a highway of communication. It is the
land that tells, provided the soil is good and the cli-
mate fair. As a gentleman from San Francisco said
to the writer, who had made some flattering remarks
as to its rapid progress and promising future, "After
all, it stands to reason that a city like Chicago, which
has land all around it, has a much better show than a
city which has land only on one side." t
Let us see what time has brought about in some of
the older nations.
In China, united under one government, homogene-
ous in its population, and where a certain facility of
communication and a peaceful history have allowed
free scope in its business developments, we find by
far the most populous and important city situated at
or near the center of its most fertile and productive
territory, — a city excelling in numbers the aggregate
of Canton, Shanghai, and Peking combined, and whose
pulsations of trade are felt to the utmost limits of the
empire.
Hue, the Jesuit missionary, who spent ten years in
China proper, learned its language, and traveled ex-
tensively over every part of it, after expressing his
surprise at the intense business activity which first
met his eyes at the seaports, goes on to say : "And yet,
when one has not penetrated to the center of the
empire, when one has not seen the great towns of
Han-yang, Wochang-fou, and Han-kow, facing one
another, it is impossible to form an adequate idea of
the amount of its internal trade." The population of
this great triple city, situated on the Yang-tse-kiang
river at the junction of one of its principal branches,
was, before the Taeping rebellion, estimated at eight
millions, and Hue was astonished " to see vessels of
such size and in such numbers in the very middle of
China."
If the same development has not taken place in
Hindostan (with its two hundred and fifty millions), it
may be attributed to the following causes : First, that
there are no navigable rivers connecting with the in-
terior, and until very lately no means of easy com-
munication ; secondly, that before the British occupa-
tion the country was divided up into diverse and
hostile nationalities, creeds, and governments ; and,
lastly, because the English since they have held sway
have as a matter of business and governmental policy
endeavored to draw its commerce toward the sea-
coast, where it could be more easily supervised and
controlled. The other parts of Asia, either in conse-
quence of rigorous climate or sterile and arid soils,
are hardly worth considering in this regard.
It may be fairly questioned whether England as a
nation, and London as its metropolis, did not at the
outset owe their progress to the fact that as a whole
the kingdom had the best soil in Europe. London,
the world's present center of trade, is a long way in
advance of New York, and is situated nearer the
greatest aggregations of civilized communities ; and it
is all useless to consider New York a dangerous com-
petitor so long as she can deal with her foreign cus-
tomers only through the agency of foreign shipping,
notwithstanding this country furnishes the great bulk
of the commerce of the Atlantic Ocean. England is
different from an extensive and self-sustaining country
in its commercial aspect, inasmuch as she is obliged
from her limited area and insular position to obtain a
OPEN LETTERS.
791
large portion of her supplies of food and raw materials
from abroad ; and her commerce has kept pace with this
growing necessity, a source of power and wealth in
time of peace, and of solicitude and weakness on the
interruption of amicable relations with other powers.
In a limited territory like that of England a strictly
central position for its chief city is not of so much
importance.
France has the next best soil in Europe, and Paris
is the result — a city which holds its own wonderfully
well, in spite of its want of a free communication with
salt water. It is substantially an interior city, though
not so centrally located as Berlin and Vienna, whose
rapid progress of late years is a matter of surprise to
all those who have not closely considered its causes.
St. Petersburg, at the head of the Gulf of Finland,
owes its origin to an imperial mandate, and not to the
requirements of trade. It has a considerable territory
on all sides of it, but cannot compete in the traffic in-
duced by Moscow's central position. The great trade,
where it has free scope, of most of the extensive coun-
tries of the world is the internal trade. The exports
of a country are mainly of its surplus products, while the
great internal trade deals in the aggregate productions.
There is no comparison in this country between the
two, the latter being probably ten times the former in
quantity and value ; and it is to the development of
this internal trade that we must look for the develop-
ment of our larger cities. Wherever there is a very
large population in any country, and especially in a
civilized country, a large business is a necessary re-
sult ; and, with free communications from all quarters,
that business or trade naturally converges toward the
geographical and population center of the territory, if
settled uniformly, or approximately so, in point of
numbers.
It is generally admitted that the Mississippi Valley
is capable of sustaining, and will in the future sustain,
an immense population. And yet most persons' opin-
ions in this regard are of a rather crude and indefinite
sort, accepting the broad facts without caring to
ask why it is so, unless for plain reasons which are
patent to every one. The primary reason is that it has
the best land in endless quantities. It has also^a fair
climate, and generally an abundant supply of coal,
hardly excelled in this last respect in any portion of
this or any other country, the coal area in Illinois
alone being four or five times as great as that of Great
Britain, and the coal selling at retail in many parts of
the State at the low price of one dollar and a half per
ton. The earlier settlements in the country naturally
clung to the Atlantic coast, and it is only since the com-
mencement of the present century that population began
to flow freely into the Western States ; while the pres-
tige acquired by the maritime cities has given them an
impetus which is still felt, though the cause for their
establishment and growth has lost somewhat of its rel-
ative power. Now, however, the day of rapid increase
has passed away. The Southern States may have a
new dawn of prosperity ; but at the present time, and
for very many years to come, the West and North-
west promise the most rapid increase in numbers and
wealth. Let us endeavor to form some estimate of the
capabilities of this vast interior region for the suste-
nance of a dense and enormous population. The val-
ley of the upper Mississippi and its confluents is com-
posed almost entirely of arable and fertile land, and
there seems to be no good reason why it should not
support as dense a population as any country in
the world. England to-day has about 500 inhabitants
to the square mile ; Belgium has about the same num-
ber ; and the three most densely populated provinces
of China have an average of over 700. The great
wheat-field of the continent may be considered as ex-
tending from the eastern boundary of Ohio to the
western boundary of Nebraska, and from the southern
boundary of Kentucky to the Peace River in the Brit-
ish Possessions. Estimating this territory as 1500
miles from east to west, and 2000 miles from north to
south, we have an area of 3,000,000 square miles
of arable and fertile land. There is no parallel to
this on the face of the earth. If we suppose one
million out of the three millions of square miles settled
to about one-third of the density specified in the
above cases, or about 200 to the square mile, we have,
as a result, 200,000,000 people, who would consume
probably per capita fully twice the amount consumed
in other civilized countries, which would, in a busi-
ness point of view, represent the consumption of
400,000,000 Europeans. 'Tis hardly worth while to
expatiate on the immense amount of traffic which
such a population will develop, as it must be self-evi-
dent. Of course these surmises apply to a distant fu-
ture. Assuming, then, that a vast volume of business
is a necessary consequence in the case, it follows that
with such a net-work of railroads and their facilities
for the transportation of passengers or freight, in a
country yet in a formative process, a greater con-
centration of its trade will occur than has heretofore
resulted in any other nation. As an evidence of this
so far, St. Louis and Chicago are almost alone in the
division of this great north-western trade, there being
in all that immense region only one other city (Mil-
waukee) that has over 100,000 inhabitants. The next
largest city to Chicago in Illinois has less than 40,000.
Any reliable information of the size of the cities of
China is difficult to obtain, but it is probable there are
twenty cities there with a population of over a million
each, though we hear of but few besides Canton,
Shanghai, and Peking. If this empire had had in times
past as perfect facilities of communication as we have
here, we should have found much fewer although
much larger cities as the result, and even Han-kow
would have doubled its former enormous popula-
tion. As the population increases, we shall consume
more of our products of the soil and manufacture more
of textile fabrics and other articles that we need, and
the occupation of the ports as factors in surplus prod-
ucts both in exports and imports will be relatively
diminished ; and the main mission of the Atlantic, Pa-
cific, and Gulf of Mexico ports may be as purveyors
to the wants and distributers of the products of this
great, populous, and central region of the continent,
excepting so much as may possibly in the future find
its ingress and egress by the way of the lakes and the
St. Lawrence River.
Now, as a necessary consequence of the dense set-
tlement of a territory like this, having every requisite
for the development of all the agricultural, manufactur-
ing, mining, and commercial industries on the grand-
est scale, with most perfect transport facilities, must
be the establishment and growth of some great central
792
OPEN LETTERS.
leading mart, most easily accessible from all parts,
where the great exchanges of this region can be the
most speedily and advantageously effected. Where
will this point be ?
The census of 1880, s.howing that Chicago had
150,000 inhabitants in excess of its strongest competi-
tor (St. Louis), gives it the lead at present of all the
cities of the interior, and a lead which, from the out-
look of to-day, it seems likely to maintain. Situated
at the head of Lake Michigan, the terminus of naviga-
tion of these inland waters, and on the watershed of
this part of the continent, a canal of less than one
hundred miles connects the waters of the lakes with
the Illinois River, forming a continuous line of navi-
gation of 5000 miles from the Gulf of St. Lawrence to
the Gulf of Mexico, running through the heart of the
country, and of which Chicago is the central point.
In addition to this, the old adage that " all roads lead
to Rome " may find a new application. If we cast a
glance at a good railroad map of the United States,
where all the routes are plainly laid down, the eye is
instinctively directed to Chicago as the point toward
which by far the larger number converge. Five great
trunk lines lead to the Atlantic ; five more trunk lines
will soon be completed to the Pacific; five more to
Mexico and its Gulf, with an indefinite number toward
the north and north-west, all of which have virtually
their termini at this point ; and these, with their mul-
tifarious branches, necessitate the arrival and depart-
ure of a thousand trains a day. Lakes Michigan and
Superior extend 500 miles to the north, forming an
effectual barrier for a large portion of the year to any
direct transit, either of freight or passengers, between
the North-west and the East ; and all this business of
necessity is forced for that portion of the year round
the head of the lake and through Chicago. This gives
it rather an exceptional position, the like of which is
to be found in no city of the United States, as all other
points can be "flanked" (so to speak) without loss
of time or additional expense. With such advantages
as these it would seem unnecessary to dwell upon the
inevitable result — a large and rapidly growing trade,
and a very large population. Few persons at the
East have any adequate idea of the activity of the lake
trade, and are hardly prepared to learn that the entries
and clearances of this port in 1 881, for the period of
eight months, and as recorded in this Custom House,
were 26,029, or 29 more than New York, Philadelphia,
and San Francisco combined for the whole year.
This is exclusively, or nearly so, the trade of the
lakes, the vessels employed in the trade being from
100 to 2000 tons burden. The enlarging and deepen-
ing of the St. Lawrence Canal will materially increase
this amount, and vessels of 1500 to 2000 tons can
run with their cargoes direct from foreign to the lake
ports, without breaking bulk, for six months in the
year. A few years since the writer received a letter
from an English firm suggesting the establishment
of a line of first-class steamers to run directly from
Liverpool to Chicago. The proposition was of course
premature, but we may rest well assured that sooner
or later it will be accomplished.
The Canadians apparently are not pushing these
works with much energy, under the impression that
the through passage of these ships might deprive them
of the advantages of reshipment which they now en-
joy. The idea some of the English merchants have,
that an outlet to Europe may be found through Hud-
son's Bay, is probably chimerical, for it is not likely
that more than two months of navigation could be
depended upon. Middleton, a navigator who trav-
ersed these waters in the early part of the eighteenth
century, speaks fully of the dangers he encountered,
and states that the period of reasonably safe naviga-
tion extends only from the 15th of July to the 15th of
September, and that he lost a vessel in the strait
nipped by the ice in the middle of that short summer.
Not a very encouraging outlook certainly !
So, too, as regards manufacturing as developed in
this city, but few persons know that it holds the third
rank in the United States, nnd that more than one-
half the population is engaged in such pursuits, one
hundred and twenty-seven new factories having been
established in 1882 alone — only one, started within
six months with eighty looms, being in the line of
cotton fabrics.
The writer has no predilection for large cities, and
looks upon railroads writh less favor than some, inas-
much as they tend to concentrate business, and to
foster monopolies and combinations alike prejudicial
to good morals and a healthful condition of trade.
But such seems to be the tendency in our day; and
if there be any one place in the whole country where
it will be more manifest than in any other, it is this
same city of Chicago. The redundant population of
the North-west will one day make it the best market
in the world, and the productions and commodities
of Europe and the Eastern States, of Asia on the
west, and of the tropics on the south, as well as of
the boundless wheat, grain, and grazing fields which
stretch away to the distant west and north, will some
day meet here as on common ground for sale and pur-
chase. These predictions may seem extravagant to
residents in the older States, but in the West there are
many intelligent men who have a firm and abiding
faith that these things will come to pass. During the
last forty years the city has grown from a small settle-
ment of 6000 people to a magnificent city of over
600,000, having increased a hundred-fold, and it would
not be a whit more surprising if in fifty years more it
should increase to five times its present magnitude.
The Chinese call their great trading city of Han-kow
" The Mouth of the Commercial Marts," and it may
be that it will find its counterpart some day in the
Garden City of the West. No one is now endowed
with the spirit of prophecy, so that no one can say
positively that these things will be so ; but of one thing
we may be reasonably well assured, and that is, that
the great emporium of these United States will finally
be developed at some point in the interior of the
country which is the most accessible from every part,
and which will be determined in the days of our chil-
dren or grandchildren " by the inexorable logic of
facts."
George M. Higginson.
Courbet, the Artist.
Dr. Coan's article on Courbet [about a year ago]
doubtless seemed to all its readers what it seemed to me
— an interesting account of an interesting man. But to
those who care about Courbet chiefly as an artist, it
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793
will not have been, I think, entirely satisfactory. I
may be pardoned, therefore, if I try to explain in a very
few words what seems to me his real artistic worth.
To begin with, no strikingly individual artist
should be judged wholly by the intrinsic value of his
pictures. He should also be judged by the place he
holds in the history of art — by the peculiar qualities
his works reveal when compared with those of .his
predecessors and contemporaries, and still more by
the influence they have had on subsequent perform-
ance. Notably is this the case with Courbet. He
was not only a very strong and individual painter, but
an innovator in the full force of the term. He was
the prime mover in what has proved almost a revolu-
tion in art, and his example has largely molded the
practice of our later day. He and Millet were the
first champions of what we call — rather vaguely and
incorrectly — " realism " in art. They were offshoots,
of course, of the " romantic " movement of the early
part of our century — that movement which pro-
claimed individuality to be the most important factor
in art, and showed that a man might see with his own
eyes and paint with his own brush, instead of seeing
and painting in accordance with traditional, academic
formulas. There had been a fierce battle at the out-
set of this romantic movement, — a battle which had
been gained by the romanticists before Gourbet's day,
but which renewed itself about his work and Millet's.
They saw fit to push the new doctrine further than
the romanticists had carried it — were the first to insist
upon absolute freedom in the choice of material, to
say that peasants were as well worth painting as kings,
humble contemporary life as history or mythology,
and ugliness, upon occasion, as the goddess of beauty
herself. Dr. Coan's words give us but a faint idea
of the fury with which Courbet especially was attacked.
He held a different position from Millet, and not alone
in the more aggressive character of his work. Millet
could be simply denied for many years all admit-
tance to the Salon. But Courbet had won the
right to such admittance when, in his earlier, less
revolutionary time, he had gained a second medal.
His work was, therefore, thrust constantly before
unwilling eyes, and was assailed with correspond-
ing violence. And the scorn which was confined
to Millet's pictures was shared by Courbet's per-
son. Never before or since has an artist been so
berated, abused, and traduced simply for his pictures'
sake. Political were mixed with artistic arguments
and prejudices. It was in the year 1850 that Cour-
bet's so-called brutal peasants first made their appear-
ance on the Salon wall — just when the republic was
disintegrating and before the coup d'etat had restored
security at the price of liberty. The pictures as such
were involved in the wrath and fear excited by their
subjects. The prevailing terror of socialism and revo-
lution caused critics and public alike to see in these
rustic figures, and in the uncompromising portraits of
the " Burial Scene at Ornans," an attempt to exalt a
dangerous class and to discredit the priesthood with
the people ; and the wildest political fury was turned
upon them and their creator. Being what he was, Cour-
bet retaliated with the weapons of the enemy, giving
back scorn for scorn and rage for rage. But this fact,
however it may affect our opinion of him as a man,
does not in the least detract from the merit of his
course as an artist. It would have given a deserved
relief to some of the less noble traits of Courbet's
character had Dr. Coan dwelt more strongly on the
steady, plucky, indomitable way in which he followed
his artistic conscience. If he and Millet had suc-
cumbed to their assailants, the world of art to-day
would have been immeasurably poorer and less vital
— or else some later comers would have had to fight
the battle in their stead. And where should we have
found another such pair of giants to do the work ?
But even when Courbet's art is judged intrinsically,
not historically, it seems to most critics, I think, much
more worthy of admiration than it does to Dr. Coan.
Of course it must not be confounded with his spoken
theories. Who does not know how often the things
an artist most sincerely holds in theory are belied by
the testimony of his work ? Driven to bay as Cour-
bet was, moreover, and possessed as he was of a
rough, excitable, domineering disposition, we should
not go far wrong, perhaps, if we guessed that his
words were more radical and uncompromising than
were his inner feelings. But be this as it may, we must
not conclude that because he reprobated all " ideal-
ism " in his speech there is none of it to be found
upon his canvas. Idealism in the choice and ar-
rangement and meaning of his subject-matter is, in-
deed, non-existent. But the true painter's touch is
apt to idealize pictorially whatever subject it selects.
Dr. Coan admits as much when he says that the
head in one of Courbet's portraits of himself is " too
ideal for Courbet's at any time, unless possibly for
the year or two during his college life, when he stud-
ied Goethe, and even painted a scene from the ' Wal-
purgisnacht.' " And could one look, for example, at
the " Violoncello-Player," recently exhibited in New
York and reproduced in this magazine, and call its
creator a quite prosaic artist ? Or at the Boston Mu-
seum picture? Or at the majority of his superb and
splendid waves and skies and landscapes ? Who but
he has ever shown with such strong and, I must sub-
mit, poetic sympathy the majesty of the tumbling
surf and the overarching heaven, and the beauty of
the deep-green, wet, and rocky woodland glades that
were Courbet's peculiar province ? Grant that there is
no intellectual or spiritual poetry in Courbet's art,
we must yet acknowledge that it shows, in spite of
any verbal theories he may have seen fit to profess,
an immense amount of poetic seeing and poetic ren-
dering.
Nor do I think our author is quite right in saying
that Courbet was " in one sense not a painter at all, at
least outside of his landscapes. ... In all his other
work he was a story-teller. He did not paint for the
sake of painting. . . . He was a born story-teller
and satirist, and he painted to tell stories and to sati-
rize." On the contrary, I think all his brethren in art
will bear me out in saying that whatever else he was
or was not, — perhaps not a great artist, for that is an-
other and a wider matter, — he was most certainly a
"born painter." His doctrine was that a man should
paint only what he saw — not what he imagined, or
what he thought he should have seen. After this
principle he worked; and it is, I think, a painter's
principle, if not the whole principle which guides the
greatest artists. And his eyes were peculiarly wide-
open and clear-sighted and sensitive. He saw an in-
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finity of things with, pleasure and sympathy, and he
painted them all with equal sympathy and pleasure, —
ugly things and beautiful things, rare things and
common things, landscapes and sea views and figures
and animals and fruit and flowers, and sometimes
stories and satires too; but even in this last case
not often for the sake of the story itself so much as
for the sake of the picture which that story made be-
fore his eyes. He was extremely sensitive to all
physical things ; and this is what marks the painter
born. He was not very sensitive to spiritual things ;
and this, if you will, is his failing as an artist. If
there is one fact proved alike by his life and his work,
it is that he did paint for the sake of painting.
Whether he chose his subjects well or ill is quite an-
other matter — as is also anything he may have said
about his " mission."
With regard to his technical merits, Dr. Coan
says : " As pure art, his works have little value out-
side of their color ; but they have a sturdy material
verity." With this judgment, too, I think most art-
ists will disagree. He was often deficient in draw-
ing — as have been, at times, so many great painters
before and after, including Titian. And for com-
position he had commonly no care — though here, I
think, he sometimes showed a great if unconven-
tional ability. But his handling had a freedom, a
fire, an individuality, and an immensity of vigor we
seldom find in modern work. A perfect painter he
never was — but a great painter, none the less. It is
a curious parallel to set him beside Blake, who was
not a painter at all, but a draughtsman of very varia-
ble skill. Even the more abstract comparison which
would mean that he ever failed as entirely in realizing
his conceptions as Blake often failed in realizing his,
comes nowhere near the mark. And to say that he
was a less able practitioner than Martin leads us very
far indeed astray. Surely it is not Courbet's color
alone, nor the rather rude vigor and verity which Dr.
Coan accords him, that have raised him to so high a
rank in recent years ; nor yet the extrinsic fact that
he was a sturdy pioneer who opened up for us a new
and fruitful field in art. No ; Courbet's works are
admired and studied to-day, purchased at immense
prices by his government, and hung with honor in the
Louvre, because he was a true if not a great artist,
and a great if not a faultless painter.
M. G. van Rensselaer.
Progress in Forestry.
To your inquiry in regard to the progress in for-
estry recently made in this country an encouraging
answer may be given. This subject, old and familiar
in Europe, is comparatively new in America. But the
last ten years have witnessed an advance unequaled
in any other country in the same space of time. The
movement, though as yet a mere beginning in this
country, starts with such an impetus as to insure its
expansion over broad areas. The uninhabited plains
of the West, described in the old geographies as "the
Great American Desert," are fast filling up with an
enterprising and prosperous population. Tree-plant-
ing is becoming almost universal on the great prairies
of Minnesota, Dakota, Kansas, and Nebraska, where
it once was believed no tree would grow. Many
causes have contributed to this remarkable result,
prominent among them being the timber-culture act
passed by Congress ten years ago, amended in 1874
and again in 1878. Already 93,246 entries have been
made, the area covered by them being 13,677,146 acres.
Nearly one-fifth of this vast area was "entered"
in 1882, which shows the growing influence of the
princely premiums offered by Congress and by many
of the Western States to encourage tree-planting. The
timber act may need further amendment to prevent
frauds, but recent inquiries of those who have had the
largest experience and observation in Minnesota,
Dakota, Iowa, Nebraska, and Kansas convince me
that its benefits have been so manifest as strongly to
commend it to the people in those States. Many set-
tlers have planted much more than the required ten
acres in their one hundred and sixty acres, or " quar-
ter section." Said a Nebraskan : "We have thousands
of trees, thirty to forty feet in height and eight or nine
inches in diameter, grown from seedlings or cuttings
planted less than ten years ago. The fuel problem is
settled for many farmers. The trees and land are al-
ready worth three times their cost."
The cottonwood is a prime favorite, on account of
the facility of its propagation and rapid growth. The
cottonwood, ash, elm, box elder, soft maple, and
white willow are well adapted to the soil and climate
of the first four of the States above named. These
trees planted young and with care are almost certain
to grow. A Western forester of large experience said
to me : " For economic planting I would not accept
as a gift three-year-old trees, when I could buy year-
lings. Beginning with such seedlings and with adap-
tation of kinds to local conditions, timber can be grown
at moderate expense and with certainty of success.
The old notion that trees could not be grown on the
great oceanic prairies has been thoroughly exploded."
The dreaded grasshoppers deserve some credit for
the new interest in arboriculture. In recent journeys
in the prairie States, I have found the opinion common
that timber-belts form the best protection from grass-
hoppers and other insects injurious to vegetation. The
great grasshopper visitations of 1873 and 1876 empha-
sized the question how to prevent their recurrence;
and the most satisfactory answer to the Western mind
was, " The planting and culture of forests." George
P. Marsh says, "It is only since the felling of the
forests of Asia Minor and Cyrene that the locust has
become so fearfully destructive in those countries."
Michelet says, " The insect has well avenged the bird.
In the Isle of Bourbon, for instance, a price was set on
the head of the martin. It disappeared, and the grass-
hopper took possession of the island." The United
States Entomological Commission, appointed by Con-
gress in 1877 to report on the best means of preventing
the ravages of this pest, say " that it has its homes or
breeding-places in the arid plains east of the Rocky
Mountains, and that the progress of civilization and
colonization, converting those heretofore barren plains
into areas of fertility, will gradually lessen the evil."
The practical appreciation of forestry shown by some
of the leading railway companies of the West, espe-
cially the Northern Pacific, has made a strong impres-
sion as to the economic value of tree-planting. With
a wise foresight, this company has organized a " Tree-
OPEN LETTERS.
795
planting Department " and made liberal provision —
$80,000 — for its work. Over one million trees have
already been planted, and next spring as many more
will be set out. In this way the cuts will be pro-
tected from snow-drifts, and long lines of " live fences "
be secured. It was my privilege to travel on this railway
with the experienced forester who is the superintendent
of this department. He has the utmost confidence in
the success of this work. He lately bought in Bismarck
100,000 trees for $125, or at the rate of $1.25 per
thousand, which is not an uncommon price for large
orders in the great nurseries of the West. One of
these nurseries, located on the Missouri River, sells
an average of seven million trees a year.
The Northern Pacific Company also offer liberal
premiums to land-holders for the best groves, wind-
breaks, or shelter-belts that maybe planted along their
lines, and circulate gratuitously among the farmers a
pamphlet giving needful information for the procuring
and planting of trees ; and besides all this, they give
free transportation of all trees, tree-seeds, and cuttings
that may be planted in any of the prairie regions along
their lines. The influence of this wise policy can be
best appreciated by observation and personal conver-
sation with the settlers.
Ex-Governor Furnas, of Nebraska, who has both
personally and officially shown great interest in forestry,
says that over 600,000,000 trees have been planted in
that State during the last twelve years, and that they
thrive in western Nebraska even beyond the 100th
meridian, where it has been so confidently asserted
that trees will not grow. Where the rainfall is less
than twenty inches in a year, however, tree culture
is difficult, and with some species impossible. The
amount of rainfall in each locality should be taken
into account in the selection of trees to be planted
there.
Forestry associations, state and national, have
awakened new interest in sylviculture. The State For-
estry Association of Minnesota was organized in 1876,
under the lead of Leonard Bacon Hodges, the pioneer
in the forestry movement in that State and the secre-
tary of the association till his death in April last.
This association prepared an excellent manual on^tree-
planting, and distributed over ten thousand copies
among the settlers and land-owners of the State.
Many farmers were thus led to become their own nur-
serymen. Similar associations have recently been or-
ganized in other Western States, and with like promise
of usefulness.
The American Congress of Forestry is strongly
pushing on the same work. Its annual sessions at
Montreal, St. Paul, Washington, and Saratoga were
attended by the most experienced foresters of the coun-
try. The United States Commissioner of Agriculture,
■ for two years its president, is encouraging this move-
ment by his strong personal and official influence,
having given an elaborate address at each of its annual
meetings. The proceedings of the meeting in Montreal
were published by order of the Legislative Assembly
of Canada and widely circulated. The Hon. J. G.
Joly, of Quebec, a practical forester, who has under his
control over 100,000 acres, and has had large expe-
rience in re-foresting denuded lands in the Province
of Quebec, says that these discussions led to impor-
tant legislative enactments for the increase and pro-
tection of forests, and among them, one authorizing
" the Lieutenant-Governor in Council to appoint an
Arbor-day for the planting of forest trees."
In the Western States, the Arbor-days appointed
by the respective governors, usually with the sanc-
tion of the legislature, have greatly promoted eco-
nomic tree-planting. In Minnesota, for example, the
number of acres planted on Arbor-day in 1878 was
811; in 1882 the number was 1184; and the whole
number of acres planted increased from 18,029 in 1878
to 38,458 in 1882. Similar work has been done in
Nebraska, Kansas, Iowa, and Dakota, and to some
extent in Michigan, Illinois, and Ohio.
According to official reports, the acreage of culti-
vated woodland in Kansas is 107,000; while in Ne-
braska it has reached 244,356 acres, besides over
12,000,000 fruit trees and nearly 3,000,000 grape-
vines. The large bounties offered for tree-planting
secure the collection of such statistics. The abundance
and excellence of the fruit, and especially the grapes,
in Nebraska was a surprise to me. Ex-Governors
Furnas and Morton, the pioneer tree-planters there,
are now recognized as the benefactors of Nebraska by
their advocacy of arboriculture, alike forest, fruit, and
ornamental. It is due to their influence that Nebraska
is the banner State in tree-planting. Around " Arbor
Lodge," the mansion of Ex-Governor Morton, near
Nebraska City, are fine groves of black-walnut and
other forest trees, most productive orchards, grape
and other fruits, where twenty-seven years ago was a
treeless prairie, on which he was told " trees would
not grow." I am soon to plant in Connecticut a
bushel of nuts grown this year on the trees which sprang
from the nuts planted by the hand of Mr. Morton.
He was the originator of Arbor-day twelve years ago,
when, through his influence, the second Wednesday
of April was officially appointed for tree-planting; and
so influential was his advocacy of this plan, both by
pen and tongue, that over 12,000,000 trees were
planted on that one day. The Nebraskans justly view
their extensive tree-planting as a great achievement,
and by enlarging this work from year to year they
are determined to maintain this preeminence. Each
governor since 1872 has formally recognized Arbor-
day, and now it is observed in schools. Such a
day has been set apart in Michigan, Ohio, Indiana,
Colorado, and West Virginia, and with the happiest
results in improving and adorning the grounds around
the homes as well as the schools. The National Ed-
ucational Association at its late meeting in Wisconsin,
with an attendance of over five thousand, recom-
mended the appointment of such a day in every
State. The Wisconsin Teachers' Association, held
the same week, passed a similar resolution and ap-
pointed an efficient committee to carry out the plan.
The Indiana Association initiated a similar movement
last spring.
The following resolution was unanimously adopted
at the Forestry Congress in St. Paul, which in-
cluded representatives from Canada : " In view of the
wide-spread results of the observance of Arbor-day in
many States, this Congress recommends the appoint-
ment of such a day in all our States and in the prov-
inces and Dominion of Canada."
At its late meeting in Washington, this Association
appointed a committee to present the subject to the
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OPEN LETTERS.
governors of those States where no such appointment
has been made. The cordial response received from
every governor whom I have since met warrants the
hope that instead of eight there will be twenty-eight
States observing Arbor-day next spring.
B. G. Northrop.
About People.*
In the little volume in which Mrs. Kate Gannett
Wells brings a great deal of fresh and honest thinking
to various social topics, there are two essays that I
find peculiarly interesting. I do not remember seeing
elsewhere the " Transitional Woman " dealt with as a
fact so intimately and frankly ; and the phenomenon
of " Caste in American Society " is viewed from a
point not hitherto seized. The word caste always sug-
gests to the readily heated imagination of the sympa-
thizer with toil and poverty their oppression by a
superior class through invidious social distinctions, if
nothing worse. This is the recognized form of caste,
and it is perhaps the most odious, but it is not, certainly,
the most ridiculous. There is another phase of the same
iniquity, which Mrs. Wells's practical relation to ques-
tions of social reform has enabled her to study with
singular advantages. In every age and in every coun-
try the manners, customs, and prejudices of the more
enlightened have descended to the less enlightened,
like cast-off clothes ; and they sit on their possessors
at second hand with the edifying grace of old coats
and rumpled gowns. In this way it happens that at a
moment when cultivated people who think seriously
of the matter think with shame and misgiving of the
social distinctions which are not based on character
and achievement, the lines have never been more
sharply drawn between the different sorts and grades
of labor. As Mrs. Wells has learned :
" The lower we descend in what is called social life,
the more perceptible become its demarkations. . . .
A marriage between a laundry maid and a washer-
woman's son is contrary to all the rules of propriety,
and ends in family feuds. The regular visitant at hotel
cupboards who receives pie is further removed from the
tattered mendicant at back doors than a member of the
diplomatic corps from a native of Washington. , . .
Among the working-women is a feeling of exclusive-
ness most noticeable, while with working-men it is no
more prominent than with professional men. ' It is this
spirit of caste,' says a working- woman of fifty years,
' which keeps us all down. If we could nag one another it
would be some gain ; but we avoid one another instead.
There is no union among us ; never was, except for a
little while through the French International Asso-
ciation, which has died out. We never can raise our-
selves from the bondage of ill-paid labor till we
combine, and most of us would rather starve to death
than associate with those beneath us.' Another one
complains that ' the skilled workwomen pride them-
selves too much upon their skill to be willing to pull
up the unskilled ; just as in the professions a good
lawyer or physician will not take a poor partner. It
is social ambition, caste, that rules us ; it begins with
* About People. By Kate Gannett Wells. Boston : James R.
Osgood & Co.
us, and goes up and up to kings and emperors. A
woman with many servants despises her with one ;
and she with one despises the woman who does her
own work ; and she who does her own work looks
down upon her who goes out to work ; and the one
who goes out to do special house-work scorns the
scrub-woman, who is the end of womankind.' . . .
In a conversation with several of them, it was asked :
' What is the real grievance of the working- women ? I
And the general answer was that it was due to the
spirit of caste, which prevented combination and coop-
eration, the two agents that could lighten the burdens
of ill-paid labor ; yet they had sufficient intelligence
to see that social union among themselves must first
be effected. The stern self-restraint, the power of
self-sacrifice, the delicacy of taste, refinement of feel-
ing, appreciation of knowledge, and acts of touching-
kindness to one another that are found among hun-
dreds of them, do not negative the statement that the
social line, based on kinds of labor, is closely drawn
among them.
" Here is a classification given by one who under-
stands, works, and aids others in various ways : ' Em-
ployments of working-people are either subjective or
objective ; one cannot consort with another. Under the
first are included (i) the stenographer, (2) the news-
paper hack, (3) the type-writer, (4) those engaged in
life-insurance business and in any sort of nursing ; the
second division embraces (1) mercantile women, (2)
saleswomen, (3) tradeswomen, and (4) servants, who
are Pariahs, so to speak, in the eyes of all other work-
ing-women.' "
These are curious and novel aspects of our demo-
cratic civilization ; but I suspect that further observa-
tion would develop more facts of the same kind. I
remember hearing a gentleman who had some official
relation to the construction of a large public building,
where the workmen were lunched on the premises,
say that three different tables were necessary to pre-
serve the different sorts of artisans and laborers from
contact at their meals. It is all very droll when it
gets down to this, and exclusiveness among carpenters
and bricklayers is no more impressive than it is among
lawyers and doctors, or their ladies. Perhaps it is even
less so, being in the nature, as I said, of a cast-off
garment with these humbler swells. The fact shows,
however, that we are still indefinitely remote, in every
grade of life, from the democratic ideal, which is also
the Christian ideal. Very likely the comparative
method of observation would discover far greater lib-
erality and generosity in the higher society — even in
the thin air of the heights where Fashion sits — than
in the world of hunger and hard work, in which we
have hitherto taken it for granted that fraternity and
equality reigned. We ought, — I am talking as if I
were myself a social magnate, whereas I have my
pocket full of wholesome snubs of assorted sizes, — in
the interest of these poor fellows and silly women who
think they elevate themselves by trampling upon those
of a lowlier trade, to get rid of what exclusiveness is
left us, and let our light down among them. Then, in
another generation, we should have a bricklayer eating
at the same table with a hod-carrier, and feeling no
sort of contamination. But in the mean time let us not
smile at the tinsel of his tawdry distinctions ; ours are
not more genuine or valuable.
OPEN LETTERS.
797
This whole essay of Mrs. Wells's is full of fresh
suggestion, and it is pervaded by the same just and
humane spirit which characterizes the book. What
she chiefly does is to accumulate the facts for you, and
then tacitly invite you to do your own thinking about
them. Other, essays in the volume are more didactic,
the one on " Personal Influence " being perhaps the
most direct appeal to the sense of brotherly and sisterly
responsibility which they all in some measure involve.
The paper on the "Transitional Woman," which I
began by mentioning, is a study of the characteristics
of contemporary life, which portrays the tumult in the
feminine mind with the accuracy of feminine touch.
One says " mind," in the Hebrew fashion — discovered
by Mr. Matthew Arnold — of throwing language out at
an object ; but it is not exactly " mind " always. Much
of this undirected or misdirected yearning and striving
on the part of modern womankind is the reverse of
mind, as Mrs. Wells distinctly recognizes, with no
intent to be satirical of her sex. Money and labor-
saving inventions have deprived that respectable sex
of the old-fashioned necessity of domestic work ; and
the fact is that it does not yet know what to do with
its leisure. The old-fashioned American wife and
mother is extinct, and something better has not been
born. In the mean time, we have something very pretty,
very brilliant, very cultivated, very ambitious, very
amusing ; packages of electrical nerves, hysterical
inspirations, infinite good intentions, enlightened views,
high aims, noble missions, and perpetual unrest and
distraction. They are probably quite good enough
for the men ; but they are not really any better, not
more refined or good at heart ; and we poor fellows
who were brought up with the expectation of having
an example set us, do not quite know what to do.
The woman must make haste to cease being transi-
tional, if the world is to go forward. Mrs. Wells gives
us some vague hope that the woman will do so by
and by, and that then the world will have something
much better in her way than it has yet had. I think
she might make a beginning in the right direction by
making a study of Mrs. Wells's study of her. I
am sure that if there were a similar study of the
Transitional Man submitted to men, we should not be
slow in profiting by it. The difficulty with us now is
that if we acknowledge the women to be good enough
for us, candor compels us to confess that we are also
quite good enough for the women ; and this is bad for
our native modesty, and tends to spiritual pride.
Mrs. Wells's essay recognizes the absurd aspects
of the case with sufficiently humorous perception,
but it is a more serious affair with her than my report
of it might suggest. She has a conscience about it, as
she has about every subject she touches, and what she
says should have the greater interest because of her
position as an anti-suffragist advocate of the cause of
woman. She does not flatter her sex, nor sentimen-
talize it, as women are so apt to do, and she has for
this reason almost a unique claim upon the attention
of ours when she writes of men's wives, sisters, and
daughters. For once, here is a woman's-rights woman
who refuses to believe that there is an antagonism in
men to their amelioration, and who directly and in-
directly advises women to begin their elevation them-
selves.
A
The Blue and the Gray.
The last chapter of " Dr. Sevier " and the recent
"Open Letters" from the pen of George W. Cable,
and " Old Questions and New," by "A Southern Dem-
ocrat," in the January Century, voice a sentiment
toward the North — the war and its issues — which I
firmly believe exists to-day among the progressive
and thinking classes of the South, and the testimony
of these gentlemen comes most gratifyingly to every
true Northern heart.
True, there are those at the South as bitter to-day
as twenty years ago. It is likewise true there are in
the North a few so blinded by prejudice that they can-
not or will not believe in a new South. Feeling that a
better knowledge of this sentiment now existing in the
South is in every way desirable, I cannot refrain from
adding a little testimony within my own knowledge.
In September, 1883, Crocker's Iowa Brigade, com-
prising the Eleventh, Thirteenth, Fifteenth, and Six-
teenth Iowa, held a reunion in this city, at which was
present General D. C. Govan, now of Marianna, Ark.,
a brave division commander of the Western Confederate
forces. He brought with him a flag captured by his
command from the Sixteenth Iowa at Atlanta, July
22, 1864, which at his own instance he presented to
Colonel A. H. Saunders, in the following words :
" Veterans of Crocker's Iowa brigade : I am unable
to find words to express the feelings of pleasure and
satisfaction that I feel in standing before you veterans
to-night. I feel it a compliment, not only to myself
but to every ex-Confederate soldier who served in the
late war, that I am permitted to participate in this re-
union. They will feel grateful for this honor, and will
respond and return it whenever opportunity is offered.
I have testified heretofore to the valor of your Iowa
soldiers in their heroic resistance at Atlanta ; and if I
had said nothing, the long list of the killed and
wounded of my command would bear mute but irre-
sistible testimony of your courage and valor on that
occasion. In behalf of our ex-soldiers I beg leave to
return to you the flag won from you on that memora-
ble occasion. I trust you will bear it as honorably as
you did on that former occasion ; and I assure you,
that should it ever again be assailed, the men who op-
posed yon that day will stand by you in the future and
vie with you in its defense. I hope that flag may float
as long as the everlasting hills endure over a free,
prosperous, happy, and tinited people, — as long as the
waters flow to the great ocean. "
The general spoke in an earnest manner, with a
voice full of emotion, and no one present for a moment
doubted his sincerity or the truth of his statements.
Surely such spirit must soon remove bitterness — such
testimony soon convince skeptics.
C. N. Jenkins.
Cedar Rapids, Iowa, January, 1885.
The Bombardment of Alexandria.
To the Editor of The Century:
Sir : As Stone Pasha made use of his private griefs
to introduce in the June Century a condemnation of
British action in Egypt, it seemed not out of place in
noticing his letter to show that the trials to which his
family were subjected were seen and accepted by him
798
BRIC-A-BRAC.
in advance. He alone is responsible for the publi-
cation of his motives, and he ought neither to regard
nor characterize their discussion as a personal attack,
a thing which, it is hardly necessary to explain, was
never meant.
Since people did come from Cairo on the day pre-
ceding the bombardment and found shelter on board
the ships in the roadstead, I may be pardoned for ad-
hering to my original statement as to the accessibility
of the refuge.
Regarding the sending away of all British subjects
prior to hostilities, the original expression was Stone
Pasha's ; only the inference was mine. That inference
was the abstract proposition that " other governments
are less solicitous than the British for the welfare of
their citizens," which, as an abstract proposition, Com-
mander Batcheller, in the October Century, seems
inclined to admit and no one can deny.
Commander Batcheller questions my terming the
affair of June n a massacre. This subject is treated
rather fully in a pithy and interesting brochure * by
our consular agent in Alexandria from June 15 to
August 26, 1882, a man whose personal and official
acquaintance with Egyptian affairs makes him an au-
thority. He is, moreover, free from the grave charge
of a leaning toward the British.
I venture to quote a few pertinent lines from this
little work, to the eleventh chapter of which, entitled
" The Massacre," I take the liberty of referring Com-
mander Batcheller and such of your readers as may
think the occurrence in question a mere riot.
Page 130: "It has been charged that the bom-
bardment of the nth of July was a crime. This was
not the feeling of the foreign population in Egypt.
The crime was committed in the refusal to land troops
on the nth day of June, and the bombardment one
month after was a tardy recognition of this fact."
Page 131 : " Arabi had succeeded admirably in
proving that he was the power in the country ; he had
ordered a massacre to prove this, and now he was ap-
pealed to to keep order," etc., etc. Yours truly,
C. F. Goodrich,
Lieut. -Commander U. S. N.
Making Light of It.
In the lulls between campaigns, the honest news-
paper editor everywhere devotes himself to crusading
* The Three Prophets — Chinese Gordon, El Mahdi, Arabi
Pasha. By Colonel Chaille Lonter, ex-Chief-of- Staff to Gordon in
Africa, ex-United States Consular Agent in Alexandria, etc., etc.
New York : D. Appleton & Co.
zealously against current social evils, such as, in par-
ticular, the alarming increase of divorce and defalca-
tion. At the same time, the editor does much to offset
his own labors by ill-placed levity. He writes a
thoughtful leader upon the sinfulness of speculating
with other people's money, laying the blame rightly
on the public which applauds success without regard
to the means by which it is attained, rather than upon
the few who are detected in wrong-doing and come to
grief. But in the next column is a flippant paragraph
of the sort the American public is supposed to crave,
perhaps upon the attractions of Canada as a winter
resort, or the swell society to be found there in exile.
Garnished with quotation-marks and other typography
ical tricks that catch the eye, the paragraph attracts
far more readers than the editorial, and goes to
strengthen the unavowed popular notion that defalca-
tion is a huge practical joke on the creditors — an im-
pression enforced by facetious headings as well as by
funny paragraphs whenever a new exposure is made.
Again, the editor diligently calls upon all good people
to uphold the sanctity of the marriage-tie and the
sacredness of that divine institution, the family, which
is, he says, the basis of society, and to protect and
defend the same from all undermining influences. But
he allots many a column to grotesque caricatures, or to
that utter abomination, the mother-in-law joke, which
after years of active service is not permitted the honor-
able discharge it has earned, while every elopement or
divorce is rendered as interesting and spicy as possible
by the reporter's art. How can he expect the public
to look upon marriage as a solemn thing, or defalca-
tion as a serious crime, or either as anything but a
joke, when he freely throws into the opposing scale
that unknown quantity — the influence of the funny
paragraph ? The editor's theory that he must make
fun of everything to render his efforts readable is, to
be sure, borne out by the popular demand for that
species of fun. But there is also a popular demand
for the police publications and a good many other
things which no reputable editor would touch. To
forego all jocoseness in treating of these social evils
would be the death of a great number of poor jokes,
and would involve a fresh tax on the eternal vigi-
lance of the editor ; but it would cut off one way in
which loose notions of serious things gain currency,
and there would still remain enough bright, pure fun
in the prints to save us from becoming an austere and
taciturn people.
Louisville, Kentucky.
John Stone Pardee.
BRIC-A-BRAC.
Uncle Esek's Wisdom.
Wisdom doesn't take away our folly ; it only helps
to hide it.
One's own horn is a most delicate instrument to
blow.
Originality in writing has had its day. Nobody
but a quack will strain for it. The best any one can
do is to make the trail a little plainer for others to
follow.
Popular opinions have their day, just like fashions.
Every generation has a new set.
Eccentricity, at best, is but a fungus, just as apt
to grow out of the soil of a philosopher as of a fool.
The cheapest thing in life is common sense, but a
few people seem to have a corner in it, and are holding
for a rise.
When a man preaches morality from the house-
tops, he is above his business.
Uncle Esek*
.
BRIC-A-BRAC.
799
NATURAL HISTORY.
Salesman: "That fur, Madam, is the cheapest we have — imitation fitch; but if you take it, I must warn you that the rain
will spoil it."
Customer: " Why, what do the little imitation fitches do when it rains ? "
A Book of Nature.
The Winter's a book of poems,
Sorrowful fantasies,
All pictured with empty bird-nests
Held in the lonely trees.
The turquoise skies are the covers,
Begilt with sunbeams long,
The drifts of snow are the pages,
And the moaning winds the Song.
R. K. Munkitlrick.
"Tulips Blooming in the Snow."
Tulips blooming in the snow,
Snow-wreaths melting in the sun,
Sunbeams dancing to and fro,
Glowing clouds when day is done, —
These are like you, every one,
You splendid, vivid, sanguine one, —
Red-lipped, red-cheeked, dark-haired, dark-eyed,
And everything that's good beside.
R. R.
Soo
BRIC-A-BRAC.
The Tender Heart.
She gazed upon the burnished brace
Of plump ruffed grouse he showed with pride;
Angelic grief was in her face :
" How could you do it, dear? " she sighed.
" The poor, pathetic, moveless wings !
The songs all hushed — oh, cruel shame!"
Said he, "The partridge never sings."
Said she, " The sin is quite the same.
" You men are savage through and through.
A boy is always bringing in
Some string of bird's eggs, white and blue,
Or butterfly upon a pin.
The angle-worm in anguish dies,
Impaled, the pretty trout to tease "
" My own, we fish for trout with flies "
"Don't wander from the question, please! "
She quoted Burns's " Wounded Hare,"
And certain burning lines of Blake's,
And Ruskin on the fowls of air,
And Coleridge on the water-snakes.
At Emerson's " Forbearance " he
Began to feel his will benumbed ;
At Browning's "Donald" utterly
His soul surrendered and succumbed.
" Oh, gentlest of all gentle girls,"
He thought, " beneath the blessed sun ! "
He saw her lashes hung with pearls,
And swore to give away his gun.
She smiled to find her point was gained,
And went, with happy parting words
(He subsequently ascertained),
To trim her hat with humming-birds.
Helen Gray Cone.
An Untutored Mind.
When I was but a lad of eight,
And Dorothy was turning seven,
My life seemed spent close by the gate
Of what I had imagined Heaven ;
So sweet was Dorothy, and mild,
To every fault of mine so tender,
I grew to love her as a child
Accustomed always to befriend her.
Through school hours I observed her dress
Until I knew each shade of satin;
The habit often cost recess
And many weary lines of Latin.
She very seldom turned her face,
Replete with roses, round and ruddy;
She seemed to think the school a place
For strict deportment and for study.
In all the classes she was first ;
She graduated, — went to college, —
Returned most wonderfully versed
In every branch and twig of knowledge.
Alas ! I wear no savant's cap ;
My brain is not a book-condenser ! *
No doubt she'll marry that young chap
I hear her call "Dear Herbert Spencer!'1''
Frank Dempster Sherman,
The Tryst.
I AM stretched on the grass and am watching the sky,
As the sunset clouds go drifting by,
And wondering whether such glorious weather,
Such blush of clouds, and such bloom of heather,
Would grow commonplace if it lasted forever,
And sunsets would pall if they faded never.
There's a red cloud over that seems a boat :
What a charming thing it would be to float
Day after day in a lazy way,
With nothing to do and nothing to say ;
With a book perhaps and a pipe no doubt,
And a chance to come down when you got tired out.
There's a rustle of leaves, and a step on the grass, —
I descend from the clouds to see somebody pass.
Somebody's young and very fair,
With a blush on her cheek and a rose in her hair;
She is walking down the path from town,
Dressed in a charmingly dainty gown.
She swings her hat, and the wind, not cold,
Yet not too warm nor overbold,
Just stirs the curls above her brow;
And, if it can wait, or the wind knows how,
It waits, I guess, to stop and press
On her cheek or her lip a light caress.
She waits, she lingers, she stops and turns,
But it isn't for me her fancy yearns;
For — well-a-day ! it is hard to say,
But at forty, one is rather passe,
And a pretty young maid won't wait, I'm afraid,
For a bachelor gray and beginning to fade.
I hear a whistle, I see her blush ;
I fancied it might be a quail or thrush ;
But never a bird whose note I've heard
Would have moved her pulses as they've been stirred ;
And it wasn't by fear. Ah, it's very clear
That somebody, somebody's coming near.
I She quickens her pace and she casts down her eyes ;
She means to pretend it was all a surprise.
"What! you here?" she will say. — Now he leaps
o'er the wall.
They have met ; he bends down ; he is handsome
and tall.
And though I'm not near, and can't very well hear,
Yet what they are saying is certainly clear.
For the story is old, and has often been told. —
Heigh ! the sky's growing gray and the night's get-
ting cold ;
I am off, and they're parting ; one left and one right,
Turning back, looking back, till they're both out of
sight.
And they think, I suppose, that nobody knows
That he gave her a kiss, and she gave him a rose.
Waller Learned.
Mr. Robert Louis Stevenson writes to a friend
who has just left England for America : " You will
meet Stockton :
" If I my Stockton should forget,
It would be sheer depravity,
For I went down with the Thomas Hyke,
And up with the Negative Gravity."
PONTE VECCHIO, FLORENCE.
[ENGRAVED BY R. C. COLLINS, AFTER THE ETCHING BY JOSEPH PENNELL.]
The Century Magazine.
Vol. XXIX.
APRIL, 1885.
No. 6.
A FLORENTINE MOSAIC.
(second paper.)
jOR my part, I find it hard to be serious about the
tragedy of a people who seem, as one looks back at
them in their history, to have lived in such perpetual
broil as the Florentines. They cease to be even pa-
thetic; they become absurd, and tempt the observer to
a certain mood of triviality, by their indefatigable antics
in cutting and thrusting, chopping off heads, mutilat-
ing, burning, and banishing. But I have often thought
that we must get a false impression of the past by the
laws governing perspective, in which the remoter objects
are inevitably pressed together in their succession, and
the spaces between are ignored. In looking at a paint-
ing, these spaces are imagined ; but in history, the objects,
the events are what alone make their appeal, and there
seems nothing else. It must always remain for the reader
to revise his impressions, and rearrange them, so as to give
some value to conditions as well as to occurrences. It looks very
much, at first glance, as if the Florentines had no peace from the
domination of the Romans to the domination of the Medici. But in all that time they had
been growing in wealth, power, the arts and letters, and were constantly striving to realize
in their state the ideal which is still our only political aim — "a government of the people
by the people for the people." Whoever opposed himself, his interests or his pride, to that
ideal, was destroyed sooner or later ; and it appears that if there had been no foreign inter-
ference, the one-man power would never have been fastened on Florence. We must account,
therefore, not only for seasons of repose not obvious in history, but for a measure of success
in the realization of her political ideal. The feudal nobles, forced into the city from their
petty sovereignties beyond its gates ; the rich merchants and bankers, creators and crea-
tures of its prosperity ; the industrious and powerful guilds of artisans ; the populace of
unskilled laborers, — authority visited each in turn; but no class could long keep it from the
others, and no man from all the rest. The fluctuations were violent enough, but they only
seem incessant through the necessities of perspective ; and somehow, in the most turbulent
period, there was peace enough for the industries to fruit and the arts to flower. Now and
then a whole generation passed in which there was no upheaval, though it must be owned
that these generations seem few. A life of the ordinary compass witnessed so many atrocious
scenes, that Dante, who peopled his Inferno with his neighbors and fellow-citizens, had but
to study their manners and customs to give life to his picture. Forty years after his exile,
when the Florentines rose to drive out WT alter of Brienne, the Duke of Athens, whom they
[Copyright, 1885, by The Century Co. All rights reserved.]
804
A FLORENTINE MOSAIC.
had made their ruler and who had tried to
make himself their master by a series of
cruel oppressions, they stormed the Palazzo
Vecchio, where he had taken refuge, and de-
manded certain of his bloody minions ; and
when his soldiers thrust one of these out
among them, they cut him into small pieces,
and some tore the quivering fragments with
their teeth.
ii.
The savage lurks so near the surface in
every man that a constant watch must be
kept upon the passions and impulses, or he
leaps out in his war-paint, and the poor in-
tegument of civilization that held him is flung
aside like a useless garment. The Florentines
were a race of impulse and passion, and the
mob was merely the frenzy of that popular
assemblage by which the popular will made
itself known, the suffrage being a thing as
yet imperfectly understood and only second-
arily exercised. Yet the peacefulest and ap-
parently the wholesomest time known to the
historians was that which followed the expul-
sion of the Duke of Athens, when the popu-
lar mob, having defeated the aristocratic
leaders of the revolt, came into power, with
such unquestionable authority that the nobles
were debarred from office, and punished not
only in their own persons, but in kith and
kin, for offenses against the life of a plebeian.
Five hundred noble families were exiled, and
of those left, the greater part sued to be ad-
mitted among the people. This grace was
granted them, but upon the condition that
they must not aspire to office for five years,
and that if any of them killed or grievously
wounded a plebeian, he should be immedi-
ately and hopelessly reennobled; which sounds
like some fantastic invention of Mr. Frank R.
Stockton's, and only too vividly recalls Lord
Tolloller's appeal in " Iolanthe " :
" Spurn not the nobly born
With love affected,
Nor treat with virtuous scorn
The well-connected.
High rank involves no shame —
We boast an equal claim
With him of humble name
To be respected."
The world has been ruled so long by the
most idle and worthless people in it, that it
always seems droll to see those who earn the
money spending it, and those from whom the
power comes using it. But we who are now
trying to offer this ridiculous spectacle to
the world ought not to laugh at it in the
Florentine government of 1343-6. It seems
to have lasted no long time, for at the end of
three or four years the divine wrath smote
Florence with the pest. This was to chastise
her for her sins, as the chroniclers tell us ; but
as a means of reform it failed apparently. A
hundred thousand of the people died, and
the rest, demoralized by the terror and en-
forced idleness in which they had lived, aban-
doned themselves to all manner of dissolute
pleasures, and were much worse than if they
had never had any pest. This pest, of which
the reader will find a lively account in Boc-
caccio's introduction to the " Decamerone," —
he was able to write of it because, like De
Foe, who described the plague of London,
he had not seen it, — seems rather to have
been a blow at popular government, if we
may judge from the disorders into which it
threw the democratic city, and the long train
of wars and miseries that presently followed.
But few of us are ever sufficiently in the di-
vine confidence to be able to say just why
this or that thing happens, and we are con-
stantly growing more modest about assuming
to know. What is certain is that the one-man
power, foreboded and resisted from the first
in Florence, was at last to possess itself of the
fierce and jealous city. It showed itself, of
course, in a patriotic and beneficent aspect at
the beginning, but within a generation the first
memorable Medici had befriended the popular
cause and had made the weight of his name
felt in Florence. From Salvestro de' Medici,
who succeeded in breaking the power of the
Guelph nobles in 1382, and, however unwill-
ingly, promoted the Tumult of the Ciompi
and the rule of the lowest classes, it is a long
step to Averardo de' Medici, another popular
leader in 142 1 ; and it is again another long
step from him to Cosimo de' Medici, who
got himself called the Father of his Country,
and died in 1469, leaving her with her throat
fast in the clutch of his nephew, Lorenzo the
Magnificent. But it was the stride of destiny,
and nothing apparently could stay it.
in.
The name of Lorenzo de' Medici is the next
name of unrivaled greatness to which one
comes in Florence after Dante's. The Medici,
however one may be principled against them,
do possess the imagination there, and I could
not have helped going for their sake to the
Piazza of the Mercato Vecchio, even if I had
not wished to see again and again one of
the most picturesque and characteristic places
in the city. As I think of it, the pale, deli-
cate sky of a fair winter's day in Florence
spreads over me, and I seem to stand in the
midst of the old square, with its moldering col-
A FLORENTINE MOSAIC.
805
IN THE OLD MARKET.
onnade on one side, and on the other its low,
irregular roofs, their brown tiles thinly tinted
with a growth of spindling grass and weeds,
green the whole year round. In front of me a
vast, white old palace springs seven stories into
the sunshine, disreputably shabby from base-
ment to attic, but beautiful, with the rags of a
plebeian wash-day caught across it from bal-
cony to balcony, as if it had fancied trying to
hide its forlornness in them. Around me are
peasants and donkey-carts and Florentines of
all sizes and ages ; my ears are filled with the
sharp din of an Italian crowd, and my nose
with the smell of immemorial, innumerable
market-days, and the rank, cutting savor of
frying fish and cakes from a score of neigh-
boring cook-shops ; but I am happy — hap-
pier than I should probably be if I were
actually there. Through an archway in the
street behind me, not far from an admirably
tumble-down shop full of bric-a-brac of low
degree, all huddled — old bureaus and bed-
8o6
A FLORENTINE MOSAIC.
steads, crockery, classic lamps, assorted
saints, shovels, flat-irons, and big-eyed madon-
nas— under a sagging pent-roof, I enter a
large court, like Piazza Donati. Here the
Medici, among other great citizens, had their
first houses ; and in the narrow street opening
out of this court stands the little church
which was then the family chapel of the
Medici, after the fashion of that time, where
all their marriages, christenings, and funerals
took place. In time this highly respectable
quarter suffered the sort of social decay which
so frequently and so capriciously affects
highly respectable quarters in all cities ; and
it had at last fallen so low, in the reign of
Cosimo I., that when that grim tyrant wished
cheaply to please the Florentines by making
it a little harder for the Jews than for the
Christians under him, he shut them up in the
old court. They had been let into Florence
to counteract the extortion of the Christian
usurers, and upon the condition that they
would not ask more than twenty per cent,
interest. How much more had been taken by
the Christians one can hardly imagine ; but
if this was a low rate to Florentines, one
easily understands how the bankers of the
city grew rich by lending to the necessitous
world outside. Now and then they did not
get back their principal, and Edward III. of
England has still an outstanding debt to
the house of Peruzzi, which he bank-
ijjj rupted in the fourteenth century.
The best of the Jews left the city
rather than enter the Ghetto, and
only the baser sort remained to
its captivity. Whether any of
them still continue there, I
do not know ; but the place
has grown more and more
disreputable, till now it
is the home of the for-
lornest rabble I saw in
j Florence, and if they
were not the worst,
their looks are un-
just to them. They
were mainly wo-
men and chil-
dren, as the
worst classes
seem to be
j everywhere,
If1 — I do not
know why,
— and the
air was full
of the clat-
ter of their
feet and
DOOR OF DANTE'S HOUSE. tOngUCS, m~
tolerably reverberated from the high, many-
windowed walls of scorbutic brick and
stucco. These walls were, of course, garlanded
with garments hung to dry from their case-
ments. It is perpetually washing-day in Italy,
and the observer, seeing so much linen washed
and so little clean, is everywhere invited to
the solution of one of the strangest problems
of the Latin civilization.
The ancient home of the Medici has none
of the feudal dignity, the baronial pride, of
the quarter of the Lamberti and the Buon-
delmonti ; and, disliking them as I did, I
was glad to see it in the possession of that
squalor, so different from the cheerful and
industrious thrift of Piazza Donati and the
neighborhood of Dante's house. No touch
of sympathetic poetry relieves the history of
that race of demagogues and tyrants, who,
in their rise, had no thought but to aggran-
dize themselves, and whose only greatness was
an apotheosis of egotism. It is hard to under-
stand through what law of development, from
lower to higher, the Providence which rules
the affairs of men permitted them supremacy;
and it is easy to understand how the better men
whom they supplanted and dominated should
abhor them. They were especially a bitter dose
to the proud-stomached aristocracy of citizens
which had succeeded the extinct Ghibelline
nobility in Florence; but, indeed, the three
pills which they adopted from the arms of their
guild of physicians, together with the only
appellation by which history knows their
lineage, were agreeable to none who wished
their country well. From the first Medici to
the last, they were nearly all hypocrites or
ruffians, bigots or imbeciles; and Lorenzo,
who was a scholar and a poet, and the friend
of scholars and poets, had the genius and
science of tyranny in supreme degree, though
he wore no princely title and assumed to be
only the chosen head of the commonwealth.
" Under his rule," says Villari, in his " Life
of Savonarola," that almost incomparable biog-
raphy, " all wore a prosperous and contented
aspect; the parties that had so long disquieted
the city were at peace; imprisoned, or banished,
or dead, those who would not submit to the
Medicean domination ; tranquillity and calm
were- everywhere. Feasting, dancing, public
shows and games amused the Florentine peo-
ple, who, once so jealous of their rights, seemed
to have forgotten even the name of liberty.
Lorenzo, who took part in all these pleasures,
invented new ones every day. But among all
his inventions, the most famous was that of
the carnival songs (canti carnascialeschi), of
which he composed the first, and which were
meant to be sung in the masquerades of car-
nival, when the youthful nobility, disguised to
A FLORENTINE MOSAIC.
807
represent the Triumph of Death, or a crew
of demons, or some other caprice of fancy,
wandered through the city, filling it with their
riot. The reading of these songs will paint the
corruption of the town far better than any
CHURCH WHERE DANTE WAS MARRIED — SAN MARTINO.
other description. To-day, not only the youth-
ful nobility, but the basest of the populace,
would hold them in loathing, and to go sing-
ing them through the city would be an of-
fense to public decency which could not fail
to be punished. These things were the favorite
recreation of a prince lauded by all the world
and held up as a model to every sovereign, a
prodigy of wisdom, a political and literary
genius. And such as they called him then,
many would judge him still," says our author,
who explicitly warns his readers against
Roscoe's " Life of Lorenzo de' Medici," as the
least trustworthy of all in its characterization.
" They would forgive him the blood spilt to
maintain a dominion unjustly acquired by
him and his ; the disorder wrought in the
commonwealth ; the theft of the public treas-
ure to supply his profligate waste ; the shame-
less vices to which in spite of his feeble health
he abandoned himself; and even that rapid
and infernal corruption of the people, which
he perpetually studied with all the force and
capacity of his soul. And all because he was
the protector of letters and the fine arts !
" In the social condition of Florence at
that time there was indeed a strange con-
trast. Culture was universally diffused ;
everybody knew Latin and Greek, everybody
admired the classics ; many ladies were noted
for the elegance of their Greek and Latin
verses. The arts, which had languished since
the time of Giotto, revived, and on all sides
rose exquisite palaces and churches. But
artists, scholars, politicians, nobles, and ple-
beians were rotten at heart, lacking in every
public and private virtue, every moral senti-
ment. Religion was the tool of the govern-
ment or vile hypocrisy; they had neither
civil, nor religious, nor moral, nor philo-
sophic faith; even doubt feebly asserted itself in
their souls. A cold indifference to every prin-
ciple prevailed, and those visages full of guile
and subtlety wore a smile of chilly superior-
ity and compassion at any sign of enthusiasm
for noble and generous ideas. They did not
oppose them or question them, as a philosoph-
ical skeptic would have done ; they simply
pitied them. . . . But Lorenzo had an
exquisite taste for poetry and the arts. . . .
Having set himself up to protect artists and
scholars, his house became the resort of the
most illustrious wits of his time, . . . and
whether in the meetings under his own roof,
or in those of the famous Platonic Academy,
his own genius shone brilliantly in that elect
circle. ... A strange life indeed was
Lorenzo's. After giving his whole mind and
soul to the destruction, by some new law,
of some last remnant of liberty, after pro-
nouncing some fresh sentence of ruin or
death, he entered the Platonic Academy, and
ardently discussed virtue and the immortality
of the soul; then sallying forth to mingle
with the dissolute youth of the city, he sang
his carnival songs, and abandoned himself
to debauchery; returning home with Pulci
and Politian, he recited verses and talked
of poetry; and to each of these occupa-
tions he gave himself up as wholly as if it
were the sole occupation of his life. But the
strangest thing of all is that in all that variety
of life they cannot cite a solitary act of real
generosity toward his people, his friends, or
his kinsmen ; for surely if there had been
such an act, his indefatigable flatterers would
not have forgotten it. . . . He had in-
herited from Cosimo all that subtlety by
which, without being a great statesman, he was
prompt in cunning subterfuges, full of pru-
dence and acuteness, skillful in dealing with
ambassadors, most skillful in extinguishing
his enemies, bold and cruel when he believed
the occasion permitted. . . . His face re-
vealed his character; there was something
sinister and hateful in it; the complexion was
greenish, the mouth very large, the nose flat,
and the voice nasal ; but his eye was quick
and keen, his forehead was high, and his
manner had all of gentleness that can be
imagined of an age so refined and elegant as
8o8
A FLORENTINE MOSAIC.
that; his conversation was full of vivacity, of
wit and learning; those who were admitted
to his familiarity were always fascinated by
him. He seconded his age in all its tenden-
cies ; corrupt as it was, he left it corrupter
still in every way; he gave himself up to
pleasure, and he taught his people to give
themselves up to it, to its intoxication and its
delirium."
IV.
This was the sort of being whom human
nature in self-defense ought always to recog-
nize as a devil, and whom no glamour of cir-
cumstance or quality should be suffered to
disguise. It is success like his which, as
Victor Hugo says of Louis Napoleon's simi-
lar success, " confounds the human con-
science," and kindles the lurid light in which
assassination seems a holy duty. Lorenzo's
tyranny in Florence was not only the extinc-
tion of public liberty, but the control of pri-
vate life in all its relations. He made this
marriage and he forbade that among the prin-
cipal families, as it suited his pleasure ; he de-
cided employments and careers ; he regulated
the most intimate affairs of households in the
interest of his power, with a final impunity
which is inconceivable of that proud and
fiery Florence. The smoldering resentment
of his tyranny, which flamed out in the con-
spiracy of the Pazzi, adds the consecration of
a desperate love of liberty to the cathedral,
hallowed by religion and history, in which
the tragedy was enacted. It was always
dramatizing itself there when I entered the
Duomo, whether in the hush and twilight of
some vacant hour, or in the flare of tapers
and voices while some high ceremonial filled
the vast nave with its glittering procession.
But I think the ghosts preferred the latter
setting. To tell the truth, the Duomo at
Florence is a temple to damp the spirit, dead
or alive, by the immense impressiori of stony
bareness, of drab vacuity, which one receives
from its interior, unless it is filled with people.
Outside, it is magnificently imposing, in spite
of the insufficiency and irregularity of its
piazza. In spite of having no such approach
as St. Mark's at Venice, or St. Peter's at
Rome, or even the cathedral at Milan, in
spite of being almost crowded upon by the
surrounding shops and cafes, it is noble, and
more and more astonishing ; and there is the
baptistery, with its heavenly gates, and the
tower of Giotto, with its immortal beauty, as
novel for each new-comer as if freshly set out
there overnight for his advantage. Nor do I
object at all to the cab-stands there, and the
little shops all round, and the people throng-
SAN MARTINO-
■ EXTERIOR.
ing through the piazza, in and out of the
half-score of crooked streets opening upon it.
You do not get all the grandeur of the cathedral
outside, but you get enough, while you come
away from the interior in a sort of destitu-
tion. One needs some such function as I saw
there one evening at dusk in order to realize
all the spectacular capabilities of the place.
This function consisted mainly of a visible
array of the Church's forces " against blas-
phemy," as the printed notices informed me;
but with the high altar blazing, a constella-
tion of candles in the distant gloom, and the
long train of priests, choristers, acolytes, and
white-cowled penitents, each with his taper,
and the archbishop, bearing the pyx, at their
head, under a silken canopy, it formed a set-
ting of incomparable vividness for the scene
on the last Sunday before Ascension, 1478.
There is, to my thinking, no such mirror of
the spirit of that time as the story of this con-
spiracy. A pope was at the head of it, and
an archbishop was there in Florence to share
actively in it. Having failed to find Lorenzo
and Giuliano de' Medici together at Lorenzo's
villa, the conspirators transfer the scene to
the cathedral; the moment chosen for strik-
ing the blow is that supremely sacred mo-
ment in which the very body of Christ is
elevated for the adoration of the kneeling
worshipers. What a contempt they all have
for the place and the office ! In this you read
one effect of that study of antiquity which
was among the means Lorenzo used to cor-
A FLORENTINE MOSAIC.
809
rapt the souls of men ; the Florentines are
half repaganized. Yet at the bottom of the
heart of one conspirator lingers a mediaeval
compunction, and though not unwilling to kill
a man, this soldier does not know about kill-
ing one in a church. Very well, then, give up
your dagger, you simple soldier ; give it to
this priest ; he knows what a church is, and
how little sacred !
The cathedral is packed with people, and
Lorenzo is there, but Giuliano is not come
yet. Are we to be fooled a second time ?
Malediction ! Send some one to fetch that
Medicean beast, who is so slow coming to the
slaughter ! I am of the conspiracy, for I hate
the Medici ; but these muttered blasphemies,
hissed and ground through the teeth, this
frenzy for murder, — it is getting to be little
better than that, — make me sick. Two of us
go for Giuliano to his house, and being ac-
quaintances of his, we laugh and joke famil-
iarly with him ; we put our arms caressingly
about him, and feel if he has a shirt of mail
on, as we walk him between us through the
crowd at the corner of the cafe there, invisi-
bly, past all the cabmen ranked near the
cathedral and the baptistery, not one of whom
shall snatch his horse's oat-bag from his nose
to invite us phantoms to a turn in the city.
We have our friend safe in the cathedral at
last, — hapless, kindly youth, whom we have
nothing against except that he is of that
cursed race of the Medici, — and now at last
the priest elevates the host and it is time to
strike; the little bell tinkles, the multitude
holds its breath and falls upon its knees ;
Lorenzo and Giuliano kneel with the rest.
A moment, and Bernardo Bandini plunges
his short dagger through the boy, who drops
dead upon his face, and Francesco Pazzi
flings himself upon the body, and blindly
striking to make sure of his death, gives him-
self a wound in the leg that disables him for
the rest of the work. And now we see the
folly of intrusting Lorenzo to the unpracticed
hand of a priest, who would have been neat
enough, no doubt, at mixing a dose of poison.
The bungler has only cut his man a little in
the neck ! Lorenzo's sword is out and mak-
ing desperate play for his life ; his friends
close about him, and while the sacred vessels
are tumbled from the altar and trampled un-
der foot in the mellay, and the cathedral rings
with yells and shrieks and curses and the
clash of weapons, they have hurried him into
the sacristy and barred the doors, against
which we shall beat ourselves in vain. Fury !
Infamy ! Malediction ! Pick yourself up,
Francesco Pazzi, and get home as you may !
There is no mounting to horse and crying
liberty through the streets for you ! All is
Vol. XXIX.— 83.
over! The wretched populace, the servile
signory, side with the Medici ; in a few hours
the Archbishop of Pisa is swinging by the
neck from a window of the Palazzo Vecchio ;
and while he is yet alive you are dragged,
bleeding and naked, from your bed through
the streets and hung beside him, so close that
in his dying agony he sets his teeth in your
breast with a convulsive frenzy that leaves
you fast in the death-clutch of his jaws till
they cut the ropes and you rain hideously
down to the pavement below.
v.
One must face these grisly details from
time to time if he would feel what Florence
AN ARCHED PASSAGE.
was. All the world was like Florence at that
time in its bloody cruelty ; the wonder is that
Florence, being what she otherwise was,
should be like all the world in that. One
should take the trouble also to keep con-
stantly in mind the smallness of the theater
in which these scenes were enacted. Com-
pared with modern cities, Florence was but
a large town, and these Pazzi were neighbors
and kinsmen of the Medici, and they and their
fathers had seen the time when the Medici
were no more in the state than other families
which had perhaps scorned to rise by their
8io
A FLORENTINE MOSAIC.
arts. It would be insufferable to any of us if
some acquaintance whom we knew so well,
root and branch, should come to reign over
us ; but this is what happened through the
Medici in Florence.
I walked out one pleasant Sunday after-
noon to the Villa Careggi, where Lorenzo
made a dramatic end twenty years after the
tragedy in the cathedral. It is some two
miles from the city ; I could not say in just
what direction ; but it does not matter, since
if you do not come to Villa Careggi when
you go to look for it, you come to some-
thing else equally memorable, by ways as
beautiful and through landscapes as pictur-
esque. I remember that there was hanging
from a crevice of one of the stone walls
which we sauntered between, one of those
great purple anemones of Florence, tilting
and swaying in the sunny air of February, and
that there was a tender presentiment of spring
in the atmosphere, and people were out
languidly enjoying the warmth about their
doors, as if the winter had been some malady
of theirs, and they were now slowly conva-
lescent. The mountains were white with snow
beyond Fiesole, but that was perhaps to set
off to better advantage the nearer hill-sides,
studded with villas gleaming white through
black plumes of cypress, and blurred with
long gray stretches of olive orchard; it is im-
possible to escape some such crazy impres-
sion of intention in the spectacular prospect
of Italy, though that is probably less the
fault of the prospect than of the people who
have painted and printed so much about it.
There were vineyards, of course, as well as
olive orchards on all those broken and irreg-
ular slopes, over which wandered a tangle
of the high walls which everywhere shut
you out from intimate approach to the fields
about Florence ; you may look up at them,
afar off, or you may look down at them,
but you cannot look into them on the same
level.
We entered the Villa Careggi, when we got
to it, through a high, grated gateway, and
then we found ourselves in a delicious gar-
den, the exquisite thrill of whose loveliness
lingers yet in my utterly satisfied senses. I
remember it as chiefly a plantation of rare
trees, with an enchanting glimmer of the in-
exhaustibly various landscape through every
break in their foliage; but near the house
was a formal parterre for flowers, silent,
serene, aristocratic, touched not with decay,
but a sort of pensive regret. On a terrace
yet nearer were some ftutti, some frolic boys
cut in marble, with a growth of brown moss
on their soft backs, and looking as if, in their
lapse from the civilization for which they were
designed, they had begun to clothe them-
selves in skins.
As to the interior of the villa, every one
may go there and observe its facts ; its vast,
cold, dim saloons, its floors of polished
cement, like ice to the foot, and its walls cov-
ered with painted histories and anecdotes
and portraits of the Medici. The outside
warmth had not got into the house, and I
shivered in the sepulchral gloom, and could
get no sense of the gay, voluptuous, living
past there, not even in the prettily painted
loggia where Lorenzo used to sit with his
friends overlooking Val d'Arno, and glimpsing
the tower of Giotto and the dome of Brunel-
leschi. But there is one room, next to the
last of the long suite fronting on the lovely
garden, where the event which makes the
place memorable has an incomparable ac-
tuality. It is the room where Lorenzo died,
and his dying eyes could look from its win-
dows out over the lovely garden, and across
the vast stretches of villa and village, olive
and cypress, to the tops of Florence swim-
ming against the horizon. He was a long
time dying, of the gout of his ancestors and
his own debauchery, and he drew near his
end cheerfully enough, and very much as he
had always lived, now reasoning high of
philosophy and poetry with Pico della Miran-
dola and Politian, and now laughing at the
pranks of the jesters and buffoons whom
they brought in to amuse him, till the very
last, when he sickened of all those delights,
fine or gross, and turned his thoughts to the
mercy despised so long. But, as he kept say-
ing, none had ever dared give him a resolute
No, save one ; and dreading in his final hours
the mockery of flattering priests, he sent for this
one fearless soul ; and Savonarola, who had
never yielded to his threats or caresses, came
at the prayer of the dying man, and took his
place beside the bed we still see there — high,
broad, richly carved in dark wood, with a
picture of Perugino's on the wall at the left
beside it. Piero, Lorenzo's son, from whom
he has just parted, must be in the next room
yet, and the gentle Pico della Mirandola,
whom Lorenzo was so glad to see that he
smiled and jested with him in the old way, has
closed the door on the preacher and the sin-
ner. Lorenzo confesses that he has heavy on
his soul three crimes : the cruel sack of Vol-
terra, the theft of the public dower of young
girls, by which many were driven to a wicked
life, and the blood shed after the conspiracy
of the Pazzi. " He was greatly agitated, and
Savonarola to quiet him kept repeating ' God
is good; God is merciful. But,' he added,
when Lorenzo had ceased to speak, ' there is
need of three things.' ' And what are they,
A FLORENTINE MOSAIC.
1 1
father ? ' ' First, you must have a great and
living faith in the mercy of God.' ' This I
have — the greatest.' ' Second, you must re-
store that which you have wrongfully taken,
or require your children to restore it for you.'
Lorenzo looked surprised and troubled; but
he forced himself to compliance, and nodded
his head in sign of assent. Then Savonarola
rose to his feet, and stood over the dying
prince. 'Last, you must give back their lib-
erty to the people of Florence.' Lorenzo,
summoning all his remaining strength, disdain-
fully turned his back ; and, without uttering a
word, Savonarola departed witfiout giving
him absolution."
It was as if I saw and heard it all, as I
stood there in the room where the scene had
been enacted ; it still remains to me the vivid-
est event in Florentine history, and Villari
has no need, for me at least, to summon all
the witnesses he calls to establish the verity
of the story. There are some disputed things
that establish themselves in our credence
through the nature of the men and the times
of which they are told, and this is one of
them. Lorenzo and Savonarola were equally
matched in courage, and the Italian soul of
the one was as subtle for good as the Italian
soul of the other was subtle for evil. In that
encounter, the preacher knew that it was not
the sack of a city or the blood of conspirators
for which the sinner really desired absolution,
however artfully and naturally they were ad-
vanced in his appeal ; and Lorenzo knew
when he sent for him that the monk would
touch the sore spot in his guilty heart un-
erringly. It was a profound drama, searching
the depths of character on either side, and on
either side it was played with matchless mag-
nanimity.
VI.
After I had been at Careggi, I had to go
again and look at San Marco, at the cell to
which Savonarola returned from that death-
bed, sorrowing. Yet, at this distance of time
and place, one must needs wonder a little
why one is so pitiless to Lorenzo, so devoted
to Savonarola. I have a suspicion, which I
own with shame and reluctance, that I should
have liked Lorenzo's company much better,
and that I, too, should have felt to its last
sweetness the charm of his manner. I con-
fess that I think I should have been bored —
it is well to be honest with one's self in all
things — by the menaces and mystery of Sa-
vonarola's prophesying, and that I should
have thought his crusade against the pomps
and vanities of Florence a vulgar and ridic-
ulous business. He and his monks would
have been terribly dull companions for one of
my make within their convent ; and when
they came out and danced in a ring with his
male and female devotees in the square before
the church, I should have liked them no bet-
ter than so many soldiers of the Army of
Salvation. That is not my idea of the way in
which the souls of men are to be purified and
elevated, or their thoughts turned to God.
Puerility and vulgarity of a sort to set one's
teeth on edge marked the excesses which Sa-
vonarola permitted in his followers ; and if
he could have realized his puritanic republic,
it would have been one of the heaviest yokes
about the neck of poor human nature that
have ever burdened it. For the reality would
have been totally different from the ideal. So
far as we can understand, the popular con-
ception of Savonarola's doctrine was some-
thing as gross as Army-of-Salvationism, as
wild and sensuous as backwoods Wesleyism,
as fantastic, as spiritually arrogant as primi-
tive Quakerism, as bleak and grim as militant
Puritanism. We must face these facts, and
the fact that Savonarola, though a Puritan,
was no Protestant at all, but the most devout
of Catholics, even while he defied the Pope.
He was a sublime and eloquent preacher, a
genius inspired to ecstasy with the beauty of
holiness; but perhaps — perhaps! — Lorenzo
knew the Florentines better than he when he
turned his face away and died unshriven
rather than give them back their freedom.
Then why, now that they have both been
dust for four hundred years, — and in all
things the change is such that if not a new
heavens there is a new earth since their day,
— why do we cling tenderly, devoutly, to the
strange, frenzied apostle of the Impossible,
and turn, abhorring, from that gay, accom-
plished, charming, wise, and erudite states-
man who knew what men were so much
better ? There is nothing of Savonarola now
but the memory of his purpose, nothing of
Lorenzo but the memory of his ; and now
we see, far more clearly than if the frate had
founded his free state upon the ruins of the
magnified* s tyranny, that the one willed only
good to others, and the other willed it only
to himself. All history, like each little indi-
vidual experience, enforces nothing but this
lesson of altruism ; and it is because the mem-
ory which consecrates the church of San
Marco teaches it in supreme degree that one
stands before it with a swelling heart.
In itself the church is nowise interesting or
imposing, with that ugly and senseless classi-
cism of its facade, which associates itself with
Spain rather than Italy, and the stretch of its
plain, low convent walls. It looks South
American, it looks Mexican, with its plaza-
8l2
A FLORENTINE MOSAIC.
like piazza ; and the alien effect is heightened
by the stiff tropical plants set round the recent
military statue in the center. But when you
are within the convent gate, all is Italian, all
is Florentine again ; for there is nothing more
Florentine in Florence than those old convent
courts into which your sight-seeing takes you so
often. The middle space is inclosed by the shel-
tering cloisters, and here the grass lies green in
the sun the whole winter through, with daisies
in it, and other simple little sympathetic weeds
or flowers ; the still air is warm, and the place
has a climate of its own. Of course, the Do-
minican friars are long gone from San Marco;
the place is a museum now, admirably kept
with more or less care, according to one's
real or attempted delight in them, and then
suddenly comes to the cell of Savonarola; and
all the life goes out of those remote histories
and allegories, and pulses in an agony of
baffled good in this martyrdom. Here is the
desk at which he read and wrote ; here are
laid some leaves of his manuscript, as if they
had just trembled from those wasted hands
of his ; here is the hair shirt he wore, to mor-
tify and torment that suffering flesh the more;
here is a bit of charred wood gathered from
the fire in which he expiated his love for the
Florentines%y a hideous death at their hands.
It rends the heart to look at them ! Still, after
IN THE BARGELLO
up by the Government. I paid a franc -to go
in, and found the old cloister so little con-
ventual that there was a pretty girl copying
a fresco in one of the lunettes, who presently
left her scaldino on her scaffolding, and got
down to start the blood in her feet by a swift
little promenade under the arches where the
monks used to walk, and over the dead
whose grave-stones pave the way. You can-
not help those things ; and she was really very
pretty — much prettier than a monk. In one
of the cells upstairs there was another young
lady ; she was copying a Fra Angelico, who
might have been less shocked at her presence
than some would think. He put a great num-
ber of women, as beautiful as he could paint
them, in the frescoes with which he has illu-
minated the long line of cells. In one place
he has left his own portrait in a saintly com-
pany, looking on at an Annunciation : a very
handsome youth, with an air expressive of an
artistic rather than a spiritual interest in the
fact represented, which indeed has the effect
merely of a polite interview. One looks at
the frescoes glimmering through the dusk of
the little rooms in hardly discernible detail,
four hundred years, the event is as fresh as
yesterday— as fresh as Calvary; and never
can the race which still gropes blindly here
conceive of its divine source better than in
the sacrifice of some poor fellow-creature who
perishes by those to whom he meant nothing
but good.
As one stands in the presence of these
pathetic witnesses, the whole lamentable
tragedy rehearses itself again, with a power
that makes one an actor in it. Here, I am of
that Florence which has sprung erect after
shaking the foot of the tyrant from its neck,
too fiercely free to endure the yoke of the
reformer ; and I perceive the waning strength
of Savonarola's friends, the growing number
of his foes. I stand with the rest before
the Palazzo Vecchio waiting for the result of
that ordeal by fire to which they have chal-
A FLORENTINE MOSAIC.
813
lenged his monks
in test of his
claims, and I
hear with fore-
boding the mur-
murs of the crowd
when they are
balked of their
spectacle by that
question between
the Dominicans
and the Francis-
cans about car-
rying the host
through the
flames ; I return
with him heavy
and sorrowful to
his convent, pre-
scient of broken
power over the
souls which his
voice has swayed
so long; I am
there in San Mar-
co when he rises
to preach, and
the gathering
storm of insult
and outrage
bursts upon him,
with hisses and
yells, till the bat-
tle begins be-
tween his Pia-
gnoni and the
Arrabbiati, and
rages through
the consecrated
edifice, and that
fiery Peter among
his friars beats in
the skulls of his assailants with the bronze cru-
cifix caught up from the altar; I am in the
piazza before the church when the mob at-
tacks the convent, and the monks, shaking
off his meek control, reply with musket-shots
from their cells ; I am with him when the
signory sends to lead him a prisoner to the
Bargello ; I am there when they stretch upon
the rack that frail and delicate body, which
fastings and vigils and the cloistered life have
wrought up to a nervous sensibility as keen
as a woman's ; I hear his confused and un-
certain replies under the torture when they
ask him whether he claims now to have proph-
esied from God; I climb with him, for that
month's respite they allow him before they
put him to the question again, to the narrow
cell high up in the tower of the Old Palace,
where, with the roofs and towers of the cruel
ON THE PONTE VECCHIO.
city he had so loved far below him, and the
purple hills misty against the snow-clad moun-
tains all round the horizon, he recovers some-
thing of his peace of mind, and keeps his
serenity of soul ; I follow him down to the
chapel beautiful with Ghirlandajo's frescoes,
where he spends his last hours, before they
lead him between the two monks who are to
suffer with him ; and once more I stand among
the pitiless multitude in the piazza. They
make him taste the agony of death twice in
the death of his monks ; then he submits his
neck to the halter and the hangman thrusts
him from the scaffold, where the others hang
dangling in their chains above the pyre that
is to consume their bodies. " Prophet ! "
cries an echo of the mocking voice on Cal-
vary, " now is the time for a miracle ! " The
hangman thinks to please the crowd by play-
814
A FLORENTINE MOSAIC.
ing the buffoon with the quivering form; a
yell of abhorrence breaks from them, and he
makes haste to descend and kindle the fire
that it may reach Savonarola while he is still
alive. A wind rises and blows the flame away.
The crowd shrinks back terrified : " A mir-
acle ! a miracle ! " But the wind falls again,
and the bodies slowly burn, dropping a rain
of blood into the hissing embers. The heat
moving the right hand of Savonarola, he seems
to lift it and bless the multitude. The Pia-
gnoni fall sobbing and groaning to their knees;
the Arrabbiati set on a crew of ribald boys,
who, dancing and yelling round the fire, pelt
the dead martyrs with a shower of stones.
Once more I was in San Marco, but it was
now in the nineteenth century, on a Sunday
of January, 1883. There, in the place of
Savonarola, who, though surely no Protestant,
was one of the precursors of the Reforma-
tion, stood a Northern priest, chief perhaps
of those who would lead us back to Rome,
appealing to us in the harsh sibilants of our
English, where the Dominican had rolled the
organ harmonies of his impassioned Italian
upon his hearers' souls. I have certainly noth-
ing to say against the Monsignor, and I have
never seen a more picturesque figure than his
as he stood in his episcopal purple against the
curtain of pale green behind him, his square
priest's cap on his fine head, and the embroid-
ered sleeves of some ecclesiastical under-vest-
ment showing at every tasteful gesture. His
face was strong, and beautiful with its deep-
sunk dreamy eyes, and he preached with singu-
lar vigor and point to a congregation of all the
fashionable and cultivated English-speaking
people in Florence, and to larger numbers of
Italians whom I suspected of coming partly
to improve themselves in our tongue. They
could not have done better; his English was
exquisite in diction and accent, and his
matter was very good. He was warning us
against Agnosticism and the limitations of
merely scientific wisdom ; but I thought that
there was little need to persuade us of God
in the church where Savonarola had lived and
aspired; and that even the dead, who had
known him and heard him, and who now
sent up their chill through the pavement from
the tombs below, and made my feet so very
cold, were more eloquent of immortality in
that place.
VII.
One morning, early in February, I walked
out through the picturesqueness of Oltrarno,
and up the long ascent of the street to Porta
San Giorgio, for the purpose of revering
what is left of the fortifications designed by
Michael Angelo for the defense of the city in
the great siege of 1535. There are many things
to distract even the most resolute pilgrim on
the way to that gate, and I was but too will-
ing to loiter. There are bric-a-brac shops on
the Ponte Vecchio, and in the Via Guic-
ciardini and the Piazza Pitti, with old
canvases, and carvings, and bronzes in their
windows; and though a little past the time of
life when one piously looks up the scenes of
fiction, I had to make an excursion up the
Via de' Bardi for the sake of Romola, whose
history begins in that street. It is a book
which you must read again in Florence, for it
gives a true and powerful impression of
Savonarola's time, even if the author does
burden her drama and dialogue with too much
history. The Via de' Bardi, moreover, is
worthy a visit for its own Gothic-palaced,
mediaeval sake, and for the sake of that long
stretch of the Boboli garden wall backing
upon it, with ivy flung over its shoulder, and
a murmur of bees in some sort of invisible
blossoms beyond. In that neighborhood I
had to stop a moment before the house —
simple, but keeping its countenance in the
presence of a long line of Guicciardini
palaces — where Machiavelli lived; a barber
has his shop on the ground floor now, and not
far off, again, are the houses of the Canigiani,.
the maternal ancestors of Petrarch. And yet a
little way, up a steep, winding street, is the
house of Galileo. It bears on its front a tablet
recording the great fact that Ferdinand II.
de' Medici visited his valued astronomer
there, and a portrait of the astronomer is
painted on the stucco; there is a fruiterer
underneath, and there are a great many chil-
dren playing about, and their mothers scream-
ing at them. The vast sky is blue without a
speck overhead, and I look down on the tops
of garden trees, and the brown-tiled roofs
of houses sinking in ever richer and softer
picturesqueness from level to level below.
But to get the prospect in all its wonderful
beauty, one must push on up the street a lit-
tle farther, and pass out between two indo-
lent sentries lounging under the Giottesquely
frescoed arch of Porta San Giorgio, into the
open road. By this time I fancy the land-
scape will have got the better of history in the
interest of any amateur, and he will give but
a casual glance at Michael Angelo's bastions
or towers, and will abandon himself alto-
gether to the rapture of that scene.
For my part, I cannot tell whether I am
more blest in the varieties of effect which
every step of the descent outside the wall re-
veals in the city and its river and valley, or
in the near olive orchards, gray in the sun,
and the cypresses, intensely black against the
sky. The road next the wall is bordered by a
A FLORENTINE MOSAIC.
815
tangle of blackberry vines, which the amiable
Florentine winter has not had the harshness
to rob of their leaves ; they hang green from
the canes, on which one might almost hope
to find some berries. The lizards, basking in
the warm dust, rustle away among them at
my approach, and up the path comes a gen-
tleman in the company of two small terrier
dogs, whose little bells finely tinkle as they
advance. It would be hard to say just how
these gave the final touch to my satisfaction
with a prospect in which everything glistened
and sparkled as far as the snows of Vallom-
brosa, lustrous along the horizon; but the
reader ought to understand.
VIII.
I was instructed by the friend in whose
tutelage I was pursuing with so much passion
my search for historical localities that I had
better not give myself quite away to either
the associations or the landscapes at Porta
San Giorgio, but wait till I visited San Min-
iato. Afterward I was glad that I did so, for
that is certainly the point from which best to
enjoy both. The day of our visit was gray
and overcast, but the air was clear, and noth-
ing was lost to the eye among the objects
distinct in line and color, almost as far as it
could reach. We went out of the famous
Porta Romana, by which so much history
enters and issues that if the customs officers
there were not
the most circum-
spect of men,
they never could
get round among
the peasants' carts
to tax their wine and oil without trampling
a multitude of august and pathetic pres-
ences under foot. One shudders at the rate
at which one's cocchiere dashes through the
Past thronging the lofty archway, and scat-
ters its phantoms right and left with loud
explosions of his whip. Outside it is some-
what better, among the curves and slopes of
the beautiful suburban avenues, with which
Florence was adorned to be the capital of
Italy twenty years ago. But here, too, his-
tory thickens upon you, even if you know it
but a little ; it springs from the soil that looks
so red and poor, and seems to fill the air. In
no other space, it seems to me, do the great
events stand so dense as in that city and the
circuit of its hills ; so that, for mere pleasure
in its beauty, the sense of its surpassing love-
liness, perhaps one had better not know the
history of Florence at all. As little as I knew
it, I was terribly incommoded by it ; and that
morning, when I drove up to San Miniato to
" realize " the siege of Florence, keeping a
sharp eye out for Montici, where Sciarra
Colonna had his quarters, and the range of
hills whence the imperial forces joined in the
chorus of his cannon battering the tower of
the church, I would far rather have been an
unpremeditating listener to the poem of
Browning which the friend in the carriage
with me was repeating. The din of the guns
drowned his voice from time to time, and
while he was trying to catch a faded phrase,
and going back and correcting himself, and
saying, " No — yes — no. That's it — no.
Hold on — I have it!" as people do in re-
peating poetry, my embattled fancy was flying
about over all the historic scene, sallying, re-
pulsing, defeating, succumbing ; joining in
jiore^ I|..*-.|W>
THE PORTA ROMANA.
8i6
A FL0REN1YNE MOSAIC.
171
I;
!jfc' .^ACOi-LINZ/OO-
<^^jm
PONTE SANTA TRINITA.
the famous camisada when the Florentines
put their shirts on over their armor and at-
tacked the enemy's sleeping camp by night,
and at the same time playing ball down in
the piazza of Santa Croce with the Flor-
entine youth in sheer contempt of the be-
siegers. It was prodigiously fatiguing, and
I fetched a long sigh of exhaustion as I dis-
mounted at the steps of San Miniato, which
was the outpost of the Florentines, and
walked tremulously round it for a better view
of the tower in whose top they had planted
their great gun. It was all battered there by
the enemy's shot aimed to dislodge the
piece, and in the crumbling brickwork nodded
tufts of grass and dry weeds in the wind, like
so many conceits of a frivolous tourist spring-
ing from the tragic history it recorded. The
apse of the church below this tower is of the
most satisfying golden brown in color, and
within, the church is what all the guide-books
know, but what I own I have forgotten. It
is a very famous temple, and every one goes
to see it, for its frescoes and mosaics and its
peculiar beauty of architecture ; and I dedi-
cated a moment of reverent silence to the
memory of the poet Giusti, whose monu-
ment was there. After four hundred years of
slavery, his pen was one of the keenest and
bravest of those which resumed the old Italian
fight for freedom, and he might have had a
more adequate monument. I believe there is
an insufficient statue, or perhaps it is only a
bust, or may be a tablet with his face in bas-
relief; but the modern Italians are not happy
in their commemorations of the dead. The
little Campo Santo at San Miniato is a place
to make one laugh and cry with the hideous
vulgarity of its realistic busts and its photo-
graphs set in the tombstones ; and yet it is
one of the least offensive in Italy. When I
could escape from the fascination of its ugli-
ness, I went and leaned with my friend on
the parapet that incloses the Piazza Michel-
angelo, and took my fill of delight in the
landscape. The city seemed to cover the
whole plain beneath us with the swarm of its
edifices, and the steely stretch of the Arno
thrust through its whole length and spanned
by its half-dozen bridges. The Duomo and the
Palazzo Vecchio swelled up from the mass
with a vastness which the distance seemed only
to accent and reveal. To the northward showed
the snowy tops of the Apennines, while on
the nearer slopes of the soft brown hills flank-
ing the wonderful valley the towns and villas
hung densely drifted everywhere, and whi-
tened the plain to its remotest purple.
I spare the reader the successive events
which my unhappy acquaintance with the
past obliged me to wait and see sweep over
this mighty theater. The winter was still in
A FLORENTINE MOSAIC.
817
the wind that whistled round our lofty perch,
and that must make the Piazza Michel-
angelo so delicious in the summer twilight ; the
bronze copy of the David in the center of the
square looked half frozen. The terrace is part
of the system of embellishment and improve-
ment of Florence for her brief supremacy as
capital; and it is fitly called after Michael
Angelo because it covers the site of so much
work of his for her defense in the great siege.
We looked about till we could endure the
cold no longer, and then returned to our car-
riage. By this time the siege was over, and
after a resistance of fifteen months we were
betrayed by our leader Malatesta Baglioni,
who could not resist the Pope's bribe. With
the disgraceful facility of pleasure-seeking
foreigners we instantly changed sides, and
returned through the Porta Romana, which
his treason opened, and, because it was so
convenient, entered the city with a horde of
other Spanish and German bigots and mer-
cenaries that the empire had hurled against
the stronghold of Italian liberty.
IX.
Yet, once within the beloved walls, — I
must still call them walls, though they are
now razed to the ground and laid out in fine
avenues, with a perpetual succession of horse-
cars tinkling down their midst, — I was all
Florentine again, and furious against the
Medici, whom after a whole generation the
holy league of the Emperor and the Pope had
brought back in the person of the bastard
Alessandro. They brought him back, of
course, in prompt and explicit violation of
their sacred word ; and it seemed to me that
I could not wait for his cousin Lorenzino to
kill him — such is the ferocity of the mildest
tourist in the presence of occasions sufficiently
remote. But surely if ever a man merited
i murder it was that brutal despot, whose
tyrannies and excesses had something almost
I deliriously insolent in them, and who, crime
for crime, seems to have preferred that which
I was most revolting. But I had to postpone
I this exemplary assassination till I could find
the moment for visiting the Riccardi Palace,
J in the name of which the fact of the elder
Medicean residence is clouded. It has long
been a public building, and now some branch
of the municipal government has its meetings
1 and offices there ; but what the stranger com-
monly goes to see is the chapel or oratory
frescoed by Benozzo Gozzoli, which is perhaps
the most simply and satisfyingly lovely little
space that ever four walls inclosed. The
sacred histories cover every inch of it with
form and color; and if it all remains in my
Vol. XXIX.— 84.
memory a sensation of delight, rather than
anything more definite, that is perhaps a wit-
ness to the efficacy with which the painter
wrought. Serried ranks of seraphs, peacock-
plumed, and kneeling in prayer; garlands of
roses everywhere; contemporary Florentines
on horseback, riding in the train of the Three
Magi Kings under the low boughs of trees;
and birds fluttering through the dim, mellow
atmosphere, the whole set dense and close in
an opulent yet delicate fancifulness of design,
— that is what I recall, with a conviction of
the idleness and absurdity of recalling any-
thing. It was like going out-of-doors to leave
the dusky splendor of this chapel, which was
intended at first to be seen only by the light
of silver lamps, and come into the great hall
frescoed by Luca Giordano, where his classic-
istic fables swim overhead in immeasurable
light. They still have the air, those boldly
foreshortened and dramatically postured fig-
ures, of being newly dashed on — the work
of yesterday begun the day before ; and they
fill one with an incomparable gayety : War,
Pestilence, and Famine, no less than Peace,
Plenty, and Hygienic Plumbing — if that
was one of the antithetical personages. Upon
the whole, I think the seventeenth century
was more comfortable than the fifteenth, and
that when men had fairly got their passions
and miseries impersonalized into allegory,
they were in a state to enjoy themselves much
better than before. One can very well imagine
the old Cosimo who built this palace having
himself carried through its desolate magnifi-
cence, and crying that, now his son was dead,
it was too big for his family ; but grief must
have been a much politer and seemlier thing
in Florence when Luca Giordano painted the
ceiling of the great hall.
In the Duke Alessandro's time they had
only got half-way, and their hearts ached
and burned in primitive fashion. The revival
of learning had brought them the consolation
of much classic example, both virtuous and
vicious, but they had not yet fully philoso-
phized slavery into elegant passivity. Even
a reprobate like Lorenzino de' Medici —
" the morrow of a debauch," as De Musset
calls him — had his head full of the high
Roman fashion of finishing tyrants, and ber
haved as much like a Greek as he could.
The Palazzo Riccardi now includes in its
mass the site of the house in which Lorenzino
lived, as well as the narrow street which
formerly ran between his house and the
palace of the Medici ; so that if you have ever
so great a desire to visit the very spot where
Alessandro died that only too insufficient
death, you must wreak your frenzy upon a
small passage opening out of the present
8i8
A FLORENTINE MOSAIC.
court. You enter this from the modern liveli-
ness of the Via Cavour, — in every Italian city
since the unification there is a Via Cavour, a
Via Garibaldi, and a Corso Vittorio Em-
manuele, — and you ordinarily linger for a
moment among the Etruscan and Roman
marbles before paying your half franc and
going upstairs. There is a little confusion in
this, but I think upon the whole it heightens
the effect ; and the question whether the cus-
todian can change a piece of twenty francs,
debating itself all the time in the mind of the
amateur of tyrannicide, sharpens his impa-
tience, while he turns aside into the street
which no longer exists, and mounts the phan-
tom stairs to the vanished chamber of the
demolished house, where the Duke is waiting
for the Lady Ginori, as he believes, but really
for his death. No one, I think, claims that he
was a demon less infernal than Lorenzino
makes him out in that strange Apology of his,
in which he justifies himself to posterity by ap-
peals to antiquity. " Alessandro," he says,
" went far beyond Phalaris in cruelty, because,
whereas Phalaris justly punished Perillus for
his cruel invention for miserably tormenting
and destroying men in his brazen Bull, Ales-
sandro would have rewarded him if he had
lived in his time, for he was himself always
thinking out new sorts of tortures and deaths,
like building men up alive in places so nar-
row that they could not turn or move, but
might be said to be built in as a part of the
wall of brick and stone, and in that state
feeding them and prolonging their misery as
much as possible, the monster not satisfying
himself with the mere death of his people; so
that the seven years of his reign, for de-
bauchery, for avarice and cruelty, may be
compared with seven others of Nero, of Calig-
ula, or of Phalaris, choosing the most abom-
inable of their whole lives, in proportion, of
course, of the city to the empire ; for in that
time so many citizens will be found to have
been driven from their country, and perse-
cuted, and murdered in exile, and so many
beheaded without trial and without cause,
and only for empty suspicion, and for words
of no importance, and others poisoned or
slain by his own hand, or his satellites, merely
that they might not put him to shame before
certain persons, for the condition in which he
was born and reared ; and so many extor-
tions and robberies will be found to have
been committed, so many adulteries, so many
violences, not only in things profane but in
sacred also, that it will be difficult to decide
whether the tyrant was more atrocious and
impious, or the Florentine people more patient
and vile. . . . And if Timoleon was forced
to kill his own brother to liberate his country,
and was so much praised and celebrated for
it, and still is so, what authority have the
malevolent to blame me ? But in regard to
killing one who trusted me (which I do not
allow I have done), I say that if I had done
it in this case, and if I could not have accom-
plished it otherwise, I should have done it.
. . . That he was not of the house of
Medici and my kinsman is manifest, for he
was born of a woman of base condition, from
Castelvecchi in the Romagna, who lived in the
house of the Duke Lorenzo [of Urbino], and
was employed in the most menial services,
and married to a coachman, . . . He
[Alessandro] left her to work on the fields, so
that those citizens of ours who had fled from
the tyrant's avarice and cruelty in the city de-
termined to conduct her to the Emperor at
Naples, to show his Majesty whence came the
man he thought fit to rule Florence. Then
Alessandro, forgetting his duty in his shame,
and the love for his mother, which indeed he
neverhad, and through an inborn cruelty and
ferocity, caused his mother to be killed before
she came to the Emperor's presence."
On the way up to the chamber to which
the dwarfish, sickly little tyrannicide has lured
his prey, the most dramatic moment occurs.
He stops the bold rufhan whom he has got to
do him the pleasure of a certain unspecified
homicide, in requital of the good turn by which
he once saved his life, and whispers to him,
" It is the Duke ! " Scoronconcolo, who had
merely counted on an every-day murder,
falters in dismay. But he recovers himself:
" Here we are ; go ahead, if it were the devil
himself! " And after that he has no more com-
punction in the affair than if it were the
butchery of a simple citizen. The Duke is lying
there on the bed in the dark, and Lorenzino
bends over him with " Are you asleep, sir ? I
and drives his sword, shortened to half length,
through him ; but the Duke springs up, and cry-
ing out, " I did not expect this of thee ! I
makes a fight for his life that tasks the full
strength of the assassins, and covers the cham-
ber with blood. When the work is done, Lo-
renzino draws the curtains round the bed again,
and pins a Latin verse to them explaining that
he did it for love of country and the thirst for
glory.
Is it perhaps all a good deal too much
like a stage-play ? Or is it that stage-plays
are too much like facts of this sort ? If it
were at the theater, one could go away, de-
ploring the bloodshed, of course, but com-
forted by the justice done on an execrable
wretch, the murderer of his own mother, and
the pollution of every life that he touched.
LOVE'S CHANGE.
819
But if it is history we have been reading, we
must turn the next page and see the city
filled with troops by the Medici and their
friends, and another of the race established in
power before the people know that the Duke
is dead. Clearly, poetical justice is not the
justice of God. If it were, the Florentines
would have had the republic again at once.
Lorenzino, instead of being assassinated in
Venice, on his way to see a lady, by the
emissaries of the Medici, would have satisfied
public decorum by going through the form of
a trial, and would then have accepted some
official employment and made a good end.
Yet the seven Medicean dukes who followed
Alessandro were so variously bad for the
most part that it seems impious to regard
them as part of the design of Providence.
How, then, did they come to be ? Is it pos-
sible that sometimes evil prevails by its supe-
rior force in the universe ? We must suppose
that it took seven Medicean despots and as
many more of the house of Lorraine and
Austria to iron the Florentines out to the flat
and polished peacefulness of their modern ef-
fect. Of course, the commonwealth could not
go on in the old way ; but was it worse at its
worst than the tyranny that destroyed it ? I
am afraid we must allow that it was more im-
possible. People are not put into the world
merely to love their country ; they must have
peace. True freedom is only a means to
peace ; and if such freedom as they have will
not give them peace, then they must accept it
from slavery. It is always to be remembered-
that the great body of men are not affected
by oppressions that involve the happiness of
the magnanimous few ; the affair of most men
is mainly to be sheltered and victualed and
allowed to prosper and bring up their families.
Yet when one thinks of the sacrifices made
to perpetuate popular rule in Florence, one's
heart is wrung in indignant sympathy with
the hearts that broke for it. Of course, one
must, in order to experience this emotion, put
out of his mind certain facts, as that there
never was freedom for more than one party at
a time under the old commonwealth ; that as
soon as one party came into power the other
was driven out of the city ; and that even
within the triumphant party every soul
seemed corroded by envy and distrust of
every other. There is, to be sure, the consol-
ing reflection that the popular party was
always the most generous and liberal, and
that the oppression of all parties under the
despotism was not exactly an improvement
on the oppression of one. With this thought
kept before you vividly, and with those, facts
blinked, you may go, for example, into the
Medici Chapel of San Lorenzo and make
pretty sure of your pang in the presence
of those solemn figures of Michael Angelo's,
where his Night seems to have his words of
grief for the loss of liberty upon her lips :
" 'Tis sweet to sleep, sweeter of stone to be,
And while endure the infamy and woe,
For me 'tis happiness not to feel or see.
Do not awake me therefore. Ah, speak low!"
W. D. Howells.
LOVE'S CHANGE.
I went to dig a grave for Love, And I said ; " Must he lie in my house in
But the earth was so stiff and cold, state ?
That though I strove through the bitter And stay in his wonted place ?
night, Must I have him with me another day,
I could not break the mold. With that awful change in his face?"
Anne R. Aldrich.
PHASES OF STATE LEGISLATION.
THE ALBANY LEGISLATURE.
Few persons realize the magnitude of the
interests affected by State legislation in New
York. It is no mere figure of speech to call
New York the Empire State ; and most of the
laws directly and immediately affecting the
interests of its citizens are passed at Albany,
and not at Washington. In fact, there is at
Albany a little Home Rule Parliament which
presides over the destinies of a commonwealth
more populous than any one of two-thirds of
the kingdoms of Europe, and one which, in
point of wealth, material prosperity, variety of
interests, extent of territory, and capacity for
expansion, can fairly be said to rank next to
the powers of the first class. This little parlia-
ment, composed of one hundred and twenty-
eight members in the Assembly and thirty-two
in the Senate, is, in the fullest sense of the
term, a representative body; there is hardly
one of the many and widely diversified inter-
ests of the State that has not a mouth-piece
at Albany, and hardly a single class of its
citizens — not even excepting, I regret to say,
the criminal class — which lacks its represent-
ative among the legislators. In the three
Legislatures of which I have been a member,
I have sat with bankers and brick-layers, with
merchants and mechanics, with lawyers, farm-
ers, day-laborers, saloon-keepers, clergymen,
and prize-fighters. Among my colleagues there
were many very good men ; there was a still
more numerous class of men who were neither
very good nor very bad, but went one way or
the other, according to the strength of the
various conflicting influences acting around,
behind, and upon them; and, finally, there
were many very bad men. Still, the New
York Legislature, taken as a whole, is by no
means as bad a body as we would be led
to believe if our judgment was based purely
on what we read in the great metropoli-
tan papers ; for the custom of the latter is to
portray things as either very much better or
very much worse than they are. Where a
number of men, many of them poor, some of
them unscrupulous, and others elected by
constituents too ignorant to hold them to a
proper accountability for their actions, are put
into a position of great temporary power,
where they are called to take action upon
questions affecting the welfare of large cor-
porations and wealthy private individuals, the
chances for corruption are always great, and
that there is much viciousness and political
dishonesty, much moral cowardice, and a good
deal of actual bribe-taking in Albany, no one
who has had any practical experience of legis-
lation can doubt; but, at the same time, I
think that the good members always outnum-
ber the bad, and that there is never any doubt
as to the result when a naked question of
right or wrong can be placed clearly and in its
true light before the Legislature. The trouble
is that on many questions the Legislature never
does have the right and wrong clearly shown
it. Either some bold, clever parliamentary
tactician snaps the measure through before
the members are aware of its nature, or else
the obnoxious features are so combined with
good ones as to procure the support of a cer-
tain proportion of that large class of men
whose intentions are excellent but whose in-
tellects are foggy.
the character of the representatives.
The representatives from different sections
of the State differ widely in character. Those
from the country districts are generally very
good men. They are usually well-to-do farm-
ers, small lawyers, or prosperous store-keep-
ers, and are shrewd, quiet, and honest. They
are often narrow-minded and slow to receive
an idea ; but, on the other hand, when they
get a good one, they cling to it with the ut-
most tenacity. They form very much the most
valuable class of legislators. For the most
part they are native Americans, and those who
are not are men who have become completely
Americanized in all their ways and habits of
thought. One of the most useful members of
the last Legislature was a German from a
western county, and the extent of his Ameri-
canization can be judged from the fact that he
was actually an ardent prohibitionist : cer-
tainly no one who knows Teutonic human
nature will require further proof. Again, I sat
for an entire session beside a very intelligent
member from northern New York before I dis-
covered that he was an Irishman ; all his
views of legislation, even upon such subjects
as free schools and the impropriety of mak-
ing appropriations from the treasury for the
support of sectarian institutions, were pre-
cisely similar to those of his Protestant Amer-
ican neighbors, though he was himself a Cath-
PHASES OF STATE LEGISLATION.
821
olic. Now a German or an Irishman from one
of the great cities would have retained most
of his national peculiarities.
It is from these same great cities that the
worst legislators come. It is true that there are
always among them a few cultivated and
scholarly men who stand on a higher and
broader intellectual and moral plane than
even the country members ; but the bulk
are very low indeed. They are usually for-
eigners, of little or no education, 'with ex-
ceedingly misty ideas as to morality, and
possessed of an ignorance so profound that
it could only be called comic, were it not
for the fact that it has at times such serious ef-
fects upon our laws. It is their ignorance, quite
as much as actual viciousness, which makes it
so difficult to procure the passage of good
laws or prevent the passage of bad ones ; and
it is the most irritating of the many elements
with which we have to contend in the fight
for good government.
DARK SIDE OF THE LEGISLATIVE PICTURE.
Mention has been made above of the bribe-
taking which undoubtedly at times occurs in
the New York Legislature. This is what is
commonly called " a delicate subject " with
which to deal, and, therefore, according to our
usual methods of handling delicate subjects, it
is either never discussed at all, or else dis-
cussed with the grossest exaggeration; but
most certainly there is nothing about which it
is more important to know the truth.
In each of the last three Legislatures there
were a number of us who were interested in
getting through certain measures which we
deemed to be for the public good, but which
were certain to be strongly opposed, some for
political and some for pecuniary reasons.
Now, to get through any such measure re-
quires genuine hard work, a certain amount
of parliamentary skill, a good deal of tact and
courage, and, above all, a thorough knowl-
edge of the men with whom one has to deal,
and of the motives which actuate them. In
other words, before taking any active steps,
we had to " size up " our fellow legislators, to
find out their past history and present char-
acter and associates, to find out whether they
were their own masters or were acting under
the directions of somebody else, whether they
were bright or stupid, etc., etc. As a result,
and after very careful study, conducted purely
with the object of learning the truth, so that
we might work more effectually, we came to
the conclusion that about a- third of the mem-
bers were open to corrupt influences in some
form or other; in certain sessions the propor-
tion was greater, and in some less. Now it
would, of course, be impossible for me or for
any one else to prove in a court of law that
these men were guilty, except perhaps in two
or three cases; yet we felt absolutely confi-
dent that there was hardly a case in which our
judgment as to the honesty of any given mem-
ber was not correct. The two or three excep-
tional cases alluded to, where legal proof of
guilt might have been forthcoming, were
instances in which honest men were ap-
proached by their colleagues at times when
the need for votes was very great ; but, even
then, it would have been almost impossible to
punish the offenders before a court, for it
would have merely resulted in his denying
what his accuser stated. Moreover, the mem-
bers who had been approached would have
been very reluctant to come forward, for each
of them felt ashamed that his character should
not have been well enough known to prevent
any one's daring to speak to him on such a
subject. And another reason why the few
honest men who are approached (for the
lobbyist rarely makes a mistake in his estimate
of the men who will be apt to take bribes) do
not feel like taking action in the matter is that
a doubtful lawsuit will certainly follow, which
will drag on so long that the public will come
to regard all of the participants with equal
distrust, while in the end the decision is quite
as likely to be against as to be for them. Take
the Bradly-Sessions case, for example. This
was an incident that occurred at the time of
the faction-fight in the Republican ranks over
the return of Mr. Conkling to the Senate after
his resignation from that body. Bradly, an
assemblyman, accused Sessions, a State sena-
tor, of attempting to bribe him. The affair
dragged on for an indefinite time ; no one was
able actually to determine whether it was a
case of blackmail on the one hand, or of
bribery on the other; the vast majority of
people recollected the names of both parties,
but totally forgot which it was that was sup-
posed to have bribed the other, and regarded
both with equal disfavor ; and the upshot has
been that the case is now merely remembered
as illustrating one of the most unsavory phases
of the famous Half-breed- Stalwart fight.
DIFFICULTIES OF PREVENTING AND
PUNISHING CORRUPTION.
From the causes indicated, it is almost im-
possible to actually convict a legislator of
bribe-taking; but, at the same time, the char-
acter of a legislator, if bad, soon becomes a
matter of common notoriety, and no dishon-
est legislator can long keep his reputation
good with honest men. If the constituents
822
PHASES OF STATE LEGISLATION.
wish to know the character of their member,
they can easily find it out, and no member
will be dishonest if he thinks his constituents
are looking at him ; he presumes upon their
ignorance or indifference. I do not see how
bribe-taking among legislators can be stopped
until the public conscience, which is, even
now, gradually awakening, becomes fully
awake to the matter. Then it will stop fast
enough; for just as soon as politicians realize
that the people are in earnest in wanting a
thing done, they make haste to do it. The
trouble is always in rousing the people suffi-
ciently to make them take an effective interest,
— that is, in making them sufficiently in earn-
est to be willing to give a little of their time
to the accomplishment of the object they
have in view.
Much the largest percentage of corrupt
legislators come from the great cities ; indeed,
the majority of the assemblymen from the
great cities are " very poor specimens " indeed,
while, on the contrary, the congressmen who
go from them are generally pretty good men.
This fact is only one of the many which go to
establish the curious political law that in a
great city the larger the constituency which
elects a public servant, the more apt that
servant is to be a good one ; exactly as the
mayor is almost certain to be infinitely su-
perior in character to the average alderman,
or the average city judge to the average civil
justice. This is because the public servants
of comparatively small importance are pro-
tected by their own insignificance from the
consequences of their bad actions. Life is
carried on at such a high pressure in the great
cities, men's time is so fully occupied by their
manifold and harassing interests and duties,
and their knowledge of their neighbors is
necessarily so limited, that they are only able
to fix in their minds the characters and rec-
ords of a few prominent men; the others
they lump together without distinguishing be-
tween individuals. They know whether the
aldermen, as a body, are to be admired or
despised ; but they probably do not even
know the name, far less the worth, of the
particular alderman who represents their dis-
trict ; so it happens that their votes for alder-
men or assemblymen are generally given with
very little intelligence indeed, while, on the
contrary, they are fully competent to pass and
execute judgment upon as prominent an offi-
cial as a mayor or even a congressman.
Hence it follows that the latter have to give
a good deal of attention to the wishes and
prejudices of the public at large, while a city
assemblyman, though he always talks a great
deal about the people, rarely, except in cer-
tain extraordinary cases, has to pay much
heed to their wants. His political future de-
pends far more upon the skill and success
with which he cultivates the good- will of cer-
tain " bosses," or of certain cliques of politi-
cians, or even of certain bodies and knots of
men (such as compose a trade-union, or a col-
lection of merchants in some special business,
or the managers of a railroad) whose interests,
being vitally affected by Albany legislation,
oblige them closely to watch, and to try to
punish or reward, the Albany legislators.
These politicians or sets of interested individ-
uals generally care very little for a man's hon-
esty so long as he can be depended upon to
do as they wish on certain occasions; and
hence it often happens that a dishonest man
who has sense enough not to excite attention
by any flagrant outrage may continue for a
number of years to represent an honest con-
stituency.
THE CONSTITUENTS LARGELY TO BLAME.
Moreover, a member from a large city
can often count upon the educated and intel-
ligent men of his district showing the most
gross ignorance and stupidity in political
affairs. The much-lauded intelligent voter —
the man of cultured mind, liberal education,
and excellent intentions — at times performs
exceedingly queer antics.
The great public meetings to advance cer-
tain political movements irrespective of party,
which have been held so frequently during
the past few years, have undoubtedly done a
vast amount of good; but the very men who
attend these public meetings and inveigh
against the folly and wickedness of the politi-
cians will sometimes on election day do things
which have quite as evil effects as any of the
acts of the men whom they very properly
condemn. A recent instance of this is worth
giving. In 1882 there was in the Assembly a
young member from New York, who did as
hard and effective work for the city of New
York as has ever been done by any one. It
was a peculiarly disagreeable year to be in the
Legislature. The composition of that body was
unusually bad. The more disreputable politi-
cians relied upon it to pass some of their
schemes and to protect certain of their mem-
bers from the consequences of their own mis-
deeds. Demagogic measures were continually
brought forward, nominally in the interests
of the laboring classes, for which an honest
and intelligent man could not vote, and yet
which were jealously watched by, and received
the hearty support of, not only mere dema-
gogues and agitators, but also a large number
of perfectly honest though misguided working
men. And, finally, certain wealthy corpora-
PHASES OF STATE LEGISLATION.
823
tions attempted, by the most unscrupulous
means, to rush through a number of laws in
their own interest. The young member we
are speaking of incurred by his course on
these various measures the bitter hostility
alike of the politicians, the demagogues, and
the members of that most dangerous of all
classes, the wealthy criminal class. He had
also earned the gratitude of all honest citizens,
and he got it — as far as words went. The
better class of newspapers spoke well of him;
cultured and intelligent men generally — the
well-to-do, prosperous people who belong to
the different social and literary clubs, and
their followers — were loud in his praise. I
call to mind one man who lived in his dis-
trict who expressed great indignation that the
politicians should dare to oppose a reelection ;
when told that it was to be hoped he would
help to insure the legislator's return to Albany
by himself staying at the polls all day, he an-
swered that he was very sorry, but he unfor-
tunately had an engagement to go quail-
shooting on election-day! Most respectable
people, however, would undoubtedly have
voted for and reelected the young member
had it not been for the unexpected political
movements that took place in the fall. A cit-
izens' ticket, largely non-partisan in charac-
ter, was run for certain local offices, receiving
its support from among those who claimed to
be, and who undoubtedly were, the best men
of both parties. The ticket contained the
names of candidates only for municipal offices,
and had nothing whatever to do with the
election of men to the Legislature; yet it
proved absolutely impossible to drill this sim-
ple fact through the heads of a great many
worthy people, who, when election-day came
round, declined to vote anything but the cit-
izens' ticket, and persisted in thinking that if
no legislative candidate was on the ticket, it
was because, for some reason or other, the
citizens' committee did not consider any legis-
lative candidate worth voting for. All over
the city the better class of candidates for legis-
lative offices lost from this cause votes which
they had a right to expect, and in the partic-
ular district under consideration the loss was
so great as to cause the defeat of the sitting
member, or rather to elect him by so narrow
a vote as to enable an unscrupulously parti-
san legislative majority to keep him out of his
sea*,.
It is this kind of ignorance of the simplest
political matters among really good citizens,
combined with their timidity, which is so apt
to characterize a wealthy bourgeoisie, and with
their short-sighted selfishness in being unwill-
ing to take the smallest portion of time away
from their business or pleasure to devote to
public affairs, which renders it so easy for cor-
rupt men from the city to keep their places in
the Legislature. In the country the case is
different. Here the constituencies, who are
usually composed of honest though narrow-
minded and bigoted individuals, generally
keep a pretty sharp lookout on their mem-
bers, and, as already said, the latter are apt to
be fairly honest men. Even when they are not
honest, they take good care to act perfectly
well as regards all district matters, for most of
the measures about which corrupt influences
are at work relate to city affairs. The con-
stituents of a country member know well how
to judge him for those of his acts which im-
mediately affect themselves; but, as regards
others, they often have no means of forming
an opinion, except through the newspapers, —
more especially through the great metropoli-
tan newspapers, — and they have gradually
come to look upon all statements made by the
latter with reference to the honesty or dis-
honesty of public men with extreme distrust.
This is because the newspapers, including those
who professedly stand as representatives of the
highest culture of the community, have been
in the habit of making such constant and reck-
less assaults upon the characters of public men,
even fairly good ones, as to greatly detract
from their influence when they attack one who
is really bad.
PERILS OF LEGISLATIVE LIFE.
However, there can be no question that a
great many men do deteriorate very much
morally when they go to Albany. The last
accusation most of us would think of bringing
against that dear, dull, old Dutch city is that
of being a fast place ; and yet there are plenty
of members coming from out-of-the-way vil-
lages or quiet country towns on whom Albany
has as bad an effect as Paris sometimes has on
wealthy young Americans from the great sea-
board cities. Many men go to the Legislature
with the set purpose of making money ; but
many others, who afterwards become bad, go
there intending to do good work. These latter
may be well-meaning, weak young fellows of
some shallow brightness, who expect to make
names for themselves ; perhaps they are young
lawyers, or real-estate brokers, or small shop-
keepers ; they achieve but little success ; they
gradually become conscious that their busi-
ness is broken up, and that they have not
enough ability to warrant any expectation of
their continuing in public life ; some great
temptation comes in their way (a corporation
which expects to be relieved of perhaps a mill-
ion dollars of taxes by the passage of a bill
824
PHASES OF STATE LEGISLATION.
can afford to pay high for voters) ; they fall,
and that is the end of them. Indeed, legisla-
tive life has temptations enough to make it
unadvisable for any weak man, whether young
or old, to enter it.
ALLIES OF VICIOUS LEGISLATORS.
The array of vicious legislators is swelled
by a number of men who really at bottom are
not bad. Foremost among these are those
most hopeless of beings who are handicapped
by having some measure which they consider
it absolutely necessary for the sake of their own
future to " get through." One of these men will
have a bill, for instance, appropriating a sum
of money from the State Treasury to clear out
a river, dam the outlet of a lake, or drain a
marsh; it may be, although not usually so,
proper enough in itself, but it is drawn up pri-
marily in the interest of a certain set of his con-
stituents who have given him clearly to under-
stand that his continuance in their good graces
depends upon his success in passing the bill.
He feels that he must get it through at all
hazards ; the bad men find this out, and tell
him he must count on their opposition unless
he consents also to help their measures ; he re-
sists at first, but sooner or later yields; and
from that moment his fate is sealed, — so far
as his ability to do any work of general good
is concerned.
A still larger number of men are good
enough in themselves, but are " owned " by
third parties. Usually the latter are politicians
who have absolute control of the district ma-
chine, or who are, at least, of very great
importance in the political affairs of their dis-
trict. A curious fact is that they are not in-
variably, though usually, of the same party as
the member ; for in some places, especially in
the lower portions of the great cities, politics
become purely a business ; and in the squab-
bles for offices of emolument it becomes im-
portant for a local leader to have supporters
among all the factions. When one of these
supporters is sent to a legislative body, he is
allowed to act with the rest of his party on
what his chief regards as the unimportant
questions of party or public interest, but he has
to come in to heel at once when any mat-
ter arises touching the said chief's power,
pocket, or influence.
Other members will be controlled by some
wealthy private citizen who is not in poli-
tics, but who has business interests likely to be
affected by legislation, and who is, therefore,
willing to subscribe heavily to the campaign
expenses of an individual or of an association
so as to insure the presence in Albany of some
one who will give him information and assist-
ance.
On one occasion there came before a com-
mittee of which I happened to be a member
a perfectly proper bill in the interest of a cer-
tain corporation ; the majority of the commit-
tee, six in number, were thoroughfy bad men,
who opposed the measure with the hope of
being paid to cease their opposition. When I
consented to take charge of the bill, I had
stipulated that not a penny should be paid to
insure its passage. It therefore became neces-
sary to see what pressure could be brought to
bear on the recalcitrant members; and, ac-
cordingly, we had to find out who were the
authors and sponsors of their political being.
Three proved to be under the control of local
statesmen of the same party as themselves,
and of equally bad moral character ; one was
ruled by a politician of unsavory reputation
from a different city; the. fifth, a Democrat,
was owned by a Republican Federal official;
and the sixth by the president of a horse-car
company. A couple of letters from these two
magnates forced the last members mentioned
to change front on the bill with surprising
alacrity.
There are two classes of cases in which cor-
rupt members get money. One is when a
wealthy corporation buys through some meas-
ure which will be of great benefit to itself, al-
though, perhaps, an injury to the public at
large ; the other is when a member introduces
a bill hostile to some moneyed interest, with
the expectation of being paid to let the matter
drop. The latter, technically called a " strike,"
is much the most common ; for, in spite of the
outcry against them in legislative matters, cor-
porations are more often sinned against than
sinning. It is difficult, for reasons already
given, in either case to convict the offending
member, though we have very good laws
against bribery. The reform has got to come
from the people at large. It will be hard to
make any very great improvement in the
character of the legislators until respectable
people become more fully awake to their du-
ties, and until the newspapers become more
truthful and less reckless in their statements.
It is not a pleasant task to have to draw
one side of legislative life in such dark colors ;
but as the side exists, and as the dark lines
never can be rubbed out until we have man-
fully acknowledged that they are there and
need rubbing out, it seems the falsest of false
delicacy to refrain from dwelling upon them.
But it would be most unjust to accept this
partial truth as being the whole truth. We
blame the Legislature for many evils the ulti-
mate cause for whose existence is to be found
in our own shortcomings.
PHASES OF STATE LEGISLATION.
825
THE OTHER SIDE OF THE PICTURE.
There is a much brighter side to the pic-
ture, and this is the larger side, too. It would
be impossible to get together a body of more
earnest, upright, and disinterested men than
the band of legislators, largely young men,
who during the past three years have averted
so much evil and accomplished so much good
at Albany. They were able, at least par-
tially, to put into actual practice the theories
that had long been taught by the intellectual
leaders of the country. And the life of a
legislator who is earnest in his efforts to faith-
fully perform his duty as a public servant,
is harassing and laborious to the last degree.
He is kept at work from eight to fourteen
hours a day ; he is obliged to incur the bit-
terest hostility of a body of men as powerful
as they are unscrupulous, who are always on
the watch to find out, or to make out, any-
thing in his private or his public life which
can be used against him ; and he has on his
side either a but partially roused public opin-
ion, or else a public opinion roused, it is true,
but only blindly conscious of the evil from
which it suffers, and alike ignorant and un-
willing to avail itself of the proper remedy.
This body of legislators, who, at any rate,
worked honestly for what they thought right,
were, as a whole, quite unselfish, and were not
treated particularly well by their people. Most
of them soon got to realize the fact that if
they wished to enjoy their brief space of politi-
cal life (and most though not all of them did
enjoy it), they would have to make it a rule
never to consider, in deciding how to vote
upon any question, how their vote would af-
fect their own political prospects. No man can
do good service in the Legislature as long as
he is worrying over the effect of his actions
upon his own future. After having learned
this, most of them got on very happily in-
deed. As a rule, and where no matter of
principle is involved, a member is bound to
represent the views of those who have elected
him; but there are times when the voice of
the people is anything but the voice of God,
and then a conscientious man is equally bound
to disregard it.
In the long run, and on the average, the
public will usually do justice to its represent-
atives ; but it is a very rough, uneven, and
long-delayed justice. That is, judging from
what I have myself seen of the way in which
members were treated by their constituents, I
should say that the chances of an honest man
being retained in public life were about ten
per cent, better than if he were dishonest,
other things being equal. This is not a show-
ing very creditable to us as a people ; and the
explanation is to be found in the shortcomings
peculiar to the different classes of our honest
and respectable voters, — shortcomings which
may be briefly outlined.
SHORTCOMINGS OF THE PEOPLE WHO SHOULD
TAKE PART IN POLITICAL WORK.
The people of means in all great cities
have in times past shamefully neglected their
political duties, and have been contemptu-
ously disregarded by the professional politi-
cians in consequence. A number of them will
get together in a large hall, will vociferously
demand " reform," as if it were some concrete
substance which could be handed out to them
in slices, and will then disband with a feeling
of the most serene self-satisfaction, and the
belief that they have done their entire duty as
citizens and members of the community. It is
an actual fact that nine out of ten of our
wealthy and educated men, of those who oc-
cupy what is called good social position, are
really ignorant of the nature of a caucus or a
primary meeting, and never attend either;
and this is specially true of the young men.
Now, under our form of government, no man
can accomplish anything by himself; he must
work in combination with others ; and the
men of whom we are speaking will never
carry their proper weight in the political af-
fairs of the country until they have formed
themselves into some organization, or else,
which would be better, have joined some of
the organizations already existing. But there
seems often to be a certain lack of virility, an
unmanly absence of the robuster virtues, in
our educated men, which makes them shrink
from the struggle and the inevitable contact
with rude and unprincipled politicians (who
often must be very roughly handled before
they can be forced to behave), which must
needs accompany all participation in Ameri-
can political life. Another reason why this
class is not of more consequence in politics,
is that it is often really out of sympathy — or,
at least, its more conspicuous members are —
with the feelings and interests of the great
mass of the American people ; for it is a sad
and discreditable fact that it is in this class
that what has been recently most aptly termed
the " colonial " spirit still survives. There
sometimes crops out among our educated
men in politics the same curious feeling of
dependence upon foreign opinion that makes
our young men of fashion drive clumsy vehi-
cles of English model, rather than the better-
built and lighter American ones; and that
causes a certain section of our minor novelists
to write the most emasculated nonsense that
ever flowed from American pens. Until this
826
PHASES OF STATE LEGISLATION.
survival of the spirit of colonial dependence
is dead, those in whom it exists will serve
chiefly as laughing-stocks to the shrewd,
humorous, and prejudiced people who form
nine-tenths of our body politic, and whose
chief characteristics are their intensely Amer-
ican habits of thought, and their surly intol-
erance of anything like subservience to out-
side and foreign influences.
From different causes, the laboring classes,
thoroughly honest of heart, often fail to ap-
preciate honesty in their representatives. They
are frequently not well informed in regard to
the character of the latter, and they are apt
to be led aside by the loud professions of the
so-called labor reformers, who are always
promising to procure by legislation the advan-
tages which can only come to working men,
or to any other men, by their individual or
united energy, intelligence, and forethought.
Very much has been accomplished by legis-
lation for laboring men by procuring mechan-
ics' lien laws, factory laws, etc. ; and hence it
often comes that they think legislation can
accomplish all things for them, and it is only
natural, for instance, that a certain proportion
of their number should adhere to the dema-
gogue who votes for a law to double the rate
of wages, rather than to the honest man who
opposes it. When people are struggling for
the necessaries of existence, and vaguely feel,
whether rightly or wrongly, that they are also
struggling against an unjustly ordered system
of life, it is hard to convince them of the truth
that an ounce of performance on their own part
is worth a ton of legislative promises to change
in some mysterious manner that life-system.
In the country districts justice to a mem-
ber is somewhat more apt to be done. When,
as is so often the case, it is not done, the cause
is usually to be sought for in the numerous
petty jealousies and local rivalries which are
certain to exist in any small community whose
interests are narrow and most of whose mem-
bers are acquainted with each other; and be-
sides this, our country vote is essentially a
Bourbon or Tory vote, being very slow to re-
ceive new ideas, very tenacious of old ones,
and hence inclined to look with suspicion upon
any one who tries to shape his course accord-
ing to some standard differing from that which
is already in existence.
The actual work of procuring the passage
of a bill through the Legislature is in itself far
from slight. The hostility of the actively bad
has to be discounted in advance, and the in-
difference of the passive majority, who are
neither very good nor very bad, has to be
overcome. This can usually be accomplished
only by stirring up their constituencies ; and
so, besides the constant watchfulness over the
course of the measure through both houses
and the continual debating and parliamentary
fencing which is necessary, it is also indispen-
sable to get the people of districts not directly
affected by the bill alive to its importance, so
as to induce their representatives to vote for
it. Thus, when the bill to establish a State
park at Niagara was on its passage, it was
found that the great majority of the country
members were opposed to it, fearing that it
might conceal some land-jobbing scheme, and
also fearing that their constituents, whose vice
is not extravagance, would not countenance
so great an expenditure of public money. It
was of no use arguing with the members, and
instead the country newspapers were flooded
with letters, pamphlets were circulated, visits
and personal appeals were made, until a suffi-
cient number of these members changed front
to enable us to get the lacking votes.
LIFE IN THE LEGISLATURE.
As already said, some of us who usually
acted together took a great deal of genuine
enjoyment out of our experience at Albany.
We liked the excitement and perpetual con-
flict, the necessity for putting forth all our
powers to reach our ends, and the feeling that
we were really being of some use in the world;
and if we were often both saddened and an-
gered by the viciousness and ignorance of
some of our colleagues, yet, in return, the lat-
ter many times furnished us unwittingly a good
deal of amusement by their preposterous ac-
tions and speeches. Some of these are really
too good to be lost, and are accordingly given
below. The names and circumstances, of
course, have been so changed as to prevent
the possibility of the real heroes of them being
recognized. It must be understood that they
stand for the exceptional and not the ordinary
workings of the average legislative intellect. I
have heard much more sound sense than foolish-
ness talked in Albany, but to record the former
would only bore the reader. And we must bear
in mind that while the ignorance of some of our
representatives warrants our saying that they
should not be in the Legislature, it does not
at all warrant our condemning the system of
government which permits them to be sent
there. There is no system so good that it has
not some disadvantages. The only way to
teach Paddy how to govern himself, and the
only way to teach Sambo how to save him-
self from oppression, is to give each the full
rights possessed by other American citizens;
and it is not to be wondered at if they at first
show themselves unskillful in the exercise of
these rights. And it has been my experience
PHASES OF STATE LEGISLATION.
827
in the Legislature that when Paddy does turn
out well, there are very few native Americans
who are his equal. There were no better legis-
lators in Albany than the two young Irishmen
who successively represented one of the dis-
tricts of Kings County ; and when I had to
name a committee which was to do the most
difficult, dangerous, and important work that
came before the Legislature at all during my
presence in it, I chose three of my four col-
leagues from among those of my fellow-legis-
lators who were Irish either by birth or descent.
The best friend I have ever had or hope to
have in politics, and the most disinterested, is
an Irishman, and is also as genuine and good
an American citizen as is to be found within
the United States.
A good many of the Yankees in the house
would blunder time and again ; but their blun-
ders were generally merely stupid and not at
all amusing, while, on the contrary, the errors
of those -who were of Milesian extraction al-
ways possessed a most refreshing originality.
INCIDENTS OF LEGISLATIVE EXPERIENCE.
In 1882 the Democrats in the house had a
clear majority, but were for a long time un-
able to effect an organization, owing to a fac-
tion-fight in their own ranks between the
Tammany and anti-Tammany members, each
side claiming the lion's share of the spoils.
After a good deal of bickering, the anti-Tam-
many men drew up a paper containing a
series of propositions, and submitted it to
their opponents, with the prefatory remark,
in writing, that it was an ultimatum. The
Tammany members were at once summoned
to an indignation meeting, their feelings
closely resembling those of the famous fish-
wife whom O'Connell called a parallelopipe-
don. None of them had any very accurate
idea as to what the word ultimatum meant;
but that it was intensely offensive, not to say
abusive, in its nature, they did not question
! for a moment. It was felt that some equiva-
| lent and equally strong term by which to call
Tammany's proposed counter address must
be found immediately; but, as the Latin vo-
cabulary of the members was limited, it was
some time before a suitable term was forth-
coming. Finally, by a happy inspiration, some
gentleman of classical education remembered
I the phrase " ipse dixit" \ it was at once felt to
I be the very phrase required by the peculiar
1 exigencies of the case, and next day the reply
appeared, setting forth with self-satisfied grav-
' ity that, in response to the County Democ-
racy's " ultimatum," Tammany herewith pro-
duced her " ipse dixit." Some of us endeavored
to persuade the County Democratic leaders to
issue a counter-blast, which could be styled
either a sine qua non or a tempus fugit, ac-
cording to the taste of the authors ; but our
efforts were not successful, and the ipse dixit
remained unanswered.
Nor is it only Latin terms that sometimes
puzzle our city politicians. A very able and
worthy citizen, Mr. D., had on one occasion,
before a legislative committee, advocated the
restriction of the powers of the Board of Al-
dermen, instancing a number of occasions
when they had been guilty of gross miscon-
duct, and stating that in several other in-
stances their conduct had been " identical "with
that of which he had already given examples.
Shortly afterwards the mayor nominated him
for some office, but the aldermen refused to
confirm him, one of them giving as his reason
that Mr. D. had used " abusive and indeco-
rous language " about the Board. On being
cross-examined as to what he referred to, he
stated that he had heard " with his own ears "
Mr. D. call the aldermen " identical "; and to
the further remark that " identical " could
scarcely be called either abusive or indeco-
rous, he responded triumphantly that the
aldermen were the best judges of matters
affecting their own dignity. And Mr. D.'s
nomination remained unconfirmed.
Shortly afterwards the aldermen fell foul
of one of their own number, who, in com-
menting on some action of the Board, re-
marked that it was robbing Peter to pay Paul.
Down came the gavel of the acting president,
while he informed the startled speaker that he
would not tolerate blasphemous language
from any one. " But it was not blasphemous,"
returned the offender. " Well, if it wasn't, it
was vulgar, and that's worse," responded the
president, with dignity; and the admiring
Board sustained him with practical unanimity
in his position of censor-extraordinary over
aldermanic morals.
Public servants of higher grade than alder-
men sometimes give adjectives a wider mean-
ing than would be found in the dictionary.
In many parts of the United States, owing to
a curious series of historical associations
(which, by the way, would be interesting to
trace out), anything foreign and un-English
is called " Dutch," and it was in this sense
that a West Virginian member of the last
Congress used the term when, in speaking in
favor of a tariff on works of art, he told of the
reluctance with which he saw the productions
of native artists exposed to competition " with
Dutch daubs from Italy " ; a sentence pleas-
ing alike from its alliteration and from its bold
disregard of geographic trivialities.
828
PHASES OF STATE LEGISLATION.
Often an orator of this sort will have his
attention attracted by some high-sounding
word, which he has not before seen, and
which he treasures up to use in his next rhe-
torical flight, without regard to the exact
meaning. There was a laboring man's advo-
cate in the last Legislature, one of whose
efforts attracted a good deal of attention from
his magnificent heedlessness of technical ac-
curacy in the use of similes. He was speaking
against the convict contract-labor system, and
wound up an already sufficiently remarkable
oration with the still more startling ending
that the system " was a vital cobra which was
swamping the lives of the laboring men."
Now, he had evidently carefully put together
the sentence beforehand, and the process of
mental synthesis by which he built it up must
have been curious. " Vital " was, of course,
used merely as an adjective of intensity; he
was a little uncertain in his ideas as to what a
" cobra " was, but took it for granted that it
was some terrible manifestation of nature,
possibly hostile to man, like a volcano, or
a cyclone, or Niagara, for instance ; then
" swamping " was chosen as describing an
operation very likely to be performed by
Niagara, or a cyclone, or a cobra; and, be-
hold, the sentence was complete.
Sometimes a common phrase will be given
a new meaning. Thus, the mass of legislation
is strictly local in its character. Over a thou-
sand bills come up for consideration in the
course of a session, but a very few of which
affect the interests of the State at large. The
latter and the more important private bills are,
or ought to be, carefully studied by each mem-
ber; but it is a physical impossibility for any
one man to examine the countless local bills
of small importance. For these we have to
trust to the member for the district affected,
and when one comes up the response to any
inquiry about it is, usually, " Oh, it's a local
bill, affecting so-and-so's district; he is re-
sponsible for it." By degrees, some of the
members get to use " local " in the sense of
unimportant, and a few of the assemblymen
of doubtful honesty gradually come to regard
it as meaning a bill of no pecuniary interest
to themselves. There was a smug little rascal
in one of the last Legislatures, who might have
come out of one of Lever's novels. He was
undoubtedly a. bad case, but had a genuine
sense of humor, and his " bulls " made him
the delight of the house. One day I came in
late, just as a bill was being voted on, and
meeting my friend, hailed him, " Hello, Pat,
what's up ? what's this they're voting on ? "
to which Pat replied, with contemptuous in-
difference to the subject, but with a sly twinkle
in his eye, " Oh, some unimportant measure,
sorr ; some local bill or other — a constitootional
amendment /"
The old Dublin Parliament never listened
to a better specimen of a bull than was con-
tained in the speech of a very genial and
pleasant friend of mine, a really finished ora-
tor, who, in the excitement attendant upon
receiving the governor's message vetoing the
famous five-cent fare bill, uttered the follow-
ing sentence : " Mr. Speaker, I recognize the
hand that crops out in that veto ; I have heard
it before / "
One member rather astonished us one day
by his use of " shibboleth." He had evidently
concluded that this was merely a more ele-
gant synonym of the good old word shillelah,
and in reproving a colleague for opposing a
bill to increase the salaries of public laborers,
he said, very impressively, " The trouble wid
the young man is, that he uses the wurrd
economy as a shibboleth, wherewith to strike
the working man." Afterwards he changed
the metaphor, and spoke of a number of us as
using the word " reform " as a shibboleth, be-
hind which to cloak our evil intentions.
A mixture of classical and constitutional
misinformation was displayed a few sessions
past in the State Senate, before I was myself
a member of the Legislature. It was on the
occasion of that annual nuisance, the debate
upon the Catholic Protectory item of the
Supply Bill. Every year some one who is de-
sirous of bidding for the Catholic vote intro-
duces this bill, which appropriates a sum of
varying dimensions for the support of the
Catholic Protectory, an excellent institution,
but one which has no right whatever to come
to the State for support ; each year the inser-
tion of the item is opposed by a small num-
ber of men, including the more liberal Catho-
lics themselves, on proper grounds, and by a
larger number from simple bigotry — a fact
which was shown two years ago, when many
of the most bitter opponents of this measure
cheerfully supported a similar and equally ob-
jectionable one in aid of a Protestant institu-
tion. On the occasion referred to there were
two senators, both Celtic gentlemen, who
were rivals for the leadership of the minority :
one of them a stout, red-faced little man, who
went by the name of " Commodore," owing
to his having seen service in the navy ; while
the other was a dapper, voluble fellow, who
had at one time been on a civic commission
and was always called the " Counselor." A
mild-mannered countryman was opposing the
insertion of the item on the ground (perfectly
just, by the way) that it was unconstitutional,
and he dwelt upon this objection at some
length. The Counselor, who knew nothing of
the constitution, except that it was continually j
PHASES OF STATE LEGISLATION.
82<
being quoted against all of his favorite pro-
jects, fidgeted about for some time, and at
last jumped up to know if he might ask the
gentleman a question. The latter said, " Yes,"
and the Counselor went on, " I'd like to know
if the gintleman has ever personally seen the
Catholic Protectoree ? " " No, I haven't,"
said the astonished countryman. " Then,
phwat do you mane by talking about its being
unconstitootional, I'd like to know ? It's no
more unconstitootional than you are ! Not
one bit ! I know it, for I've been and seen it,
and that's more than you've done." Then,
turning to the house, with slow and withering
sarcasm, he added, " The throuble wid the
gintleman is that he okkipies what lawyers
would call a kind of a quasi-position upon this
bill," and sat down amid the applause of his
followers.
His rival, the Commodore, felt he had
gained altogether too much glory from the en-
counter, and after the nonplussed country-
man had taken his seat, he stalked solemnly
over to the desk of the elated Counselor,
looked at him majestically for a moment, and
said, " You'll excuse my mentioning, sorr, that
the gintleman who has just sat down knows
more law in a wake than you do in a month ;
and more than that, Counselor Shaunnessy,
phwat do you mane by quotin' Latin on the
flure of this house, when you don't know the
alpha and omayga of the language / " and back
he walked,leaving the Counselor in humiliated
submission behind him.
The Commodore was at that time chair-
man of a Senate committee, before which there
sometimes came questions affecting the inter-
ests or supposed interests of labor. The com-
mittee was hopelessly bad in its composition,
the members being either very corrupt or ex-
ceedingly inefficient. The Commodore gen-
erally kept order with a good deal of dignity ;
indeed, when, as not infrequently happened,
he had looked upon the rye that was flavored
with lemon-peel, his sense of personal dignity
grew till it became fairly majestic, and he ruled
the committee with a rod of iron. At one
time a bill had been introduced (one of the
several score of preposterous measures that
annually make their appearance purely for pur-
poses of buncombe), by whose terms all labor-
ers in the public works of great cities were to
receive three dollars a day — double the mar-
ket price of labor. To this bill, by the way, an
amendment was afterwards offered in the
house by some gentleman with a sense of hu-
mor, which was to make it read that all the
inhabitants of great cities were to receive three
dollars a day, and the privilege of laboring on
the public works if they chose ; the original
author of the bill questioning doubtfully if the
amendment " didn't make the measure a trifle
too sweeping." The measure was, of course,
of no consequence whatever to the genuine
laboring men, but was of interest to the pro-
fessional labor agitators ; and a body of the
latter requested leave to appear before the
committee. This was granted, but on the ap-
pointed day the chairman turned up in a con-
dition of such portentous dignity as to make
it evident that he had been on a spree of pro-
tracted duration. Down he sat at the head of
the table, and glared at the committeemen,
while the latter, whose faces would not have
looked amiss in a rogues' gallery, cowered
before him. The first speaker was a typical
professional laboring man ; a sleek, oily little
fellow, with a black mustache, who had never
done a stroke of work in his life. He felt con-
fident that the Commodore would favor him,
— a confidence soon to be rudely shaken, —
and began with a deprecatory smile :
" Humble though I am "
Rap, rap, went the chairman's gavel, and
the following dialogue occurred:
Chair?na?i (with dignity). "What's that you
said you were, sir ? "
Professio?ial Workingman (decidedly taken
aback). "I — I said I was humble, sir."
Chairman (reproachfully). " Are you an
American citizen, sir ? "
' P. W. " Yes, sir."
Chairman (with emphasis). " Then you're
the equal of any man in this State ! Then
you're the equal of any man on this commit-
tee ! Don't let me hear you call yourself hum-
ble again /. Go on, sir / "
After this warning the advocate managed
to keep clear of the rocks until, having worked
himself up to quite a pitch of excitement, he
incautiously exclaimed, " But the poor man
has no friends ! " which brought the Commo-
dore down on him at once. Rap, rap, went
his gavel, and- he scowled grimly at the
offender, while he asked with deadly delib-
eration :
" What did you say that time, sir ? "
P. W. (hopelessly). " I said the poor man
had no friends, sir."
Chairman (with sudden fire). " Then you
lied, sir ! I am the poor man's friend ! so are
my colleagues, sir ! " (Here the rogues' gal-
lery tried to look benevolent.) " Speak the
truth, sir ! " (with sudden change from the
manner admonitory to the manner manda-
tory). " Now, you, sit down quick, or get out
of this somehow ! "
This put an end to the sleek gentleman,
and his place was taken by a fellow-profes-
sional of another type — a great, burly man,
who would talk to you on private matters in
a perfectly natural tone of voice, but who, the
83o
PHASES OF STATE LEGISLATION.
minute he began to speak of the Wrongs (with
a capital W) of Labor (with a capital L), bel-
lowed as if he had been a bull of Bashan.
The Commodore, by this time pretty far gone,
eyed him malevolently, swaying to and fro in
his chair. However, the first effect of the fel-
low's oratory was soothing rather than other-
wise, and produced the unexpected result of
sending the chairman fast asleep sitting bolt
upright. But in a minute or two, as the man
warmed up to his work, he gave a peculiarly
resonant howl which waked the Commodore
up. The latter came to himself with a jerk,
looked fixedly at the audience, caught sight
of the speaker, remembered having seen him
before, forgot that he had been asleep, and
concluded that it must have been on some
previous day. Hammer, hammer, went the
gavel, and —
" I've seen you before, sir ! "
" You have not," said the man.
" Don't tell me I lie, sir ! " responded the
Commodore, with sudden ferocity. " You've
addressed this committee on a previous day ! "
"I've never — " began the man; but the
Commodore broke in again :
"Sit down, sir! The dignity of the chair
must be preserved ! No man shall speak to
this committee twice. The committee stands
adjourned." And with that he stalked majes-
tically out of the room, leaving the committee
and the delegation to gaze sheepishly into
each other's faces.
OUTSIDERS.
After all, outsiders furnish quite as much
fun as the legislators themselves. The num-
ber of men who persist in writing one letters
of praise, abuse, and advice on every con-
ceivable subject is appalling; and the writers
are of every grade, from the lunatic and the
criminal up. The most difficult to deal with
are the men with hobbies. There is the Prot-
estant fool, who thinks that our liberties are
menaced by the machinations of the Church
of Rome ; and his companion idiot, who wants
legislation against all secret societies, espe-
cially the Masons. Then there are the be-
lievers in " isms," of whom the women-
suffragists stand in the first rank. Now, to the
horror of my relatives, I have always been a
believer in woman's rights, but I must confess
I have never seen such a hopelessly imprac-
ticable set of persons as the woman-suf-
fragists who came up to Albany to get
legislation. They simply would not draw up
their measures in proper form ; when I pointed
out to one of them that their proposed bill
was drawn up in direct defiance of certain of
the sections of the Constitution of the State,
he blandly replied that he did not care at all
for that, because the measure had been drawn
up so as to be in accord with the Constitu-
tion of Heaven. There was no answer to this
beyond the very obvious one that Albany was
in no way akin to Heaven. The ultra-tem-
perance people — not the moderate and sen-
sible ones — are quite as impervious to com-
mon sense.
A member's correspondence is sometimes
amusing. A member receives shoals of letters
of advice, congratulation, entreaty, and abuse,
half of them anonymous. Most of these are
stupid, but one received by a friend broke the
monotony by the charming frankness with
which it began, " Mr. So-and-so — Sir : Oh,
you goggle-eyed liar ! " — a sentence which thus
combined a graphic estimate of my friend's
moral worth together with a delicate allusion
to the fact that he wore eye-glasses.
I had some constant correspondents. One
lady in the western part of the State wrote me
a weekly disquisition on woman's rights. A
Buffalo clergyman spent two years on a one-
sided correspondence about prohibition. A
gentleman of wrote me such a stream
of essays and requests about the charter of
that city that I feared he would drive me
into a lunatic asylum; but he anticipated
matters by going into one himself. A New
Yorker at regular intervals sent up a request
that I would " reintroduce " the Dongan char-
ter, which had lapsed about the year 1720.
A gentleman interested in a proposed law to
protect primaries took to telegraphing daily
questions as to its progress — a habit of which
I broke him by sending in response telegrams
of several hundred words each, which I was
careful not to prepay.
There are certain legislative actions which
must be taken in a purely Pickwickian sense.
Notable among these are the resolutions of
sympathy for the alleged oppressed patriots
and peoples of Europe. These are generally
directed against England, as there exists in
the lower strata of political life an Anglophia
quite as objectionable, though not as con-
temptible, as the Anglomania at present pre-
vailing in the higher social circles.
As a rule, these resolutions are to be classed
as simply bonffe affairs ; they are commonly
introduced by some ambitious legislator —
often, I regret to say, a native American —
who has a large foreign vote in his district
(the famous O'Donnell resolution in Congress
is a particularly unfortunate recent instance).
During my term of service in the Legislature,
resolutions were introduced demanding the
recall of Minister Lowell, assailing the Czar
for his conduct towards the Russian Jews,
sympathizing with the Land League and the
WAYSIDE MUSIC.
831
Dutch Boers, etc., etc. ; the passage of each
of which we strenuously and usually success-
fully opposed, on the ground that while we
would warmly welcome any foreigner who
came here, and in good faith assumed the
duties of American citizenship, we had a right
to demand in return that he should not bring
any of his race or national antipathies into
American political life. Resolutions of this
character are sometimes undoubtedly proper,
but are in nine cases out of ten wholly un-
justifiable. An instance of this sort of thing
which took place not at Albany may be cited.
Recently the Board of Aldermen of one of our
great cities received a stinging rebuke, which it
is to be feared the aldermanic intellect was too
dense to fully appreciate. The aldermen passed
a resolution " condemning" the Czar of Russia
for his conduct towards his fellow-citizens of
Hebrew faith, and " demanding " that he
should forthwith treat them, better ; this was
forwarded to the Russian Minister with a re-
quest that it be sent to the Czar. It came back
forty-eight hours afterwards, with a note on
the back by one of the under-secretaries of
the legation, to the effect that as he was not
aware that Russia had any diplomatic rela-
tions with the Philadelphia Board of Alder-
men, and as, indeed, Russia was not officially
cognizant of their existence, and, moreover,
was wholly indifferent to their opinions on any
conceivable subject, he herewith returned
them their kind communication.
In concluding, I would say that while there
is so much evil at Albany, and so much rea-
son for our exerting ourselves to bring about
a better state of things, yet there is no cause
for being disheartened or for thinking that
it is hopeless to expect improvement. On the
contrary, the standard of legislative morals
is certainly higher than it was fifteen years
ago or twenty-five years ago, and, judging by
appearances, it seems likely that it will con-
tinue slowly and by fits and starts to improve
in the future ; keeping pace exactly with the
gradual awakening of the popular mind to the
necessity of having honest and intelligent
representatives in the State Legislature.
I have had opportunity of knowing some-
thing about the workings of but a few of our
other State Legislatures; from what I have
seen and heard, I should say that we stand
about on a par with those of Pennsylvania,
Maryland, and Illinois, above that of Louisiana,
and below those of Vermont, Massachusetts,
Rhode Island, and Dakota, as well as below
the National Legislature at Washington.
Theodore Roosevelt.
WAYSIDE MUSIC.
I passed them in the bleak, cold street; And then my fancy strayed away
Strolling musicians, quaintly dressed. To youthful dreams too dear to tell;
They played an old air ; strong and sweet When joy outlived the longest day,
It rose, and fell, and sank to rest. And grief was but a word to spell!
Yet still my heart, responsive, beat ;
And with the tune my steps kept time.
A magic music moved my feet
Like that which makes a poem rhyme.
Then every morning music brought,
And time with gladness sped along;
No Ariel thought escaped uncaught,
And every sound was turned to song.
May it not be that sometimes, too,
Soldiers in fight have forward pressed,
Still thinking their dead bugler blew,
Because the notes still fired each breast!
It comes again, the glorious sound,
Immortal, wonderful, and strange!
It wakes my pulses with a bound,
And sets a step that shall not change.
Sweet, o'er the hills that hide my youth,
I hear the bells of morning chime :
They ring for honor, love, and truth,
And head and heart are keeping time !
C. H. Crandall.
FROM PUGET SOUND TO THE UPPER COLUMBIA.
Seen from the piazza of the hotel in the
new city of Tacoma, the enormous double-
crowned peak of Mount Tacoma dominates
the whole landscape. The range of the Cas-
cade Mountains, above which it rears its vast
snow-fields and its eight great glaciers, looks
like a low, green wall by comparison, though
its most insignificant summits are higher than
the loftiest mountains of the Atlantic States.
And wherever you may find yourself on
Puget Sound or its shores, be it in the cherry
groves of Olympia, or on the lonely waters of
Hood's Canal, or on the populous hill-side
of Seattle, or by forest-rimmed Lake Wash-
ington, or on Port Townsend's high plateau,
there is the superb mountain — if the atmos-
phere be clear, seemingly close at hand, clean-
cut, and luminous ; in other conditions of the
air, looking "far, faint, and dim," but never
much nearer or more remote, no matter from
what point of view it is seen. It is by far the
most impressive and the most beautiful of
American snow-peaks, with the possible ex-
ception of Mount St. Elias in Alaska, with
which I cannot claim acquaintance. Its gla-
ciers feed five swift rivers : the Cowlitz, flow-
ing to the Columbia ; the Chehalis, which
empties into the Pacific ; and the Nisqually,
Puyallup, and White, which send their milky
waters to Puget Sound. I should, perhaps,
here explain that Mount Tacoma is the
Mount Rainier of the old maps, to which
tourists and the dwellers in the Sound coun-
try, except those who live in Seattle, are en-
deavoring to restore its musical Indian name,
meaning " the nourishing breast." Its alti-
tude is 14,440 feet, nearly 3000 more than
that of the sharp pyramid of Mount Hood, the
sentinel of the Willamette Valley and the
Lower Columbia, and the special pride of
the people of Portland. Its glaciers have
lately been made accessible by the cutting of
trails through the forest at its base. When
you survey them through a glass, comfort-
ably seated in an easy-chair on the hotel
piazza, a trip thither seems no difficult under-
taking. Apparently you have them right un-
der your hand, and can study the topography
of their glittering surfaces ; and you are as-
tonished when the guide tells you that to go
to the foot of one of the glaciers and re-
turn takes five days, and that if you get upon
the ridge overlooking the chief glacier, you
must add two days to the journey. He fur-
ther explains that the little brown streak on
the left of this glacier is a sheer precipice of
rock over one thousand feet high, and that
the small cracks in the ice-fields are enormous
crevasses, over the sides of which you can
peer down into dizzy depths and see raging
torrents cutting their way through green walls
of ice. A visit to these glaciers is not, how-
ever, a formidable undertaking to persons who
do not mind a few days in the saddle, a little
rough camp life, and a fatiguing climb over
snow-fields. Tourists go in parties of five or
six, provided with horses and camp equipage,
and with spiked shoes, iron-pointed staves,
and ropes, quite in the Alpine fashion.
The fascinating mountain was not the goal
of the journey to be described in this article.
My plan was to traverse the wilderness at its
foot, cross the Cascade Range by a pass some
thirty miles north of it, strike the head-waters
of the Yakima River and follow that stream'
down to its junction with the Columbia, and
finally to reach a railroad at Ainsworth, at
the confluence of the Snake and Columbia.
The distance to be traversed was about two
hundred and fifty miles, mainly through an
uninhabited country. Before setting out, let
us take another glance from our outlook on
the high plateau in the town. Here, at our
feet, is a broad arm of the Sound, called
Commencement Bay. Just beyond are mead-
ows, on the eastern forest rim of which stands
the friendly group of buildings of the Puyal-
lup Indian Agency. All the rest of the land-
scape seems an unbroken forest. We can look
over it for sixty miles to the crest of the
mountains and the notch which indicates the
pass where we are to cross. This wilderness
appearance is deceptive though, for hidden
behind the trees are one hundred and sixty
Indian farms, and beyond the reservation
containing them lie three little strips of mar-
velously fertile valleys, those of the Puyal-
lup, Stuck, and White rivers, which together
form the most productive hop region for its
size in the world. Up the Puyallup Valley for
thirty miles runs a railroad which brings coal
down from mines near the slopes of Mount
Tacoma — a brown, crumbling, dirty-looking
coal, but so rich in carbon that it is sent by
the ship-load to San Francisco for steam-fuel.
Our first halt on the journey eastward into
the wilderness is at the agency on the reser-
vation. The Puyallups are good Indians, but
not in the Western sense of being dead Indians.
The inhabitants of the ambitious town of
FROM PUGET SOUND TO THE UPPER COLUMBIA.
&33
Tacoma, which overlooks their little domain,
would like to have them die off, or at least go
somewhere else; but they are well-behaved and
tolerably industrious, and no plea for their re-
moval can be made. Besides, they have lately
received patents from the Government to their
farms, each head of a family getting one hun-
dred and sixty acres, and these patents cover
the whole area of the reservation ; so the hope
that any part of it will be opened to white set-
tlement has been abandoned. These Indians
are self-supporting, their annuities having long
ago expired. All the Government does for
them is to pay the cost of the schools, where
Vol. XXIX. — 85.
MOUNT TACOMA, FROM LAKE WASHINGTON.
about one hundred and fifty of their children
are educated and at the same time boarded
and clad. Farmers in a small way, clearing
little patches of ground on which they raise
wheat and oats, and cutting hay on the natu-
ral meadows near the tide-flats, the Puyallups
make shift to live in a simple fashion, being
helped out in the problem of existence by the
fish and clams of the neighboring Sound, and
by wages earned every year in the hop-fields
up the valley during the picking season.
They own horses and cattle, and build for
themselves comfortable little houses. They are
a home-staying folk, the dense forests around
them offering no inducements for roaming,
and their only excursions being short trips
on the Sound in their graceful, high-prowed
pirogues. On the whole, I think they are the
most creditable specimens of civilized Indians
to be found in the Far West. They govern
«34
FROM PUGET SOUND TO THE UPPER COLUMBIA.
themselves in most matters, through officials
of their own choosing, the agent keeping a
close supervision over them, but rarely being
called upon to exercise the arbitrary power
which he, like all Indian agents, legally pos-
sesses. A board of Indian magistrates pun-
ishes criminals and decides civil actions, and a
few Indian police under the command of the
schoolmaster at the agency keep order on the
reservation. If whisky could be kept out, the
police might be dispensed with, for the Indians
when sober are never quarrelsome, and their
honesty is superior to that of the average
white man. The agent holds a theory that the
inordinate craving of the Indian for whisky is
an effect of the change from savage to civil-
ized diet and modes of living, and that it will
disappear in time, when the race gets wonted
to its new conditions. In the schools I heard
the Indian children read in the " fourth
reader " about as well, save for a curious ac-
cent, as children of the same ages in the dis-
trict schools of the States. They wrote a fair
hand, too, and sang Moody and Sankey hymns.
Arithmetic, the teacher said, is their hardest
task. The dormitories and dining-room were
very neat, and the whole place was cheery and
home-like. The more capable pupils, when
they arrive at the age of fifteen or sixteen, are
sent to the industrial school at Forest Grove,
Oregon, where they are taught trades. The
others return to their homes after receiving an
ordinary common-school education.
The agent, who is the son of one of the
first missionaries among the Oregon Indians,
and has himself been many years in the work
of civilizing the tribes of Puget Sound, drove
us about among the Indian farms all one
afternoon. The houses were as comfortable as
those of white settlers in new regions, and the
crops appeared well cared for. The men were
at work in the hop-fields. In their blue shirts
and hickory trousers they had nothing of the
look of the savage about them, save their long
hair. That is the last distinguishing badge of
the wild state that the Indian gives up ; he clings
to his long locks as persistently as a Chinaman
to his queue. The agent addressed all whom we
met in Chinook, inquiring after their families
and their crops, and answering questions about
the children in the agency school. Chinook,
the curious jargon invented by the Hudson's
Bay Company's agents about a hundred years
ago, is the language of business and social
intercourse among all the tribes of the North
Pacific coast. It is to this region what French
is to Europe. With a knowledge of its three
hundred words, an Indian or a white trader or
missionary can travel among the numerous
tribes west of the Rocky Mountains and make
himself understood. There are no moods or
tenses to the verbs, no cases to the nouns, no
comparison of the adjectives, and only one prep-
osition. Gestures and emphasis must be relied
upon to help out the meager vocabulary, which
is a droll mixture of Indian, English, and French
words. I heard an amusing story on the eastern
side of the Cascade Mountains of a Boston gen-
tleman who undertook to translate Chinook by
its sound. He was visiting the Yakima Reser-
vation, and for some reason the Indians did
not like him, and were in the habit of calling
him " hyas cultus Boston man." The visitor
remarked to his friends that even the savages
recognized the superiority of Boston culture,
for they always spoke of him as a highly cul-
tured Boston man. It was not until the joke had
been a long time enjoyed that he was told that
" hyas " meant very, and " cultus " bad or worth-
less, and that " Boston man" was the Chinook
term for all Americans, — Englishmen and Can-
adians being called " King George men."
Beyond the Indian farms in the Puyallup
Valley lie the hop-fields, reaching up the river
towards Mount Tacoma for ten miles, and
also along the Stuck River, a slough connect-
ing the Puyallup with the White, and for
perhaps a dozen miles on the banks of the
latter stream. Only the maple and alder bot-
toms near the streams make good hop land,
and they are so productive that wild land,
which costs eighty dollars an acre to clear,
sells for from fifty to one hundred dollars an
acre. Hop land in good condition, with
poles and growing vines, but without build-
ings, is worth three hundred dollars an acre.
Whoever possesses a twenty-acre field, with a
drying-house, is comfortably well off. An
average yield is fifteen hundred pounds to the
acre ; a large one, twenty-five hundred pounds.
A veteran hop-raiser who has been thirteen
years in the business told me that it costs two
hundred dollars an acre to make and market a
crop. Including picking, drying, and binding,
he figured the cost at ten cents per pound,
of which the picking alone is six. The in-
dustry is a fascinating one, having a good
deal of the character of a lottery, the price of
hops having run up and down during the
past few years over the wide range of from
ten cents to one dollar. My informant ex-
pected to get thirty-five cents this year. His
forty acres would yield him eighty thousand
pounds, he thought, which would bring him
twenty-eight thousand dollars. The cost to
him at ten cents per pound would be eight
thousand dollars, leaving a profit of twenty
thousand dollars. There are not many ways of
getting so large an amount of money out of
forty acres of ground. The thorough cultiva-
tion of these little valleys reminds one of the
vineyard countries of Europe, but the resem-
FROM PUGET SOUND TO THE UPPER COLUMBIA.
835
blance vanishes as soon as the eye falls on the
forest walls that encompass them on all sides.
In the hop-picking season there occurs a
remarkable pilgrimage from the Indian tribes
of Washington Territory and British Colum-
bia. The Indians come in their pirogues from
Puget Sound, from Frazer River, from Van-
couver's Island, and even from the shores of
the Pacific. Others cross the mountain trails
on ponies from the valleys of the Yakima and
the Upper Columbia and from the distant
forests of the Cceur d'Alenes. To the number
of five thousand, they gather every year in
the hop region to furnish labor for picking.
Of course, for the most part, the workers
are women and children, the men spending
much of their time in gambling, smoking, and
lounging. This great influx of savagery pro-
duces no alarm among the white settlers ; in-
deed, they would be helpless to gather their
crop without the abundant supply of red
labor. By the Indians the hop-picking season
is looked forward to all the year with pleas-
ant anticipation as the one great break in the
monotony of their lives — a time of travel,
excitement, sociability, love-making, and mar-
rying, as well as of earning money to buy blan-
kets, clothing, trinkets, and sugar. They give
the white people very little trouble, being neither
rowdyish nor thievish. The farmers sleep with
their doors unlocked while the neighboring
woods are alive with Indian camps.
Well mounted and equipped for camp life
in the wilderness, we left the valley of the
Puyallup near the South Prairie coal-mine,
and, scrambling up a steep bluff, struck into
the dense forest on a trail that meandered
about to avoid fallen tree trunks. The timber
growth was composed of enormous firs and
cedars, having trunks eight or ten feet^ in
diameter at their base, and sending their
straight columns up into the air to a height
of fully two hundred and fifty feet. The pro-
cesses of life and death were going on side by
side in this forest, uprooted trees that had
lived out their time cumbering the ground
and filling the air with the peculiar odor of
decaying wood. In places the dead trunks
would lie across each other in confused
masses. Sometimes the trail would go beneath
a gigantic trunk caught in the arms of two
standing trees, or would make a detour to go
around the cliff-like wall formed by the up-
torn roots of one of these dead monarchs of
the woods. A dense underbrush of alders and
young cedars made it impossible to see a
dozen yards from the trail ; and to add to the
jungle-like appearance of the forest, the ground
was covered with a growth of gigantic ferns,
usually taller than a man's head, and often
high enough to conceal a man on horseback.
Beneath the ferns grew a grayish-green moss,
as soft as a velvet carpet and ten times as thick.
The trail led across a plateau and then de-
scended sharply to the White River, a swift,
glacier-fed stream drawing its waters from the
slopes of Mount Tacoma. A few settlers have
established themselves on the upper waters of
this river, and made farms on small natural
prairies in the shadows of the great forest,
where they raise hops and oats. We forded
the river, the water coming up above the sad-
dle-girths, and the unwilling horses picking
their way cautiously over the stones in the
rapid, murky current. The afternoon's ride took
us through a " big burn." These " burns" are
marked features of Cascade Mountain scenery.
The name is applied to a strip of plateau or
mountain-side where a fire has ravaged the
forest, devouring the underbrush, consuming
all the dead trees and many of the living ones,
and leaving those that have not perished
in its devastating progress standing naked
and brown. Nature rapidly covers the scene
of the ruin with a mantle of ferns, and the
" burn " soon looks rather cheerful than other-
wise, because it resembles a clearing and af-
fords a view of the sky. Two settlers' cabins
were passed that afternoon, occupied by farm-
ers who had come in last year from Kansas,
and had already redeemed a few acres from
the forest, and could show flourishing fields of
wheat and oats. Towards evening the trail be-
came more difficult. There was not the slight-
est danger of losing it, because a horse could
not possibly have gone his length into the
intricate maze of young cedars and fallen fir
trunks on either side ; but progress upon it was
an active athletic exercise, involving leaping
over or dodging under tree trunks, pushing
through barricades of bushes and brambles,
mounting and dismounting a dozen times in
every mile. The difficulties of the tangled
track had not discouraged an enterprising
German from taking his wife and three babies
over it, and making a home on the border of
a " burn " and on the banks of a little lake.
We reached his cabin just at nightfall of our
first day's journey. He is the most advanced
settler towards the Stampede Pass in the Cas-
cade Range. The two doors and three win-
dows of his house he packed in on the back
of a horse, but all the rest of the edifice he
had made with his axe out of cedar poles and
one fallen cedar-tree, splitting out the siding,
the shingles, and the flooring. In like manner
he had built a barn, a chicken-house, and a
kennel for his big Newfoundland dog, and
had fenced in with palings a bit of a door-
yard, where his wife had made a few flower-
beds in which bachelor's-buttons, poppies, and
portulacas flourished. The man had also
836
FROM PUGET SOUND TO THE UPPER COLUMBIA.
TYLER GLACIER, MOUNT TACOMA. ALTITUDE AT FACE, 5800 FEET.
managed to clear a three-acre field, where he
was raising a fine crop of potatoes. All this
he had done between May and August — ac-
tually creating a home, a field, and a garden
in five months' time, with the unaided labor
of his own hands. And he was a little fellow
too, but he was always jolly, and perhaps
that was the secret of his wonderful achieve-
ments. All the time he was singing his old
Westphalian songs, and his flaxen-haired wife
was jolly too ; and any living creatures jollier
than those three tow-headed children I never
saw. What did he get to eat ? Why, he could
knock over a dozen pheasants any morning in
the nearest thicket, and the lake was full of
trout. After a few years it would not be all
wilderness about him, he said ; the railroad
would come, and by that time he would have
eighty acres of good cleared land. Would he
not be lonesome in the long winter ? Oh, no !
he would have plenty to do "slashing,"/.*?:,
cutting down the trees preparatory to burn-
ing them, — the usual process of clearing land
where there is no market for the timber.
We camped very comfortably that night
on a pile of hay in the settler's shed-barn, a
structure half roofed over, but still wanting
sides, and were early on the trail next morn-
ing, after a breakfast of ham, bread, and cof-
fee. The profuse and luxuriant vegetation
continued. A noticeable plant, called the
devil's club from the brier-like character of its
stem, spread out leaves as large as a Panama
hat, and thrust up a spear-like bunch of red
berries. The wild syringa perfumed the air.
There were two varieties of the elder — the
common one of the East, having black berries,
and one growing much higher and bearing
large red berries. Thimbleberry bushes grew
in dense thickets. The little snowball berry
cultivated in eastern door-yards was seen, and
also whortleberries and blueberries. Among
the flowers was a " bleeding-heart," in form
like the familiar garden flower, but much
smaller, and of a pale purple color. The most
common bloom was the gay Erigeron canaden-
sis, or " fire-weed," which occupied every spot
where it could find a few rays of sunlight.
About noon of this second day's march we
descended by a steep zigzag path to the south
FROM PUGET SOUND TO THE UPPER COLUMBIA.
837
bank of Green River, a handsome trout-stream,
brawling over rocks or resting in quiet dark-
green pools. A great field of excellent bitu-
minous coal, partly explored, and waiting for
a railroad to make it valuable, lies in veins
from six to ten feet thick under the forests
that border this stream. It is the best coal
thus far discovered in Washington Territory.
In its vicinity lie beds of rich iron ore. So
here, hidden in this tangled wilderness, are
the elements of a great industry, which in the
future will make these solitudes populous.
The trail turned up the narrow valley of
Green River, and thence on for many miles
it clambered up steep slopes and plunged
down into the lateral ravines formed by the
tributary streams — up or down nearly all the
way, with rarely a hundred yards of tolerably
level ground. It was a toilsome day for men
and animals, but for the riders enlivened with
the sense of adventure, and with thoughts
now and then of what would happen if a
horse should make a false step on the verge
of a precipice where the path clung to a
mountain wall a thousand feet above the roar-
ing river. Travel on a mountain trail is never
monotonous. Your perceptive faculties are
kept on the alert to dodge projecting branches
and watch for all the various chances and
changes of the track. Then there are ascents
too steep for your horse to carry you, and de-
scents too abrupt for safe riding ; streams to
ford, quagmires to flounder through, and
divers other incidents to enliven the journey.
Our second night on the trail was spent at
a camp of engineers engaged in locating the
line of a railroad over the Cascade Moun-
tains to connect eastern Washington with the
Puget Sound country. This project of sur-
mounting the formidable barrier of the Cas-
cades is as old as the time when Governor
Isaac I. Stevens conducted a government
expedition from St. Paul to Puget Sound, in
1853, to determine the feasibility of a north-
ern route for a railroad to the Pacific. It was
on Stevens's report that there were passes in
the range practicable for a railroad that the
original charter of the Northern Pacific Com-
pany, granted by Congress in 1862, desig-
nated a route from the Upper Columbia to
the Sound for the main line of that road.
This was amended by Congress in 1870, and
the main line was changed so as to run down
the Columbia River to Portland, and thence
northward to the Sound, getting through the
mountains by the only gap opened by nature,
that of the great gorge of the Columbia. At
the same time the short line across the moun-
tains was designated as the Cascade Branch.
Surveys to find a feasible pass for this branch
have been prosecuted with more or less dili-
Vol. XXIX.— 86.
gence and with several long intermissions
ever since 1870. During the past three years
a great deal of money has been spent upon
these surveys. How expensive they have been
may be judged from the fact that to run a
reconnaissance line through the dense forests,
encumbered by prostrate timber, which clothe
the western slope of the Cascades, requires
the services of ten axemen to open a path
along which the engineers can advance a
mile or two a day with their instruments.
All this labor and expenditure of money has
been crowned with success, however, and a
pass has been found up which a railroad can
be built, but at the summit a tunnel nearly
two miles long must be excavated. It will be
the longest tunnel in America with the excep-
tion of that through the Hoosac Mountains
in Massachusetts.
The engineers' camp on the bank 'of the
brawling torrent of Green River was so cheer-
ful a spot, with its white tents and blazing
fires, that, although it was early in the after-
noon, saddles and packs were taken off the
horses and the decision made to go no far-,
ther that day. The midsummer air in the
mountains was so cool that the warmth of the
fires was grateful. So were the hot biscuits
and steaming coffee provided by the cook,
and the pink-fleshed trout caught in the river.
Stories of encounters with cougars and bears
were told around the crackling fir logs that
evening. The cinnamon bear is apt to be an
ugly customer, it was agreed, but the black
bear is not dangerous unless it be a she-bear
with cubs. The cougar, or mountain lion, is
the most redoubtable beast of these wilds.
Perhaps the best way to deal with one of
these huge felines is that adopted by an Irish
axeman, who thus narrated his adventure :
" I was a-coming along the trail with me
blankets on me back, and with niver as much
as a stick to defind mesilf, when all at onst
I saw a terrible big cougar not two rods
ahead of me, twistin' his tail and getting ready
fer to jump. I come upon him that suddent
that it was hard to tell which was the most
surprised, me or the baste. Well, sor, I trim-
bled like a man with the ager. But I saw that
something had to be done, and dom'd quick
too. So I threw down me blankets and gave
one hiduous yell. That was onexpected by
the cougar. He niver heard such a noise be-
fore, and he just turned tail and jumped into
the brush. I picked up me blankets and made
the best time into camp that was ever made
on that trail."
The civil engineers engaged in the railroad
surveys are educated young men from the
East, the younger ones often fresh from col-
lege. They spend the greater part of the year
83S
FROM PUGET SOUND TO THE UPPER COLUMBIA.
immured in the forest, with no communica-
tion with the world save that furnished by
the pack-train which comes in once a week to
bring supplies. A good story was told at the
camp fire of one of the engineers who, after
he had been eight months in the woods, went
back to the settlements. Approaching a house,
he saw a woman's calico gown hanging on a
line. The sight so affected him that he got off
his horse and kissed the hem of the garment.
The faded gown was emblematic to the young
man's mind of all the graces and refinements
of civilization, of woman's tenderness and
love, of his far-off Massachusetts home, and the
mother, sisters, and sweetheart he had left there.
The third day of our journey through the
forest led up the narrow gorge of Green
River, the trail now skirting the river's bank,
and now climbing over mountain shoulders
thrust out into the stream. The forest, if pos-
sible, grew more dense as we advanced. The
damp ground, never reached by the sun's
rays, was covered with a thick growth of gi-
gantic ferns and of the broad-leaved devil's-
club. I saw cedar-trees ten feet in diameter
above the point where their trunks spread out
to take a firm hold upon the ground. There
were many queer tree growths. Tall fir sap-
lings grew out of prostrate, decaying trunks.
From the roots of an enormous dead cedar,
whose broken column was still standing, arose
four large young trees, each at least one hun-
dred and fifty feet high, and standing so close
to each other and to the dead parent tree
that there was not more than two yards' space
between them. Near by a fir and a cedar had
grown together for a few yards above the
ground, so as to form a common trunk. Fall-
en trees and often the trunks and lower limbs
of live ones were thickly sheathed in moss —
not the trailing tree-moss of the Rocky
Mountain forests, but a thick, tufted, carpet-like
moss, of the same variety as that growing
upon the ground. After a hard day's march
we forded the river towards sunset and camped
upon the north bank. The fire was soon made,
the biscuits were baked in the tin reflector oven,
the coffee was boiled, the ham was fried, and
the horses were fed with the barley they had
carried on their backs. Then the tent-fly was
set up with one end against two enormous firs
that grew side by side, and luxurious beds were
made of moss and hemlock boughs, and we
went to sleep, happy in the thought that the
next day's march would take us up to the
summit of the pass and down on the eastern
slope of the mountains.
Next morning we left the main stream of
Green River, already diminished to a narrow
torrent, and began to follow up the course of
Sunday Creek, the trail clinging to the steep
slopes of the mountain walls. About noon the
actual ascent of the divide began. An hour
of hard climbing, crossing from side to side
of a narrow ravine, or zigzagging along its
wooded walls, the forest thinning out a little
as we went up, brought us to a little lake.
Just above was a " big burn," where the tim-
ber had been swept clean off by fire save a
few blackened stumps, and in the middle of
this " burn " was Stampede Pass, a narrow
notch with a sharp ascent on both sides. Our
horses quickened their pace, as if knowing
that the long, hard climb was almost over;
and after a few seconds' dash over ashes and
charcoal wre stood on the ridge of the pass.
The first glance was naturally on beyond to
the eastward. Far down in a deep valley,
placid and green, lay Lake Kichilas. Farther
on were mountain ranges, not densely tim-
bered like those of the western slopes of the
Cascades, but showing bare places, and, where
wooded, covered with the Rocky Mountain
pine, which grows in an open way, with little
underbrush. The reddish trunks of these trees
give color to an entire mountain-side. It was
to the westward, however, that the view was
most striking ; for there, towering far above
the green ridges of the Cascades, rose the
dazzling snow-fields and glaciers of Mount
Tacoma. Above them rested a girdle of
clouds, and above the clouds, serene in the
blue ether, glittered the white summits. The
peak seemed much higher than when seen
from the sea-level of the Sound. Mountains
of great altitude always show to best advan-
tage when seen from considerable elevations.
We had been climbing all day to reach our
point of view, and yet the gigantic peak tow-
ered aloft into the sky to a height that seemed
incredible, as if it were only the semblance
of a mountain formed by the clouds.
Stampede Pass got its name four years ago,
when a party of trail-cutters, camped at the
little lake near its summit, not liking the
treatment they received from their boss,
stampeded in a body and returned to the
settlements. Later, the engineers called it
Garfield Pass, because there the news of
President Garfield's assassination came to
them ; but the first name is the one generally
used. The elevation of the pass is about five
thousand feet, or double that of the point
where the Pennsylvania Railroad crosses the
Alleghany Mountains. The descent eastward
to the streams that form the Yakima River is
only moderately abrupt, and one can ride
down the zigzag trail with no great danger
of pitching over his horse's head. The char-
acter of the forest growth is very different
from that on the western slopes of the moun-
tains, the gigantic firs and cedars disappear-
FROM PUGET SOUND TO THE UPPER COLUMBIA.
839
ing as soon as the summit is crossed, and in
their places appearing a species of small
mountain fir, growing thickly, but with little
underbrush and no intricate barricades of
fallen trunks. The flowers are of new species,
and the pine-grass grows in the woods. Evi-
dently the climatic conditions are widely dis-
similar to those on the western side of the
great range, the moisture-laden atmosphere
of the Puget Sound country, which produces
a phenomenal vegetable growth, not crossing
the mountain-wall. Probably there is no-
where on the globe as marked a climatic
boundary as that of the Cascade Mountains
in both Washington Territory and Oregon.
West of this boundary the winters are mild,
with much rain and little snow, and the sum-
mers cool and showery; while east of it the
winters are sharp and dry, with abundant
snowfall, and the summers very hot, little rain
falling between the first of June and the first
of October. On Puget Sound you have the
climate of Ireland, while just across the moun-
tains in the valley of the Yakima weather and
landscapes in summer recall northern Cali-
fornia.
Our fourth day's march was the longest
on the trail. We made twenty-five miles,
and came at sunset to a wagon-road and a
fenced field, evidences of settlement that were
greeted with enthusiasm. There was a house,
too, tenanted by the most advanced settler
mountainwards in the Yakima Valley. He
kept a toll-gate, and levied a tax on emigrants
about to struggle over the Snoqualmie Pass to
the Sound country. Nominally there is a
wagon-road through this pass all the way to
Seattle, and stout wagons lightly loaded are
somehow gotten across the mountains by
courageous emigrants who carve their way
with their axes through the fallen tirriber.
The chief utility of the road, however, is for
the driving of cattle. All the Sound country,
and much of British Columbia, get their beef
supply from the bunch-grass plains east of the
Cascades. It takes seven days to drive a herd
of cattle from the Upper Yakima to Seattle,
which is the beef market of the Sound. The
night was spent in a deserted cabin on beds
of boughs eked out with a little hay which
the last occupant had left. Breakfast on the
grass next morning was enlivened by a visit
from a flock of Hudson's Bay birds that at-
tempted to share the meal, and, after carrying
off several crackers, made an attack on the
remains of a ham. These familiar brown
birds, sometimes called lumberman's friends
or whisky-jacks, discern the smoke of a camp-
fire miles away, and are speedily on hand to
clear up the crumbs.
Our horseback journey was now at end. A
good friend in Portland had sent a team and
spring wagon a hundred and fifty miles from
the Lower Yakima to meet us at the end of
the wagon-road. Our excellent Scotch guide,
with the cook, the packer, the saddle-horses,
and the pack-animals, turned back to retrace
their steps over the long trail to the Puyallup
Valley. Blankets and bags were transferred to
the wagon, and we set off through the open
pine woods, over a very fair road, down the
valley of the Yakima. The road did not follow
the stream closely, but only kept its general
course, taking across the hills to avoid the
canons and muddy bottoms. Only one house
was seen in the forenoon's drive. It was in-
habited by three Germans, who had " taken
up " a natural timothy meadow, and were
getting rich cutting a hundred tons of hay
every year, and selling it to herders on their
way to the Sound at twenty-five dollars a ton.
They had an irrigated garden full of all sorts
of vegetables. About noon another farm was
reached, where a Maine man was raising fine
crops of oats and wheat by irrigation. A big
barn filled with hay and a comfortable log-
house flanked by apple-trees were invitations
to rest not to be refused in a wild country.
The housekeeper prepared a surprisingly good
dinner — the first civilized meal the travelers
had eaten since leaving the hotel at Tacoma.
There were fresh vegetables and roast beef,
coffee and cream that defied criticism, and an
apple-pie that could not be surpassed in New
England. We sat upon benches, and in the
parlor the only furniture was three wooden
chairs and a rude table ; but there were chintz
curtains at the windows, hanging from cornices
made of moss, and on the table were many
newspapers and a copy of The Century.
The next house on the road belonged to
Indian John, a famous character among the
whites of the Upper Yakima country, and a
sockalee tyee, or big chief, among the Kittitas
Indians. John has a few well-fenced fields
of grain, and a good log-cabin, window-
less and with a hole in the roof to let out the
smoke from the fire burning on the ground in
the middle of the One room. The women of
his household were busy drying service-berries,
but when our driver told them in Chinook
that we were going to take a photograph of
the place, the younger ones hurried into the
cabin and speedily put on what finery they
possessed in the shape of blue gowns, brass
bracelets, and girdles of bead-work studded
with brass nails. John wore civilized clothes,
but a young Indian, presumably the husband
of the squaw with the baby, was attired in
scarlet leggins, green breech-cloth, and blue
tunic, and his face was liberally adorned with
vermilion paint. John is a thrifty fellow, and
840
FROM PUGET SOUND TO THE UPPER COLUMBIA.
when his relations come to visit him and live
upon him Indian fashion, he sets them to
work building fences or hoeing potatoes. He
wants to marry his youngest daughter to a
white man. He says the skuas hes (Indians)
are cultus, which in Chinook means " no
good." The girl might be thought rather too
buxom to suit a critical taste, and objections
might also be made to her mouth and feet on
the score of their size ; but as to her good-
nature there could be no doubt after she had
smiled all over her face at each of the travelers
and merrily winked her black eyes.
A few miles beyond Indian John's ranch
the forest stops abruptly on the crest of a hill,
and the bunch-grass plains begin. They are
not plains in the sense of being at all level.
On the contrary, they are heaved up in hills
and ridges and low bare mountain ranges, and
creased by many valleys and canons ; but they
are destitute of timber, save along the streams,
and are sere, yellow, and dusty, and thus con-
form to the Far- Western meaning of the word
plains. The soil is composed of disintegrated
basaltic rock, and, whether on lofty crests or
steep slopes or in deep ravines, is alike cov-
ered with the same monotonous vegetation of
bunch-grass, wild sunflowers, sage-brush, and
grease-wood. The colors of the landscapes
are dirty browns and yellows and faded sage-
green, save where a belt of alders and wil-
lows skirts a creek. In May and June, when
the grass is fresh and the sunflowers are in
bloom, the country seems carpeted with fresh
green and gold ; but this season of verdure and
blossoms only lasts a few weeks, and then
comes the long, dry, dusty summer. The
plains of the great Columbia basin occupy a
stretch of country of almost circular form, and
of about three hundred miles across, sur-
rounded by the Cascade Mountains on the
west, the Blue Mountains on the south, the
Bitter Root and Coeur d'Alene Mountains
on the east, and the Peshastin, Colville, and
other ranges on the north. From north to
south, nearly midway of the basin's width,
flows the Columbia. The eastern part of the
basin is mainly drained "by the Snake, the
Palouse, and the Spokane rivers, and the
western part by the Yakima and its tributaries.
In the afternoon of the first day's travel by
wagon, and the fifth of our journey from Puget
Sound, we entered the Kittitas Valley, and saw
its market-town of Ellensburg lying in white
spots against a brown hill-side fifteen miles
distant. This valley is the most extensive
and most thickly settled between the Cas-
cade Mountains and the Columbia. It is
twenty miles long and from three to ten miles
wide, and, being well watered and easy to irri-
gate, has attracted a thrifty farming popula-
tion. With a few small tributary valleys, it is
said to contain two thousand five hundred
people, of whom some four hundred live in the
town. Forty bushels of wheat to the acre and
four hundred of potatoes are average yields on
the rich irrigated lands. In spite of their iso-
lation from markets, — the valley is one hun-
dred and fifty miles from the nearest accessi-
ble transportation line, — the farmers appear
prosperous, their houses and barns being of a
better character than are usually seen in new
countries. Settlement in the valley dates back
ten years ; but most of the people have come
in during the past four or five years, attracted
by the prospect of a railroad as well as by the
fertility of the soil.*
Of Ellensburg little need be said. It is a
creditable frontier village for one so new and
so remote, supporting two weekly newspapers
and an academy. The Yakima River flows
by the town in a swift, deep current, fed by
snows but not by glaciers, as its clear, blue
waters testify. From a high ridge south of the
town the top of Mount Tacoma can be seen,
but it is much less impressive from this point
of view than is Mount Stuart, the highest
peak of the Peshastin Range, which bounds
the prospect on the north. I confess never to
have heard the name of this range before, yet
it is immeasurably grander than the White
Mountains or the Adirondacks. Mount Stuart,
usually called Monument Peak, is ten thou-
sand feet high, and is as bold and peculiar in
its form as the Matterhorn in Switzerland.
The whole range is savage and precipitous,
a serrated ridge of brown rock, with many
jagged peaks, too steep to carry much snow
save in the deep ravines. At the foot of these
magnificent mountains lie four deep, green,
forest - rimmed lakes — Kichilas, Kachees,
Kitallum, and Cleellum. The region is wild
and little known, and is very inviting to ad-
venturous explorers. Veins of copper carry-
ing considerable gold and silver have recently
been discovered there, and a vein of coal so
good for blacksmithing purposes that it is
hauled down to the Kittitas Valley and sold
for thirty dollars a ton.
Going southward from Ellensburg, there is
no settlement after leaving the Kittitas Valley
until the Wenass Valley is reached, a distance
of twenty miles. The Yakima plunges into a
deep canon with sides so steep that there is
no room for a road. So the road climbs over
two bare, brown ridges, one high enough to
figure on the maps as a mountain range.
From its crest the squares of green and gold
* The journey described in this article was made in the summer of 1884.
up the Yakima Valley has advanced as far as Yakima City. — E. V. S.
Since then the railroad-building
FROM PUGET SOUND TO THE UPPER COLUMBIA.
841
formed by the fields of oats and ripened
wheat in the Kittitas Valley made a very
pretty landscape effect. The-ridges separating
the narrow valleys are covered with an abun-
dant growth of bunch-grass, and are good
summer ranges for stock ; but the snow lies
on them too deeply in winter for cattle to
range, as in Montana, all the year round ;
consequently there is but little stock in the
country. The Wenass is a tributary of the
Yakima, and it makes a good agricultural
valley, twenty miles long, but only one or two
farms wide. About three hundred people in-
habit it. Ten miles farther south come the
Nachess Valley, wider, but not so long as the
Wenass, and the Coweechee Valley, narrower
and longer than the Nachess. Both are well
settled. On a farm at the mouth of this val-
ley, where we halted for supper, apples,
plums, cherries, raspberries, and blackberries
grew luxuriantly, and in an irrigated garden
all sorts of vegetables flourished. The Nachess
debouches into the Yakima Valley, a name
applied locally to only about fifteen miles of
the course of the Yakima River, where there
is an irrigable plain eight or ten miles wide,
partly under cultivation, and supporting the
town of Yakima City, with its eight hundred
inhabitants. We reached the " city " about
dark, having traversed forty miles of good
road without meeting a single person trav-
eling in the opposite direction. Save a few
herds of cattle and bands of horses and nu-
merous flocks of grouse, there was no life on
the grassy slopes and ridges. Yakima City
stands at the junction of the Attanam Creek
with the Yakima River, and on the east side
of the river there is a third inhabited valley,
called the Moxee. In all these valleys farm-
ing by irrigation is very successful. The soil
is a fine powder, carrying no trace of sand;
the whole region was once volcanic and
later the bed of a lake. A little water applied
to this rich soil, with the aid of the heat of
the long summer days, causes all the cereals
and vegetables of the temperate zone, and all
the fruits, save peaches, to flourish amazingly.
One acre will produce as much as three of
good farm-land in the Eastern States. The
town is a medley of cheap wooden buildings
and vegetable gardens, shaded by Lombardy
poplars, and backed up against a ridge of
bulging brown hills. In summer the mercury
frequently goes up to one hundred degrees ;
but the climate is remarkably healthy, owing,
no doubt, to the dryness of the air and soil.
The inhabitants think the place beautiful, and
so it is when contrasted with the hot, weari-
some expanses of sage-brush and bunch-grass
and powdery dust one must traverse to reach
it. Little streams of clear water run along the
sides of the streets and are sluiced off into the
gardens. The town is the trade center of all
the region between the Cascades and the
Columbia, and is waiting impatiently for the
railroad advancing up the Yakima to aug-
ment its business and population. At present
the merchants 'haul their goods from the Dalles,
about a hundred miles distant, and thither go
such products of the country as can profitably
be transported so far in wagons. When the
railroad goes through the mountains, all these
fertile little irrigated valleys, drained by the
Yakima, will get rich raising fruits, vegeta-
bles, grain, and cattle for the Sound cities,
which now get their supplies almost entirely
from San Francisco. Ditch enterprises on a
large scale will then reclaim thousands of
acres that now grow nothing but sage-brush.
I heard a good deal of talk in Yakima City
of a project on the part of the railroad com-
pany to create a new town near the junction
of the Nachess and Yakima rivers, with the
view of making it a model place of wide
streets, deep lots, shade-trees, flowers, and
running streams, by the aid of the abun-
dant waters of the Nachess, available for ir-
rigation. The future city, which as yet hardly
exists on paper, is already in imagination
the flourishing capital of the great State of
Washington. Its proposed site is now a waste
of dust and sage-brush, but, with plenty of
water and plenty of money, the project of
making this desert blossom like the rose
would be perfectly feasible.
Leaving Yakima City and traveling in a
south-easterly direction, our road ran for about
fifty miles through an Indian reservation be-
longing to a number of tribes gathered from
the entire region between the Cascade Moun-
tains and the Upper Columbia — Yakimas,
Klickitats, Kittitas, and others whose names
are only known locally. About three thou-
sand souls belong upon this reservation, but
there are probably not more than half that
number actually living on it, the others pre-
ferring their old homes in the mountains,
where they can hunt, or on the banks of the
Columbia, where the salmon furnish an abun-
dant food supply. Those upon the reservation
are partly civilized, cultivating small fields
of grain and herding cattle. Nominally they
have all been Christianized, and Methodists
and Catholics compete for the honor of sav-
ing their souls ; but a considerable number
render secret homage to an old humpbacked
Indian prophet, named Smohallo, who has in-
vented a religion of his own. This dusky Ma-
homet lives in the desert, near Priests' Rapids,
on the Columbia, where he has a village of
adherents, and is constantly visited by admir-
ers from the reservation, who bring him tribute.
842
FROM PUGET SOUND TO THE UPPER COLUMBIA.
He goes into trances and professes to have
communion with the Great Spirit. An army
officer, who recently visited Smohallo's village
to see if the old fellow was brewing any mis-
chief, told me that he witnessed a singular relig-
ious ceremony in a tent. The prophet sat on
a hassock with a bell in his hand. In front of
him were twelve Indians in red shirts, on one
side six maidens in white gowns, and on the
other six in red gowns. The ringing of the
bell was a signal for them to kneel or rise.
The service consisted of chants and a dis-
course by the prophet. At one time he fell on
the ground in a trance, and after a few min-
utes arose and announced a pretended revela-
tion from the heavenly powers. Smohallo was
educated by the Jesuit fathers at the Coeur
d'Alene Mission, and evidently has borrowed
his ceremonials from those he saw there. He
is a disturbing element among the Indians, be-
cause he tries to dissuade them from industry,
saying that the earth is their mother, and that to
plow the ground is to scratch her skin,- to dig
ditches is to wound her breast, and to open mines
is to crack her bones, and that she will not receive
them after they die if they thus abuse her.
The Yakima Reservation lies between the
river and the Simcoe Mountains. Most of it
is sage-brush land, but for three hours we
drove through a green country covered with
rye-grass standing higher than our horses'
heads, with rich pasturage of smaller herbage
among it. Opposite, on the white man's side
of the valley, there is little or no settlement,
but the land lies favorably for reclamation by
ditches taken from the river. Some of the
Indians live in frame houses evidently built by
the Government, for they are of one pattern ;
others have built log structures for themselves,
while many still adhere to the " wicky-up " —
a shapeless hut made from a combination of
brush and mats woven from reeds. They
have adopted white customs in one respect, at
least, for they have set up a toll-gate and tax
travelers fifty cents for driving across their
country. The toll-gate keeper was in a morose
frame of mind. He had recently been arrested
by the agent, put in the " skookum-house "
(jail), and fined sixty dollars for having two
wives. He said he could not see what the harm
was as long as the women were both satisfied,
and grumbled about the loss of the money he
had saved to buy a new horse-rake.
Our noonday halt was at a ranch on the
north side of the river. The ranchman ferried
the team across on a flatboat, and invited us
to rest in rocking-chairs on a piazza roofed
with green cottonwood boughs while his wife
got dinner. He had taken up a green spot in
the sage-brush waste, and was making butter
from fifty cows, and putting up great stacks
of hay for their winter feed. He was a shrewd
and prosperous man, and his success had al-
ready attracted other settlers. The afternoon's,
journey was through a country wholly deso-
late. The river itself seemed to get discouraged,,
and ran with a sluggish current through the:
parched and thirsty land, which constantly
robbed it of its waters, so that its volume di-
minished as it advanced. Hidden by the bare
hills that bounded the southern horizon lay,
however, a grassy valley, called Horse Heaven,,
where fifty families have settled during the
past year. Northward the landscape was all
a burning-hot, dusty sage-brush plain sloping;
up to the Rattlesnake Mountains. The night
was spent restfully on clean blankets in an
engineers' camp, on the line of the advancing
railroad. A mile away was a settlement started
by aa ex- Congressman from Tennessee, who
hopes that ditch enterprises and the water-
power of the falls of the Yakima will develop
a town on his lands.
The next day — the tenth since we left
Puget Sound — was the most trying of the
whole journey. The heat was intolerable.
Probably it would have been about 1050 Fah-
renheit in the shade if there had been any
shade. What it was in the sun nobody at-
tempted to estimate. The dust covered the
faces of the travelers with yellow masks and
penetrated their clothing, forming a thick de-
posit all over their bodies. Eighteen miles in
a wagon brought us to the end of the rail-
way track built last year, but not yet operated,,
and not put in order since the winter rains, so
that a locomotive could not get over it. Here
we transferred ourselves to a hand-car. The
three passengers sat in front, with their feet
hanging down over the ties and knocking
against the weeds and sand-heaps. Four stout
fellows at the levers got an average speed of
nearly ten miles an hour out of the little ma-
chine. To the heat of the direct rays of the
sun was added that reflected from the rails, the
sandy embankment, and the sides of the cuts.
With what joy we descried in the early after-
noon the broad, blue flood of the Columbia |
What a satisfaction it was to rest in the shade
of a tent by the margin of the cool waters !
In the evening a diminutive steamboat, aptly
called The Kid, ferried us down to Ainsworth,
a little town at the confluence of the Snake
and the Columbia, — rivers as mighty in vol-
ume here as the Mississippi and Missouri
where they join, and as strikingly different in
the character of their waters. At Ainsworth
the journey described in this article ended,,
and the homeward trip in a Pullman car
began.
Eugene V. Smalley.
THE MEDIATIONS OF MR. ARCHIE KITTRELL.
"And thanne with here scharpe speris stronge
They foyneden ecli at other."
The Knightes Tale.
I.
The traditions respecting the origin of the
name " Hello " of a certain militia district in
one of the older counties of Middle Georgia
are so ancient and variant that I do not feel
myself called upon, at least in this connec-
tion, to recite them. My present purpose is to
tell of a few persons resident therein at a
period many years back, whilst Josiah Cofield,
Esq., presided in the Justice's Court. This
magistrate had long considered himself as fa-
miliar as any judge need be with principles
governing judicial trials. The drift of cases
wherein his rulings had been reversed on
certiorari to the Superior Court had been
mainly in the line of exceptions taken to his
jurisdiction, about the limits of which he was
suspected to be not without the jealousy com-
mon to all tribunals not the highest. His
temptation to overstep was, perhaps, enhanced
by an enormous fondness for his court costs.
It was his habit, therefore, to put upon his
docket all cases brought by persons known
by him to be responsible for these, without
concerning himself about the eventual disposi-
tion of the condemnation-money.
I make these observations regarding him,
preparatory to the introduction of some per-
sons of yet more importance.
Fully a mile above, owner of a considera-
ble body of land, extending as far as the fork
where William's and Turkey Creeks merge
their waters and their names in Long Creek,
dwelt Mr. Archie Kittrell, now well spent in
years, yet with gratifying remains of strength
and activity, bodily and mental. His estate
was bounded on the east by Turkey Creek
and the Peevys, on the west by William's and
the Templins's.
. It had been fortunate heretofore, for both
the Peevys and Templins, that such a man as
Archie Kittrell resided between them. In a
hill region the number is limited of those who
can live persistently, without any hurt to
friendly neighborhood, on opposite sides of a
creek-line. A benevolent and usually a re-
markably calm man was Mr. Kittrell, although
it was known that he could become excited
on occasion. For very many years he had
held not only peaceful but most friendly re-
lations with these neighbors, in spite of the
varying channels that the two streams often
made before reaching the confluence where
the Long began its straightforward, deter-
mined course to the Ogeechee. He put his
fences sufficiently behind high- water mark,
and, instead of complaining of infringements
upon doubtful riparian soil, he was often
known to express placid sympathy when the
Templin or the Peevy fence, on occasions of
extraordinary rains, would resolve itself into
its constituent elements, and every rail go
madly rushing in search of more reliable
shores. Both Mr. Templin and Mr. Peevy had
deceased some years ago; but their relicts
were women of much energy, and, with aid
of the counsels of their intermediate friend,
managed their estates to much advantage.
What separated these ladies yet further than
the two creeks was their difference in relig-
ious faith. Three miles north of the fork stood
the William's Creek Baptist Church, so named
partly from its geographical position, but
mainly, as was suggested by one of the dea-
cons at its foundation, because, like Enon of
old, there was much water there. One mile
south of the fork, on a high land, at the foot
of which was a noble spring of water, was the
Methodist meeting-house, younger than its
rival, and weaker in membership. Its name
was Big Spring.
The Templins worshiped at the upper, and
the Peevys at the lower house. Both these
ladies were pronounced in doctrinal opinions,
and therefore neither visited the other often,
though each was very familiar at the Kit-
trells's. If they had been of the same religious
faith, they must have been cordial friends. As
it was, each must sometimes warm into tem-
porary resentment when one would hear of
uncharitable words expressed by the other
concerning herself or her meeting-house. It
had been observed that such misunderstand-
ings had increased considerably of late, and
notably since Miss Priscilla Mattox had been
sojourning in the neighborhood.
Whatever worship the Kittrells did was
mainly beneath their own vine. Mr. Kittrell,
his wife, and his two sons, William and
Joseph (always called Buck and Jodie), at-
tended service at both meeting-houses, and,
though not professors, were as good respect-
ers of religion as the best. Hopes had been
844
THE MEDIATIONS OE MR. ARCHIE KITTRELL.
indulged, I dare not say how long, by the
William's Creek people that Mrs. Kittrell,
whose mother in her time was a Baptist,
might feel it her duty, before it would be too
late, to knock at their door.
" As perfect a patron of a woman as is,"
Mrs. Templin would often say, " ef she were
jest only a Babtis, and which she can't but be
obleeged to know it's her juty to foller her
own blessed mother that she can have no
doubts of her being of now a saint in heaven."
As for Mr. Kittrell, who was at least a score
of years older than his wife, it was quite pos-
sible that some of the delay in his church
affiliation was due to the thoughtful appre-
hension that any action in that matter so pro-
nounced on the part of so great a man might
impart to the denomination with which he
should connect himself a preponderance that
might operate discouragingly upon the other,
particularly in the case of his two nearest
neighbors. His views and expectations in this
behalf, thus far, had not become known to the
public, who were wont to speculate that
avowed opinions and definite action would
depend, if ever to exist at all, upon accidents
possible to occur on the borders of the two
creeks. The lads, Buck, nearly twenty-one,
and Jodie, turned of nineteen, not only went
habitually to both meeting-houses, but they
were specially fond of visiting at the Templin
and Peevy mansions. For this fondness no
person ever could have had the face to blame
them ; no person, I mean, who had seen and
known what fine girls were Caroline Tem-
plin, aged sixteen, and Sarah Ann Peevy,
fifteen years, each only surviving child and
heir presumptive of her mother.
ii.
Although nobody ever had any doubt as
to the pride that Mr. Kittrell had in his wife,
his two sons, and his fine plantation so snug
in the fork, yet this pride was never or seldom
a matter of distinct public avowal. Not so
that he felt in being nigh neighbor to such
women as Mrs. Templin and Mrs. Peevy.
" A couple of as fine females and widders
as any man mout ever express his desires to
go anywheres, makes no defuerence wheres,
and locate hisself, and settle hisself, and live
neighbor to the said female persons as I've
done every sense ary one or both o' their
husbands took sick and diseased from this
mortual speres. One of 'em's a Babtuis, and
the tother a Methudis, and thar they'r both
as solid as two bricks sot in mortar in two
sip'rate chimblies ; but nother that ner them
henders nary one of 'em from of bein' of two
as fine females and widders as this county,
nor as to that, this whole State o' Georgy, can
pejuce. Ef they wants, and it's thar desires to
stand up to thar warous churches, and they
feels it thar juty to argy for 'em, whose bisui-
ness is it to hender 'em ? and speshual them
that takes it on theirselves (and I'm a-namin'
o' no names) to go about a-repeatin' of what
one have said about the other, and her sanc-
tuflcation and the fallin' from grace, and
what's the tother say in respects of the finual
pesseveunce o' the saints, or the dippin' or
the pourin' o' water, mo' or less ? Ef people'd
keep thar mouths shet about them two fine
wimming (and 'member, I'm a-namin' o' no
names), they'd be as friendly 'ith one 'nother
as they both are and is 'ith my wife ; and any-
how, I say it open and above board, I knows
not ner I don't know the equils o' them nor
nary one of 'em. And, as for Calline Tem-
pling and Sarann Peevy, ef I wer'n't a ve' ole
man as I am, an' already got my quimpanion,
my opinions o' them childern is, I wouldn't
posuitive, I would n't know how ner when ner
which to forbar."
Benevolent, calm man as was Mr. Kittrell,
he had withal an eye ever watchful for the
interests of his family. That eye, for many
years, had been growing more and more
watchful until now, when he was sure in his
mind that the time had come for him and his
boys to move towards the consummation of a
project that was the very nearest to his heart.
From time to time he had sounded Buck and
Jodie together and apart. He was delighted
with the exquisite modesty and slyness with
which he had discovered to them his own
plans, and the facility which they, dutiful,
splendid boys as they were, suffered them-
selves to be put forward by himself. But he
knew they were very young, and somehow
both, especially Jodie, had inherited rather
more of their mother's sentiment and artless-
ness than he considered quite well for per-
fectly successful careers, in what he would
have styled'" in a bisuiness point of view," and
that his own aged and wise head must take
the lead. He always talked freely with his wife,
who was a woman of few words, and whom
he well knew to have been ever thankful for
having married, when a poor girl, a man of his
property and intelligence, and, therefore, was
a most faithful recipient of his confidences.
" I jes tell you, Jincy, what the fact o' the
bisuiness is. The good Lord never flung
these three plantations in the sitiuation they
are, and is and has been every sense I've
knowed 'em, and a-diwidued out the childern
that's now are of a-waitin' to be thar ars and
egzekitors, so to speak o' the cas« at the
present bare, 'ithout he'd of had some meanin'
THE MEDIATIONS OE MR. ARCHIE KITTRELI.
845
JODIE WAS FOND OF VISITING.
of His idees along of all up an' down, in an'
out, along both o' the banks o' them crooked
an' oncertain meanduerin creeks. For I hain't
the littlest idee myself but what He have
freckwent got tired o' hearin' o' the ever-
ulastin fussins o' people that has creek-lines
both betwix' an' between, and no yeend of
sputin about water-gaps, and stock a-breakin'
in bottom fields, and which, twere'nt I were a
peasuable man, I mout of been cats and dogs
with both them wimming ; and they ain't no
doubt about it in my mind but what these
three plantations oughtn't to be — fmually, I
mean — they oughtn't to be but two, with
the lines a-tuck off'n them creeks and run into
one line high and dry plump through the
middle o' this one, and Buck, him a-havin' o'
the Turkey Creek side, and Jodie, him the
Williamses, when in cose my head and yourn
git cold, and the famblies, both they and
them and Buck and Jodie, a-nunited and
jinded together in sich a jint and — well, I
would now say compactuous way, that no-
body nor nothin' exceptions o' death er debt
could never sip'rate 'em no mo' ner never
henceforrards. And it's perfec plain to my
mind — for I've been a-pickin' all of around
of both o' them boys, and it's perfec plain to
Vol. XXIX.— 87.
my mind that they both has and have the
same priminary idees, only they're nary one
o' the pushin' kind o' boys, I would of some
of ruther of saw, and in which they don't take
arfter the Kittrells quite as much as I should
desires, and mo' arfter the Kitchenses; not
that, as you monstrous well knows, my dear
honey, that my wife were a Kitchens, and no
man never got a better, but which a-not'ith-
understandin' them boys is the obeduentest
and splendidenest boys in this county, and
them wimming and them gals is obleeged to
know the same, only it's a marter that need
pushin', because they're all grownded, at least-
ways in size, and it's a marter that it ain't to
be kep' a-puttin' off."
Mrs. Kittrell listened with the usual pro-
found deference to her husband, and ven-
tured only a remark that they were all very
young, and that, as for her part, her ideas had
always been that marriages were made in
heaven.
Mr. Kittrell smiled benevolently at sug-
gestions that he knew were not intended
to be pressed, and revolved how he was to be-
gin. At supper that night he grew more as-
sured than ever when Buck had so much to
say in special praise of the Turkey Creek side.
Jodie said but little about either of the girls.
But Mr. Kittrell knew the peculiar modesty
of Jodie. Besides, intending himself to lead
in the important enterprise, he did not know
but what he rather preferred not to be em-
AND I M A-NAMIN O NO NAMES.
S46
THE MEDIATIONS OE MR. ARCHIE KITTRELL.
barrassedby too great a multitude of counsel,
even in his own family.
" But, my dear," said Mrs. Kittrell, when
Buck and Jodie had retired, " hadn't we bet-
ter let them boys manage for theirselves ?
Because I'm not shore "
" My dear Jincy," interrupted Mr. Kittrell,
not impatiently, but with the decisiveness of
tone which a great man employs when he is
talking with an inferior being. "We — yes;
we. You'll have to keep still as a mouse, and
lay low. This here case take a man o' ex-
peunce and obserwation, and it won't do to
be meddled with. You don't mean to in-
sinooate that them boys ain't speshual fond
o' them gals, Jincy ? "
" Oh no ; but I ain't adzactly made up in
my mind as to which "
" 'Nough said," Mr. Kittrell again inter-
rupted, waving his hand. " Stick a pin right
thar, and keep her stuck; lay low and wait
and see what a man o' expeunce and obser-
wation can do."
It would not be possible to express the
kind condescension with which these words
were uttered. The consciousness of being
one of the greatest of mankind was not able
to make Mr. Archie Kittrell forget what was
due to the mother of his children.
in.
On the following day Mr. Kittrell rode ex-
tensively over his domain. He had been heard
often to say that of the thinking he had done,
and he might go far enough to say that, in his
opinion, his friends and neighbors would bear
him out in claiming to have done a right
smart of thinking in his day and generation,
the biggest part had been done on horseback.
On this day, therefore, he made what he would
have styled a perusual of his whole plantation,
after which he crossed both creeks consecu-
tively on visits to his nearest neighbors.
" And how is Missuis Templing this fine
mornin' like ? Busy, I see ; busy as a bee, if
she'll take the rhyme in time, though I don't
but sildom make 'em, at leastways not inten-
tual. And whar's Calline ? Gone to see
Sarann, eh ? All right, bless her heart. Look
so well, neighbors' children a-wisitin, when
they too busy and too much occuepied to
wisit tharselves."
Mrs. Templin, now about fifty years of
age, stout and comely, was noted for good
housekeeping and hospitality. If she was
somewhat aggressive in the matter of her re-
ligious faith, it was, as she often candidly con-
tended, from no reason on the good Lord's
blessed earth, but because she pitied the ig-
n'ance and predigice of people who, if they
ever took the Bible into their hands, it seemed
like they could never learn when to open and
how to read it. She had been heard often to
admit that but for Mrs. Peevy's ign'ance, but
'specially her predigice, she would be a great
deal better person than herself was or ever
hoped to be. As for the Kittrells, she believed
in her heart that their becoming Baptists was
only a question of time, when, as she was
wont to express it, they could see their wray
clear to mansions in the skies.
I may not delay to repeat all the conversa-
tion of the occasion of the visit. What dwell-
ing Mr. Kittrell made longest was when he
spoke of his own great age, now sixty-eight,
and a-going on to sixty-nine, and the provis-
ion a man at his time of life might naturally
be expected to wish to make for his children.
There is a pathos which parents are gifted
withal when speaking fondly of those dearest
to them that sensibly affects persons even less
responsive than Mrs. Templin. She felt for her
handkerchief more than once, and not finding
it, tenderly drew up a corner of her apron.
" Yes, yes," continued the father. " I'm a
gittin' of what ef a body moutn't call old,
they'd go as fur as to call at leastways aijuable,
and it 'pears like that as I'm the onlest father
them boys has got "
Soft-hearted woman as Mrs. Templin was,
her apron could not but do its becoming ser-
vice at this tender pause.
" Now, Jodie," Mr. Kittrell resumed, when
he felt that he had partially recovered his
strength, " as for Jodie, it seem like that boy
— boy I calls him, but he feel like he's a man,
Jodie do ; and which it weren't no longer'n
last Sadday, I see him with my own eyes
fling down Buck in a wrastle, and Buck say
Jodie's the onlest man in the county, white
or black, that can put his back to the ground
— now, Jodie, I spishuons, he have a likin'
for this here side o' the plantation, and I have
notussed that he 'pearantly some ruther go to
William's Creek than Big Spring, while, I
ain't shore in my mind, but my spishuons of
Buck is and are of his bein' of a Turkey
Creek man, and possuable a Big Springer.
Now, when Jodie want to settle hisself, and a
not with of understandin', Jodie is a silence
an' a by no means of a pushin' of a b-b — ,
but I 'sposen I has got to call him a young
man now sence he's the onlest man any whars
about that can put Buck Kittrell's back to
the ground, and has the idees of a man in the
bargain, — my opinions is, Jodie is arfter a set-
tlement o' some kind ; and I'll have to lay off
a toler'ble siz'able piece o' the plantation next
to and a-jinden of you and Calline, and you
an' Jodie an' Calline'll have to settle it be-
THE MEDIATIONS OF MR. ARCHIE KITTRELL.
847
tvvixt you three the same as me an' you has
an' have done about gates an' water-gaps.
An' a-speakin' o' Calline, I do think, upon my
soul, I never see a daughter mo' like a mother
in every respects, though I were never a per-
son that 111 the payin' o' compuments to fe-
male wimming, and speshual them that kyars
"SOFT-HEARTED WOMAN AS MRS. TEMPLIN WAS."
thar age like some I've knowed, to actilly
name names. And, as for Jodie, — Jodie Kit-
trell I'm a-talkin' about now,— well, Jincy
say, and she's a relijuouser person 'n what I
am, she give it as her 'pinuons that marriages
is made in heaven ; and ef so be it, I can't but
hope the good Lord won't send Jodie, who,
'twa'n'tforme he'd be a orphing, too fur and too
illconwenant from home for his quimpanions."
Then he cast a brief melancholy look to-
wards the far distance adown Long Creek.
But it was too forlorn for a father so fond^and
aged, so he withdrew his eyes and fixed them,
with soft appealing, upon Mrs. Templin.
" And I don't think," she said to her daugh-
ter that night, on her return from the Peevys',
" nor neither do I believe, that I ever see a
person more 'fectionate as a parrent, and more
fittin', ef he jest only see his way cle'r, to give
up and give in a expeunce and march straight
into Rock-hole pool; and what he said, Cal-
line, of me an' you of bein' of adzackly alike,
— well, my ap'on — for I had drap' my han-
kercher somewhars — but my ap'on were posi-
tive wet. And it's astonishin' that of two
brothers, Jodie Kittrell, and him the youngest,
would be so much more knowin' what were
his juty in the warous churches it were his
juty to stand up to ef not to jind imegiant out
an' out ; and I wouldn't desires to hear more
dilicater langwidges than that same man have
insiniwated about the settlin' o' Jodie on this
side o' his plantation."
Caroline, tall, blooming, merry-eyed, smiled,
well pleased at the report, and made no fur-
ther reply than that, in her opinion, a finer
young man in the whole State of Georgia was
not to be found than Jodie Kittrell.
From Mrs. Templin's Mr. Kittrell rode by
the nearest way straight on to Mrs. Peevy's,
and one who had witnessed the gayety of his
recent salutation might have been surprised
at the solemnity with which he greeted his
neighbor to the left. Of about the same age as
Mrs. Templin, though shorter and thinner, she
was more reticent and serious, and showed
more of the wear of time. Mr. Kittrell's
voice had a most respectful and kind tremor
when he said how thankful he was to see her
looking so remockable well. In answer to her
inquiry about himself and his family, he an-
swered, after a brief, thoughtful pause :
" All of us is in middlin' fa'r health, Mis-
suis Peevy, thank the good Lord, exceptions
of Buck."
" Buck ? " quickly asked Mrs. Peevy. " Why,,
I see him and Jodie both a Sunday, and I
never see him a-lookin' better or healthier.
What ail Buck?"
" Not in his body, Missuis Peevy," an-
swered the old man, with moderate gratitude ;
" not in his body, I don't mean. In Buck's
body, and I mout say in all his warous limbs,
Buck Kittr'l's sound as a roach, strong as a
mule, active as a cat, an' industrous as they
genuilly makes 'em. It's the boy's mind that's
a-makin' o' me oneasy."
" Buck's mind, Mr. Kittr'l ? " she asked, in
candid anxiety, for she liked both the boys
well. " Why, what upon the yearth ? "
" Yes, madam, his mind. You see, Buck
have got now to whar he's a-goin' on, and
that monstuous pow'ful rapid, to his one-an'-
twenty, and he know it, an' when an' at which
time he can wote, an' be a man besides, an'
which, though Buck hain't told me so in them
many words, yit I consate that Buck want to
settle hisself; and he, a-bein' o' my oldest son,
and a studdy, and of afectuonate natur', a par-
rent, speshual when he know hisself on the
vargin o' the grave, mout natchel be anxuous
about what perwision to make for him who
ain't one o' them sort that'll up an' out 'ith
what he want, but'll take what his parrent
father 'lows him and never cherrip. For my
desires is to settle them boys, or leastways
Buck, before my head git cold, and not to be
a-leadin' 'em to the temptations o' wantin'
gone the only father they've got, and that be-
fore his time come to go."
Mr. Kittrell paused, took out his white,
square-spotted, red silk handkerchief, and
mildly blew his nose. Mrs. Peevy making
no reply, he continued :
848
THE MEDIATIONS OF MR. ARCHIE KITTRELL.
SOMEHOW MR. KITTRELL FELT A LITTLE EMBARRASSED AT MEETING THEM TOGETHER.
" This here side o' my plantation that lays
on Turkey Creek and perpuendickler betwix'
me and them that I've said it freckuent, open
an' above bode, nobody oughtn't to never de-
sires to have a better neighbor, and which,
ef I weren't a-settin' in thar peazzer at this
minute, I should name thar names, and
which some people say this the best side o'
my plantation, and mout natchel expect for
me to lay it off to my oldest son, and which
they ain't no doubts on my mind that Buck
have a. sly leanin' to-wards this side, and pos-
suable may be mout be to cross the creek and
go as fur as Big Spring, which — But bless
my soul ! whar's Sarann ? I don't know how
I could of been here this long 'ithout a-askin'
for that lovely child, which my wife declare
she's the very picter of her mother in all an'
every p'ints of view."
" Sarann and Calline rid over to Mr. Ivy's
this evenin','' answered Mrs. Peevy.
"Umph — humph! Love to see young peo-
ple a-goin' a-wisitin' when it's done in reason.
As for Buck, 'pears like he never here lately
seems to keer about a-wisitin' no great deals,
exceptions he's evident a Turkey Creeker
thoout its muanderins, and the child's mind
seem to be of a-occuepied here lately. I hope
it'll all come right, and I'm a-studdin' about
him a-constant, and a-constant a-askin' my-
self in pow'ful langwidges, what do Buck
Kittr'l mean by his constant a-muanderin' up
and down Turkey Creek on both sides of her
and to-wards Big Spring ? And ef I know my-
self, and it 'pears like a man o' my age ought
to know hisself, I wants and desires to do a
parrent's part, and speshual along 'ith them
that's the oldest, a-goin' on rapid to thar one-
and-twenty, and a-lookin' forrards 'ith the
serous and solemn p'ints of view that boy
been here lately a-evident a-takin' o' matters
an' things in gener'l and speshual o' hisself.
And you say the gals rid to Joel Ivy's ? "
" Yes, sir. Calline said she heerd Prissy
Mattix's feelin's "
" She thar ? " asked Mr. Kittrell, quickly.
" Yes, sir ; a-doin' o' some weavin' for
Misses Ivy ; and Calline was afeard, she said,
that Prissy's feelin's was hurted by her mother
a-givin' the weavin' of her jeans and stripes to
Sophy Hill; and so she and Sarann rid over
jes natchel, and to ast to see Prissy well as
Misses Norris."
" Umph — humph ! " Mr. Kittrell prolonged
the exclamation, and was ruminating what re-
mark he should make about Miss Mattox,
whom he both disliked and feared, when the
two girls came cantering up to the gate.
Somehow Mr. Kittrell felt a little embarrassed
at meeting them together. Yet he shook
hands heartily with both, as alighting from
their horses they came running in. Sarann,
THE MEDIATIONS OF MR. ARCHIE KITTRELL.
849
somewhat petite, but as rounded, as well de-
veloped, and as pretty as Caroline, was not
quite so demonstrative, though in her own
home, as the latter. Yet she said with simple
candor that she was glad to see Mr. Kittrell.
" Now, Godamighty bless both of you, your
souls and your bodies," he said gallantly. Some-
how he could not see his way clear as to what
to say to each in the presence of the other ; and
so, after a few general observations, he took
his leave. On the way home he soliloquized
much. One of the subjects of this interior con-
versation may be guessed from an audible re-
mark that he made to his horse, while the latter
was drinking at the ford of Turkey Creek.
" Selom," said he, pointing and slowly
shaking his finger at the beast's head, " ef
any flaw is to come to this bisuiness, you hear
me, it'll be flung in by ole Priss Mattix."
He looked quickly all around to see if pos-
sibly this unintentional exclamation had been
overheard; then, tightening the reins, he urged
Selim on. On reaching home he informed his
wife of the events of his visits, and said :
" My opinions is, Jincy, and my believes is,
that at the Templings' the iron are hot, and
at the Peevys', ef not hot, it's of a-beginnin' to
git warm. Ef only ole Priss Mattix will keep
her everulastin' mouth shet, it'll go through
sleek as a bean, or a ingun, which of the two
you mind to choosen. But to save my life I
can't but be a little afeard o' that ole creeter."
He said as much to Buck and Jodie. The
younger looked at his brother with a face
partly gay and partly serious. Buck received
the news with hearty satisfaction, saying
boldly that in his opinion a finer girl than
Sarann Peevy the State of Georgia never pro-
duced, but that the sooner the name Peevy
was changed to Kittrell, a thing he was glad
to hope was possible in time, the better it
would be for — - Here Buck and Jodie both
blushed somewhat; for, great, stalwart, fine,
glorious fellows as they were, they were mod-
est and gentle, and this was the main reason
why their father felt it to be his duty to take
the lead and urge them to follow in this most
delicate pursuit.
" You two keep cle'r o' ole Priss ef you can,"
said Mr. Kittrell, in conclusion ; " or ef you
meet up along 'ith her, be monstous perlite.
'Twa'n't for hurtin' o' Sophy Hill's feelin's, I'd
git her to weave my jeans. And you can't be
too peticualar in keepin' both your bisuiness a
secret, and speshual from her."
IV.
Miss Priscilla Mattox, who had come
up from one of the wire-grass counties below,
I believe it was never precisely known which,
had been making temporary sojourns the
while with various families in the county, for
whom she had been doing jobs at weaving.
Tall, thin, wiry, and of extremely uncertain
age, she had gotten the reputation among
many of being as swift with her tongue as
with the shuttle. She might have been the
equal, even the superior, of Miss Sophy Hill
in counterpanes; but in jeans and stripes
Mrs. Templin, at least, who had tried both,
preferred the latter, and at this very time Miss
Hill was engaged at her house on a job in this
special department. The preference hurt Miss
Mattox's feelings, as she frankly confessed,
and the more because she felt that she knew
Mrs. Templin had shown her partiality for
Miss Hill mainly because of herself being poor
and — as she expressed it — a furriner.
Miss Mattox had not yet connected herself
with either William's Creek or Big Spring;
but if Mrs. Templin and Mrs. Peevy had been
put upon their oaths, each would have been
compelled to say that she had thought she
had had reason to expect that Miss Mattox,
at no very distant day, would feel it her duty
not longer to delay proceeding to the place
where she was obliged to know she belonged.
Indeed, most lately, ever since the disap-
pointment in the matter of the jeans and
stripes, Mrs. Peevy particularly must have
been rather pronounced in such opinion, even
upon the witness stand.
Now, it so happened that Mr. Kittrell, in
pursuance of the double project so near his
heart, had been engaged for some time, as
preliminary to and believed by himself likely
to assist and expedite its consummation, in
making two small clearings on the high ground
in the woods on either side of his mansion, and
had blazed the trees on what seemed to be in-
tended as an avenue to lead from each of the
clearings, one to the ford of William's Creek,
the other to that of Turkey. Such action was
obliged to be talked about, and Mr. Kittrell
well knew it. So he counseled his wife, whom
he knew to be entirely artless, rather too art-
less indeed, to keep herself at home for a while,
and refer all inquirers to himself. He was
conscious of being too shrewd a man to be
caught divulging important intentions relat-
ing to his own business. Therefore he smiled
inwardly when away, and laughed broadly
when in the bosom of his family, at the one
answer he had given to all inquiries — that he
was clearing places to set some traps. For,
indeed, everybody had to complain of the
ravages made by crows and blackbirds on the
newly planted low-ground corn.
It was one of those things that could never
be satisfactorily accounted for how the suspi-
cion came to the mind of Miss Priscilla Mat-
85o
THE MEDIATIONS OF MR. ARCHIE KITTRELL.
tox, a few weeks after Mr. KittrelPs visits to
his neighbors, that Buck Kittrell had drop-
ped Sarann Peevy, to whom lately he had
been paying marked attention, and was now
doing his utmost to supplant his brother Jodie
in the regard of Caroline Templin. Miss
Sophy Hill, indeed, had admitted that she had
suspected of late that Caroline had seemed to
her rather more fond of Buck's than Jodie's
closest society. But the relations between the
two distinguished weavers were well known to
be far from cordial. Besides, Miss Hill de-
clared upon her honor that she had not so
much as spoken to Miss Mattox since the
eventful change in the relation of the latter to
the Templins ; and, moreover, that she had
communicated her own suspicions only to
three or four, or, at least, to not more than
from five to six of her lady acquaintances, and
even then in the strictest confidence. How-
ever, the suspicion had gotten into the mind
of Miss Mattox, and she resolved to hunt for
its foundation. The result of her search may
be surmised from the report Mr. Kittrell made
to Buck one evening of an accidental visit he
had made to one of his neighbors.
" I stopped at Jeemes Lazenberry's on my
way from town, and I'm sorry I done it, and
I wouldn't of done ef I'd of knew that ole
Priss Mattix were thar, and which I didn't
know it untwill I were plump in the peazzer.
The ole creeter, soon as I come nigh and in
an' about, at me she did about them cler-
ruins ; and when I ans'ered as I ans'ered
everybody else to thar satersfactuon, blame ef
she didn't show plain as that crooked ole nose
on her face, that she didn't believe nary sin-
guil one, ner nary blessuid word; and when
she 'lowed she had heerd that you was
a-courtin' o' Calline Templing, I couldn't, not
to save my life, I couldn't keep from bein' of
a little confuseded in my mind, though I don't
think she see it ; for I tuck out my hankercher
andblowed my nose tremenjuous; and I told
her that, pine-blank, it weren't so. I were
thankful she were on the back track ; but I
tell you now, you boys better hurry up, for
that ole nose of hern, to my opinion, have a
scent same as a hound ; and when she see
Buck's track to-wards Missuis Templings of
gittin' of cold, you'll hear her a-yelpin back
across Turkey Creek, and have him an' Sa-
rann treed same as a possum in a simmon."
Buck laughed heartily at his father's report,
and assured him that he had no apprehension
of harm of any sort from Miss Mattox.
On the next day Miss Mattox, having got-
ten from Mrs. Lazenberry's a brief release,
hastened over to Mrs. Peevy's, and reported
to her the conversation she had held with Mr.
Kittrell the day before, and his confusion
when she told him that everybody knew that
Buck Kittrell was courting Caroline Templin,
and almost knew he was engaged to her.
Mrs. Peevy was acutely pained at this news.
She hoped, vainly indeed, that Miss Mattox
did not observe her emotion.
" Why, lawsy me, didn't you know that,
Missis Peevy ? "
" I did not," answered Mrs. Peevy, faintly.
" It's so, shore as you're settin' in that
THEM WAS NOT ONLY HER WORDS, BUT HER WERY
LANGWIDGES."
cheer. And I can tell ye how it come about
to my 'pinions; and my 'pinions, Missis
Peevy, is things that gen'ally knows what
they're about. Polly Templin's at the bottom
o' all the business. Now, I ain't a person that
meddles with other people's business, a-not-
'ithunderstandin' she have tuck from me the
weavin' o' her stripes and jeans ; but she's at
the bottom of it, and when she heerd, as every-
body else did, that Buck Kittr'll were a-freck-
went crossin' o' Turkey Creek, a-goin' to Big
Spring, and to another place, and which it is
too dilicate for me to forb'ar where that other
place are, and she went for him, and she sot
that Calline arfter him "
" Stop right thar, Prissy," interrupted Mrs.
Peevy. " I can't think Calline'd o' done any-
thing that ain't modest."
" Well," said Miss Mattox, shrugging her
shoulders, " drap her out o' the case ; but her
mammy have been a-pessecutin' o' that boy,
and tryin' to clinch the nail on him, and as
shore's you're born'd she's got him ; and they'll
all do of their level best to make a bachelder
out o' Jodie, and which he's jes' that kind o'
good-natur'd feller as'll let 'em do it, an'
THE MEDIATIONS OF MR. ARCHIE KITTRELL.
»5*
everybody been a-notisin' how low-sperrited
Jodie is, an' him and Buck scacely speaks."
" Well," said Mrs. Peevy, in a low, con-
strained voice, "I'm shore — I don't know
that it's any business o' mine." Yet a tear
was in her eye.
" May be not," replied Miss Mattox ; "but
I jest natchel hates to see people a-meddlin'
'ith other people's business, and I used to try
my level best to keep Polly Templin from
runnin' on in the scand'lous way about some
people that she know are her betters, a-be-
lievin' in sancterfercation, and fallin' from
grace, and how she said that she knowed of
things about them people that — well, she jest
out and said that it were perfec ridicklous
when Malviny Peevy sot herself up for one o'
them saints that's been dead every sence the
'pistles o' the Tostle Paul."
" Did she say them words, Prissy Matrix?"
asked Mrs. Peevy, panting.
" To the best o' mv ricollections, Missis
Peevy, them was not only her words, but her
wery langwidges. But, oh, my dear Missis
Peevy ! if I was in your place, I'd let Polly
Templin go, and I should desires, by no man-
ner o' means, for my name to be named. Be-
cause, as everybody know, I'm a orphin per-
son, and has to work for my livin', and tharfo'
and wharfo' I ain't o' them that'd wish to
make innimies."
Mrs. Peevy rose and walked up and down
the room for a minute or two, then stopped
and quietly asked Miss Mattox if she would
stay to dinner. But, bless her heart, Miss
Mattox had left the shickle in the loom and
was promised to return. When she was gone,
Mrs. Peevy ruminated the livelong day. But
a short time before the arrival of Miss Mat-
tox, Sarann had gone to Mrs. Templin's to
spend the day. The mother resisted the first
impulse to send for her. Sarann returned in
the evening, and the innocent heartiness with
which she spoke both of Caroline and Mrs.
Templin touched her mother's heart so sen-
* sibly that she had never before realized so
fully how dearly loved was her only child.
That night, after Sarann had gone to bed, she
sat up far beyond the usual time. When she
had risen at last to retire, she went softly into
her daughter's chamber, a small shed-room
next her own, and, shading the candle, looked
upon the face of the sleeper, while tears ran
down her cheeks. After gazing upon her sev-
eral moments, she leaned over and softly
kissed her forehead. Sarann momentarily
smiled, and then gently sighed. The mother
went silently back, then, throwing herself upon
her knees by her own bed, wept sorely.
The next morning, after breakfast, she said
to Sarann :
" I'm goin' to Hello on a little bit o' busi-
ness, precious ; I sha'n't be gone long. Give
out what you ruther have for dinner. I hain't
much appetite to-day."
v.
Take it all in all, the experience of Mr.
Kittrell during the greater part of this day
was the most excited and painful in his recol-
lection. " Because," as he would sometimes
remark when recurring to it, " I'm a man that
never likes to git mad, and it's because when
I does, ef it's ragin', viguous mad, thar's dan-
ger o' my hurtin' somebody or somethin',
a-powiduin' they don't git out o' my way."
It was about ten o'clock. Buck was out
overseeing the plow and Jodie the hoe hands.
Mr. Kittrell, having returned from a medi-
tative ride over both fields, was sitting in his
piazza, indulging the pleasing, anxious pains
of incubation over his plans, with an occa-
sional inward affectionate chiding of his boys
for not being more pushing each in his own
most fond endeavor, when he saw a negro
riding a mule which he urged with kicks and
a hickory on the road that led from Mrs.
Templin's. It proved to be her man Si.
" Marse Archie," said Si, " mistess say come
dar quick's your hoss can fetch you."
" My good-ness grasuous, Si, what can be
the matter ? "
" Don't know, marster. Marse Jim Hutchin'
fotch a paper which mistess say have ruin'
her. Never see mistess so 'flicted, not even
when marster died and leff her."
" Ride on back and tell her I'm a-comin',
and that amejuant."
" What can the matter be, honey ? " asked
Mrs. Kittrell, in great anxiety.
" Don't ast me, Jincy," answered her hus-
band, almost angrily, painfully humiliated by
not being able to answer the question of one
so far his inferior. " I knoweth not, ner neither
doth I know."
While his horse was being brought out, he
walked up and down the piazza, muttering to
himself. His wife, knowing what a desperate
man he was capable of becoming, was appalled
at overhearing him say :
" No, no ; the tech-hole's stopped up and
the cock's broke, and it hain't even a ramrod.
'Twouldn't be no manner o' use." He looked
as if he could have wept from disappointment.
" My dear honey, what are you a-talkin'
about ? " exclaimed Mrs. Kittrell, pale with
horror.
" My pischuel, 'oman, my pischuel ! "
" My Lord ! " she cried, throwing up both
arms and bowing her head.
'52
THE MEDIATIONS OF MR. ARCHIE KITTREIL.
\
"it's like the kittr'lls has been from everulastin' and forevermore." (see page 854.)
Now, Mr. Kittrell had not only great af-
fection but much considerateness for his wife.
" Oh, Jincy, if you don't want me, I sha'n't
take her. Tell Buck ; no, tell Jodie ; no, tell
nary one of 'em to do nary blessed thing on-
tell I find out what's turned up all creeation,
and can then tell what can be done and what
can be did."
" Be calm, my precious husband, be
c-ca-alm-alm ! "
" I'll try to be calm, Jincy," he answered,
in sepulchral tone.
" When I got thar," said Mr. Kittrell, later
in the day, " thar were Missuis Templing, red
as a beet, hot as a piece o' i'on jes' out'n the
hath, and a-holdin' in her trembluin' hands a
piece o' paper. Calline, she were rid over to
Harrell's stow, and conshuequently she weren't
thar. The minute I lay my eyes on the back
o' the writin', I see it were Joe Cofield, and I
says to myself, High ! name o' goodness, high !
for I knowed that 'oman were afeard o' debt
as she were o' the grave ; and I did not sup-
posinged she owed nary dollar ner nary cent to
nobody, let alone of Missuis Peevy. But, lo
and behold, Missuis Peevy have sued her for
thirty dollars for scandle j and not only so, but
Jim Hutchins, the constuable, he had to tell
her that the plantuff 'd of fotch for a hundred,
exceptions that Joe Cofield told her she
couldn't sue in his cote for but thirty dollars,
'ithout she'd diwide up the words and fetch
on three of 'em for thirty and one for ten, but
that Missuis Peevy wouldn't diwide the words,
because she were onnly arfter keepin' Missuis
Templing's mouth shet. Befo' I have sot down
in a blessed cheer, I says to her, ' Missuis
Templing,' says I, ' to my opinions, it's Priss
Mattix. But, howbe-ever, Joe Cofield ought
to be 'shamed o' hisself for fetchin' of a case
that he know, well as I know, belong not to
his little ole cote. But that's jest Joe Cofield.
When he's shore o' his cost, he'll put on his
everlastin' docket whomsoever'll ask him.
Why, didn't he let Bias Buggamy sue a stray
stump-tail yearlin' for breakin' in his field ;
and didn't Bias call for bail, and stan' bail for
the said yearlin' and take possession of him ?
And didn't he git a jedgment, and a exercu-
tion ; and didn't Jim Hutchins level on and
put up and sell the said yearlin' in Bias Bug-
gamy's cuppin' ? And didn't Bias Buggamy
buy him in for the cost, and kill him, and skin
him, and eat him ? The good a'mighty !
Why, I tell you, madam,' says I, ' anybody
that he know good for cost, he'd let 'em fetch
suit in his cote ag'in the moon for spilin' a
THE MEDIATIONS OF MR. ARCHIE KITTRELL
853
string o' fish or a pot o' soap. And as for
Priss Mattix — but she's a female person,
and '"
" Ef her everdence is Prissy Mattix/' said
Mrs. Templin, suddenly, " she have told me
worse things of Malviny Templin's a-sayin'
ag'in me than she have sued me for sayin'
ag'in her."
" Thar it is now, thar it is," said Mr. Kit-
trell, his eyes sparkling with gratification.
" Didn't she tell me that Malviny Peevy
called me the 'Postle Paul, and made game o'
me, and say nobody but me could of p'inted
his 'pistle to the Romans ? "
" Ah, ha ! umph, humph ! ah, ha ! and it
were to keep you from takin' from her the
weavin' o' your stripes and jeans, and she sot
Missuis Peevy ag'in you because you did.
Now, don't you know, Missuis Templing, that
Priss Mattix know, ef she know anything, that
Missuis Peevy know you ain't no 'Postle Paul,
nor couldn't be, a-bein' of a female, and that
the whole of it is her inwentions ? "
Other conferences the friends had which,
being confidential, I leave to be inferred
rather than mentioned in detail.
In less than an hour after Mr. Kittrell's
departure, Mrs. Templin was at Hello district
court. Calling for the docket, she read :
Missis Malviny Peevy
vs.
Debt for scandle.
Missis Polly Templin.
She left for home immediately after the
justice had made underneath the following
entry :
Missis Polly Templin } Debt for mene an'
vs. > oudacious
Missis Malviny Peevy. ) insiniwations^
" Jincy," said Mr. Kittrell, after giving his
wife a hurried account of the suit of Mrs.
Peevy, without mention of the cross-action,
" I must go to town on a little bisuiness, and
sha'n't be back tell late this evenin'."
And he rode off straightway. It was the
first time that Mr. Kittrell had ever run away
from the prospect of being called upon to
assist a neighbor. This is what he did ; for
he had had little doubt but that Mrs. Peevy
would send for him when the summons should
be carried to her, and he could not see how,
at least yet, he was to deport himself towards
her after the counsel he had given, or at least
hinted, to her adversary. Intent upon bring-
ing about peace, he knew, at the same time,
that his influence with Mrs. Peevy, because
of her more serious, determined character,
was less than with Mrs. Templin ; so he
Vol. XXIX.— 88.
deemed it the part of prudence to get out
of the way for a brief time.
" I were never a person that were usened
to dodgin', but I had it to do, and I done it.
I wanted to see how the hoarhound were a
workin' all around, and then I wanted to cool
off a little bit afore I see Joe Cofield. Po' ole
Priss wer' a female ; I knowed that, and she
wer' beyant me; but when I thought about
Joe Cofield, I tell you I were oneasy for him.
But I promised Jincy to be cool and calm as
possuble, and so I concluded to let things lay
for that day."
It was supper-time when he returned. The
boys had just returned from some visits they
had made in the afternoon. Both seemed
concerned, notwithstanding an occasional
smile on Buck's face which would immedi-
MISSIS POLLY TEMPLIN VS. MISSIS MALVINY PEEVY. DEBT
FOR MENE AN* OUDACIOUS INSINIWATIONS."
ately disappear. The mother had been full of
anxiety all day, in spite of the gratitude she
felt that her husband had not taken his pistol.
Not a word was said for some time after they
had sat at the table. Suddenly, with impa-
tience Mr. Kittrell cried out :
" Ef anybody know anything, can't they
tell it ? Is it got so that people's own famblies
can't talk to 'em ? Is everybody done gone
and got mad and distracted ? Have Missuis
Peevy sent words to me ? "
" No, sir. You know, pa," said Buck, with
great respect, " that Mrs. Peevy have sued
Mrs. Templin."
" I should some ruther supposing I did,
havin' saw the summons that Joe Cofield sent
her."
" Well, now Mrs. Templin have sued Mrs.
Peevy."
854
THE MEDIATIONS OF MR. ARCHIE KITTRELL
" Who said so ? " asked Mr. Kittrell, firmly,
yet casting down his eyes the while.
" Mrs. Templin told me this evenin', and
Mrs. Peevy told Jodie."
" Missuis Templin told who ? "
" Me."
" Missuis Peevy told who ? "
" Jodie."
Mr. Kittrell looked dazedly at one and
another of his family.
" Can anybody tell me how come them
boys at them houses in that kind o' style, and
in skenes like the present ? "
" We both went on business, pa."
" Bisuiness ! " and Mr. Kittrell opened his
eyes and his mouth.
" Yes, sir. Pa, I and Jodie have done
wrong ; that is, I have, — that is, me and Cal-
line, — and we overpersuaded Jodie and Sa-
rann, which they didn't want to do it, but we
overpersuaded 'em."
" Buck Kittr'l," said his father, " for ef my
'membuance an' my riculection ain't clean
gone, that were your name, or at leastways it
usened to be, what you mean by you and Cal-
line, and by Jodie and Sarann ? "
" I mean, pa, that I went to ask Mrs. Tem-
plin for Calline, and Jodie went to ask Mrs.
Peevy for Sarann."
Mr. Kittrell gazed fixedly at Buck for sev-
eral moments, then at Jodie, then at his wife.
Then looking up towards the ceiling, he
combed with his fingers his hair from the left
side of his head to the right, then from the
right to the left. Then lowering his head, he
seemed to be carefully endeavoring to make
an accurate parting in the middle. Then he
said in a mournful voice :
" Ef my fambly Bible don't tell no lies, and
she were the fambly Bible of my parrents that's
dead and goned, and she have never been
caught in nary one that I've ever knewed of
ner heerd of, I'm of sixty-eight year old the
tent o' March, and which I've freckwent heerd
my father and my mother also an' likewise
say it were the time o' the last plantin' o'
corn, and by good rights, if I live ontell the
next tent o' March, I shall be to my sixty-
nine ; and in my time I've saw of swappin',
and heerd of swappin', and done some of
swappin' myself. Buck Kittrell," he sud-
denly demanded fiercely, " is you a-foolin' o'
me ? and ef you ain't, when did you and
Jodie swap, and how come you to swap ?
The good a'mighty ! "
" We are not foolin' you now, pa, but we
have been. When we found that you made
the mistake of my bein' for Sarann, and Jodie
for Calline, as you sort o' fixed it in your
mind, I and Calline thought we'd play a lit-
tle joke on all of you, and we overpersuaded
Jodie and Sarann to jine in it. We didn't
mean to keep it up but a fortni't more, when
poor Miss Prissy, she come in yistiday and
spilet the joke by tellin' o' Missis Peevy that
Calline and me was engaged, when you know
you'd hinted to Missis Peevy that I wanted
Sarann, and poor Miss Prissy told her a whole
lot of stuff besides about the Templins, which
all hurt Missis Peevy's feelin's so much that
she give way to 'em, and is now sorry for it.
Miss Prissy, — you see how it is, pa, — she
spilet the joke."
" Yes, she'd spile a pan o' milk jes' from the
cow by lookin' at it, and, quicker'n vinegar,
turn it to clabber."
" I'm sorry for it all, pa," said Buck, hum-
bly, " and I beg your pardon ; but it's me
and not Jodie that's to blame for it ! "
" No, pa — no, sir," remonstrated Jodie. "If
Buck's to be blamed, I want my share. He
went in seein' the fun of it, and I went in not
seein' it. I think I'm even more to blame than
Buck. But, pa, I know you would ruther we'd
both marry them we love best."
Tears came pouring from the father's eyes.
" Jincy," he said, softly, " didn't you say wed-
din's was made in heb'n? I think you did,
and now I know it's so, an' I 'knowledge I
were mistakened to deny it."
He rose, walked to a corner of the room,
leaned his head against the wall, and wept for
several moments in his limitless joy. Then he
turned, beckoned them to come to him, and
sobbed first upon Buck's shoulder, then Jodie's,
then his wife's.
" Ef anybody," he said, when hehad strength •
to speak, " ef anybody'd a-told me to-day that
I'd of felt as good as I do now, and at the
present time, both afore and before of my
goin' to bed, I should of told 'em they was a
liar. Yes, yes — But hello thar! did them
wimming give thar consents, and thar permis-
sions, and thar "
" Oh, yes."
" The Lord of mighty ! what did they think
of me? — but let that all go. Yes, it wer' a
powerful good joke. Them's allays good
jokes, my boys, that eends well. 'Member that.
Allays let your jokes be them that's to eend
well. I don't blame Jodie and Sarann for not
seein' the fun, because they're young, and
bless old Jodie's heart for not of wantin' his
brother to have all the blame. It's like the
Kittr'lls has been from everulastin' and for-
evermore. And now, to-morrow morning
yearly — but, ef you'll believe me, Jincy, the
anexities I've been through this blessed day has
made me that sleepy that I got to go to bed."
He went straightway to his room, and five
minutes after they heard as hearty snoring as
the most affectionate of wives and children
THE MEDIATIONS OF MR. ARCHIE KITTRELL.
855
could have desired. Mrs, Kittrell gently
chided her sons, especially Buck, for the un-
timely jest. Buck was the more penitent be-
cause of the deep regret which Mrs. Peevy
felt for having brought the action against Mrs.
Templin. The fact was that neither of the
mothers, each restrained by natural delicacy
and self-respect, had inquired of her daughter
respecting her relations with the lads ; and
though both had possibly dreamed of alliance
with the Kittrells, they would have been
among the last so to admit, even to their own
daughters, until knowing that decisive move-
ments had been made by their suitors. Oh,
how Mrs. Peevy that night did wish that she had
never laid eyes upon Miss Priscilla Mattox I
" Your pa's the man to settle it, Jodie," she
had said to the latter that evening. " Tell him
to please see Squire Cofield, and see what the
damages is for stoppin' o' the case. I sha'n't
git no sleep, that is no healthy sleep, until it
are stopped ; and I do think I ought to pay
Polly Templin her thirty dollars, though
Prissy Mattix know I never used them words,
nor neither do I believe now that Polly Tem-
plin used hern."
VI.
Mr. Kittrell rose next morning, his
countenance exhibiting extreme satisfaction,
with brief intervals of vast indignation. When
a great man has become exasperated with
anger, it is not to be expected that he should
at once subside, even when what originated
it has been found to be without adequate
foundation, or the foundation has been re-
moved. If Mr. Kittrell had thought to em-
ploy a figure of speech about his own condi-
tion of mind that morning, it is not impossible
that he might have compared himself with the
lion who, while conscious of the full security
of the objects of his care, however young or
however frail, yet deems it not improper some-
times to go forth and roar in hearing of the
insignificant beasts that had dared to molest
their hitherto tranquil existence. So, before
saying another word to anybody, he ordered his
horse and urged the breakfast to be hurried.
" Pa," said Jodie, " Mrs. Peevy asked me
to tell you to please see Mr. Cofield for her."
Mr. Kittrell smiled compassionately, and
gave only answer :
" Like I weren't goin' to do that, and that
amejuant."
On arriving at Hello, and hitching his horse
at the rack, he walked with solemn firmness
to the court-room, a small unceiled and other-
wise airy house, situate on a corner of the
justice's lot.
" Do, Mr. Kittrell," said the magistrate and
his constable simultaneously. ^
" Do, your honor; do, Mr. Hutchins," an-
swered the comer in a voice that neither of
the officials remembered to have ever heard
from him before.
" My bisuiness here, your honor, may it
please the cote, is to fetch severial suits ; and
ef it's- the same to you, and you will be so kind
and so conduescendin' as to lend me your
pen, I would wish and desires to enter 'em
up myself, as some of 'em's dilicate cases, and
would wish and my desires 'd be that they're
dictatued right."
" Cert'nly," answered the squire with alac-
rity, handing him a pen. Knowing that Mr.
Kittrell had a good deal of money out, he at-
tributed his manner to his well-known aver-
sion to press any of his debtors. So, as Mr.
Kittrell, deeply sighing, began to write, he
thought he would offer a word of consolation.
" People, Mr. Kittrell, has to know that
people they owes money to has to sue some-
times ; and them that has it to do, hate it as
they mout, ought to try to git riconciled to it."
Mr. Kittrell looked up at the squire sol-
emnly for a moment, then continued to write,
and write, and write.
" Monstous good man," whispered Mr.
Hutchins ; " wonder he don't call us Jim and
Joe, jes' dry so, like he allays do."
At length Mr. Kittrell rose, and, thank-
ing his honor and Mr. Hutchins for their
kindness, walked slowly to his horse, and,
preparatory to mounting, looked at the stir-
rup-leathers, throat-latch, and martingale. In
this while the officials were reading over the
entries, holding the docket alternately close
to their eyes and at arm's length, until, at last,
they dropped it upon the table and looked at
each other with dismay. There were suits of
Archibald Kittrell against Turkey Creek and
William's Creek for " breakin' inter his bot-
tom corn-fields corntrary to law." One was
the State of Georgia " against warous persons,
o' warous sections not yit quite found out
who they is and air, for tattlin' and raisin'
fusses betwixt warous females and widders, in
warous neighborhoods in the county and State
aforesaid." Then there were an action and
cross-action between Turkey and William's
Creeks each against other for " crossing one
'nother's banks onbenownst an' onlawful."
The list wound up with
The State of Geomia\ T,- ,, , . «
to ) J mtly and sevenally
T • 1 n £ u f°r misdemeniors
Josiah Cofield
and
James Hutchins.
of warous
kind.
"Mister Kittr'l," said the squire, rushing
out as the former had just mounted his horse,
8S6
THE MEDIATIONS OE MR. ARCHIE KITTRELL.
" I don't understand them cases, and special
them that's ag'in them two creeks and ag'in
me and Jim."
" Why, w'at the matter 'ith the creeks, Joe
Cofield ? "
" I don't see," said Joe, in candid remon-
strance, " how we're to send summonses to
them peop — to them — creeters."
" Didn't you send one to that stray stump-tail
yearlin' what broke in Bias Buggamy's field ? "
" Yes, sir, but Bias 'knowledge service."
" Well, sir," answered Mr. Kittrell, growing
louder and more loud, " can't I, or can't Mis-
suis Peevy, or can't Missuis Templing 'knowl-
edge service for them creeks, as we all three
of us is linded and bounded by 'em ? And as
for the case ag'in you and Jim Hutchins, I
supposuing that the State o' Georgy ought to
know how to take keer o' her cases, both them
everywhar else and them at the present bare."
Then, lifting high his arm, and standing
heavily upon the stirrups, Mr. Kittrell roared
in a way that — well, both his auditors de-
clared upon honor afterwards that " if anybody
had of told them that the ole man Kittr'l
could of got mad as he were then, they should
have been obleeged to call 'em a liar."
" I got no time" said Mr. Kittrell, foaming
at the mouth, " to tarry along o' you and
Jim Hutchins about the p'ints o' law in your
little ole cote o' suin' o' creeks and stump-tail
yearlin's. They can be 'tended to on sossorarers
to the s'perior cote. You two men, both o'
you, knows that ef I'm a man of not many
words as some, I allays means 'em when I
says 'em; and sence this Hello deestric' is
open, 'pears like, for all kind o' suin', man an'
beast, maled an' femaled, widders an' wid-
ders,-— mark what I say, widders an'' widders, —
I ain't goin' to stop tell I find out who started
this bisuiness,not ef I has to sue thenuniversual
world. And as for your witnesses — but go 'long,
Selom. If I stay here, I mout git to cussin'. Go
on, Selom, and less leave this awful place."
Selim dashed off in a canter, as if eager,
equally with his master, to turn his back upon
the scene.
" The fact of the whole bisuiness were,"
said the old man, in telling it, "I were that
mad that I daresn't begin on Joe Cofield and
Jim Hutchins ontell I got on top o' Selom
ready to leave 'em. For I didn't want to
skeer the po' creeters out'n thar very hides ;
but even the gentuil cautions I let out on 'em
come a-nigh of doin' of it, an', as I knewed it
would, scattered thar perseduances to the four
cornders of the yearth."
Jim Hutchins used to give a brief account of
his first actions after Mr. KittrelPs departure.
" Joe said I better go amejiant to Jim
Lazenberry's and see ole Miss Priss. I found
her in the weavin'-room, and she hilt her
shickle ready to put her through the warp. I
told her how Missis Peevy have sued Missis
Templing, and how she have sued back on to
Missis Peevy, and both a-countin' on her for
everdence. That made her turn pale. Then
I up, I did, and told her of the ole man Kit-
tr'll a-fetchin suit ag'in me and Joe, and ag'in
both the creeks, and them ag'in one 'nother,
and the way he talk, I were a-spectin' he'd
begin soon on the two meetin'-houses; and,
the fact were, they warn't no tellin' whar the
ole man would stop, he were that mad about
Missis Templing and Missis Peevy of bein'
of onuseless put ag'in one 'nother by on-
known people ; and I wouldn't be 'sprised ef
he didn't stop ontell he had fotch suit ag'in
every man, 'oman, and child, black and white,
in the neighborhood, and the 'Geeche River
to boot. The ole lady dropped her shickle,
slid off the loom-bench, gethered her things in
a hankercher, and scooted. Whar she halted
and put up at I never knowed."
If Mr. Kittrell became a little " disguised "
at the infair, from apple-jack, as he rather ad-
mitted afterwards, it was the first and only
time in his married life, and was due to a fond
intention to set his boys, at the outset of their
adult careers, an example of " giving and tak-
ing," by imbibing toddy out of what he named
Buck's bar'l (that had been distilled at the
latter's birth), to Buck and Calline, and another
to Jodie and Sarann, and afterwards revers-
ing from Jodie's bar'l. " I were arfter settm*
a egzampuil, an' the mixin' o' defernt sperrits,
I'm afeard, made me kyar the thing a leetle
too fur." He ever was fond to speak at length
of the profound wisdom evinced by himself
in the reconciliation of the Templins and
Peevys, and its just reward, the obtainment
of Calline and Sarann for his daughters-in-law.
" Hadn't been for me, them wimming ud
of been cats-an'-dogs now an' forevermore ;
and, as for Calline and Sarann, they'd a-been
scattered to Dan and Basherby."
Calline having made a Baptist of Buck, and
Sarann a Methodist of Jodie, Mr. Kittrell
knew that it would never do to ruin, or
at least discourage and perhaps demoralize,
Big Spring or William's Creek, by throwing
the weight of his mighty influence upon its
rival ; so he continued to maintain with calm
firmness the balance of power.
" Yes, yes, yes," he would often say blandly,,
yet with decision — " oh, yes. It's your Bab-
tuis, and your Methudis, and it's your sprink-
uling, and your pedestruinashing, and it's all
right; but my moto is — you all will 'mem-
ber them words, and not forgit 'em — my
moto is — egzampuil."
Richard Malcolm Johnston.
IN APRIL.
What did the sparrow do yesterday ?
Nobody knew but the sparrows;
He were too bold who should try to say;
They have forgotten it all to-day.
Why does it haunt my thoughts this way,
With a joy that piques and harrows,
As the birds fly past,
And the chimes ring fast,
And the long spring shadows sweet shadow cast ?
There's a maple-bud redder to-day;
It will almost flower to-morrow;
I could swear 'twas only yesterday,
In a sheath of snow and ice it lay,
With fierce winds blowing it every way;
Whose surety had it to borrow,
Till birds should fly past,
And chimes ring fast,
And the long spring shadows sweet shadow cast!
" Was there ever a day like to-day,
So clear, so shining, so tender ? "
The old cry out; and the children say,
With a laugh, aside : " That's always the way,
With the old, in spring; as long as they stay,
They find in it greater splendor,
When the birds fly past,
And the chimes ring fast,
And the long spring shadows sweet shadow cast ! '
Then that may be why my thoughts all day —
I see I am old, by the token —
Are so haunted by sounds, now sad, now gay,
Of the words I hear the sparrows say,
And the maple-bud's mysterious way
By which from its sheath it has broken,
While the birds fly past,
And the chimes ring fast,
And the long spring shadows sweet shadow cast !
Helen Jackson.
THE RISE OF SILAS LAPHAM/
BY W. D. HOWELLS,
Author of " Venetian Life," "A Chance Acquaintance," "A Modern Instance," "A Woman's Reason," etc.
XIII.
Having distinctly given up the project of
asking the Laphams to dinner, Mrs. Corey
was able to carry it out with the courage of
sinners who have sacrificed to virtue by
frankly acknowledging its superiority to their
intended transgression. She did not question
but the Laphams would come ; and she only
doubted as to the people whom she should
invite to meet them. She opened the matter
with some trepidation to her daughters, but
neither of them opposed her; they rather
looked at the scheme from her own point of
view, and agreed with her that nothing had
really yet been done to wipe out the obliga-
tion to the Laphams helplessly contracted the
summer before, and strengthened by that ill-
advised application to Mrs. Lapham for
charity. Not only the principal of their debt
of gratitude remained, but the accruing inter-
est. They said, What harm could giving the
dinner possibly do them ? They might ask
any or all of their acquaintance without dis-
advantage to themselves ; but it would be
perfectly easy to give the dinner just the char-
acter they chose, and still flatter the igno-
rance of the Laphams. The trouble would be
with Tom* if he were really interested in the
girl ; but he could not say anything if they
made it a family dinner ; he could not feel
anything. They had each turned in her own
mind, as it appeared from a comparison of
ideas, to one of the most comprehensive of
those cousinships which form the admiration
and terror of the adventurer in Boston society.
He finds himself hemmed in and left out at
every turn by ramifications that forbid him all
hope of safe personality in his comments on
people ; he is never less secure than when he
hears some given Bostonian denouncing or
ridiculing another. If he will be advised, he
will guard himself from concurring in these
criticisms, however just they appear, for the
probability is that their object is a cousin of
not more than one remove from the censor.
When the alien hears a group of Boston ladies
calling one another, and speaking of all their
gentlemen friends, by the familiar abbrevia-
tions of their Christian names, he must feel
keenly the exile to which he was born ; but he
is then, at least, in comparatively little dan-
ger; while these latent and tacit cousinships
open pitfalls at every step around him, in a
society where Middlesexes have married Es-
sexes and produced Suffolks for two hundred
and fifty years.
These conditions, however, so perilous to
the foreigner, are a source of strength and se-
curity to those native to them. An uncertain
acquaintance may be so effectually involved
in the meshes of such a cousinship, as never to
be heard of outside of it; and tremendous
stories are told of people who have spent a
whole winter in Boston, in a whirl of gayety,
and who, the original guests of the Suffolks,
discover upon reflection that they have met
no one but Essexes and Middlesexes.
Mrs. Corey's brother James came first into
her mind, and she thought with uncommon
toleration of the easy-going, uncritical good-
nature of his wife. James Bellingham had
been the adviser of her son throughout, and
might be said to have actively promoted his
connection with Lapham. She thought next
of the widow of her cousin, Henry Belling-
ham, who had let her daughter marry that
Western steamboat man, and was fond of
her son-in-law ; she might be expected at
least to endure the paint-king and his family.
The daughters insisted so strongly upon Mrs.
Bellingham's son, Charles, that Mrs. Corey
put him down — if he were in town ; he might
be in Central America; he got on with all
sorts of people. It seemed to her that she
might stop at this : four Laphams, five Coreys,
and four Bellinghams were enough.
" That makes thirteen," said Nanny. " You
can have Mr. and Mrs. Sewell."
" Yes, that is a good idea," assented Mrs.
Corey. " He is our minister, and it is very
proper."
" I don't see why you don't have Robert
Chase. It is a pity he shouldn't see her — for
the color."
" I don't quite like the idea of that," said
Mrs. Corey ; " but we can have him too, if it
won't make too many." The painter had mar-
ried into a poorer branch of the Coreys, and
his wife was dead. " Is there any one else ? "
Copyright, 1884, by W. D. Howells. All rights reserved.
THE RISE OF SILAS LAPHAM.
*59
" There is Miss Kingsbury."
" We have had her so much. She will be-
gin to think we are using her."
" She won't mind ; she's so good-natured."
" Well, then," the mother summed up, " there
are four Laphams, five Coreys, four Belling-
hams, one Chase, and one Kingsbury — fif-
teen. Oh ! and two Sewells. Seventeen. Ten
ladies and seven gentlemen. It doesn't bal-
ance very well, and it's too large."
" Perhaps some of the ladies won't come,"
suggested Lily.
"Oh, the ladies always come," said Nanny.
Their mother reflected. " Well, I will ask
them. The ladies will refuse in time to let us
pick up some gentlemen somewhere; some
more artists. Why ! we must have Mr. Sey-
mour, the architect ; he's a bachelor, and he's
building their house, Tom says."
Her voice fell a little when she mentioned
her son's name, and she told him of her plan,
when he came home in the evening, with evi-
dent misgiving.
" What are you doing it for, mother ? " he
asked, looking at her with his honest eyes.
She dropped her own in a little confusion.
" I won't do it at all, my dear," she said, " if
you don't approve. But I thought You
know we have never made any proper ac-
knowledgment of their kindness to us at Baie
St. Paul. Then in the winter, I'm ashamed to
say, I got money from her for a charity I was
interested in ; and I hate the idea of merely
using people in that way. And now your
having been at their house this summer — we
can't seem to disapprove of that ; and your
business relations to him "
" Yes, I see," said Corey. " Do you think
it amounts to a dinner ? "
" Why, I don't know," returned his mother.
" We shall have hardly any one out of .our
family connection."
" Well," Corey assented, " it might do. I
suppose what you wish is to give them a
pleasure."
" Why, certainly. Don't you think they'd
like to come ? "
" Oh, they'd like to come ; but whether it
would be a pleasure after they were here is
another thing. I should have said that if you
wanted to have them, they would enjoy bet-
ter being simply asked to meet our own im-
mediate family."
" That's what I thought of in the first
place, but your father seemed to think it im-
plied a social distrust of them ; and we couldn't
afford to have that appearance, even to our-
selves."
" Perhaps he was right."
" And besides, it might seem a little signifi-
cant."
Corey seemed inattentive to this considera-
tion. " Whom did you think of asking ? "
His mother repeated the names. " Yes, that
would do," he said, with a vague dissatisfac-
tion.
" I won't have it at all, if you don't wish,
Tom."
" Oh, yes, have it; perhaps you ought.
Yes, I dare say it's right. What did you mean
by a family dinner seeming significant ? "
His mother hesitated. When it came to
that, she did not like to recognize in his pres-
ence the anxieties that had troubled her.
But " I don't know," she said, since she must.
" I shouldn't want to give that young girl, or
her mother, the idea that we wished to make
more of the acquaintance than — than you
did, Tom."
He looked at her absent-mindedly, as if he
did not take her meaning. But he said, " Oh,
yes, of course," and Mrs. Corey, in the un-
certainty in which she seemed destined to re-
main concerning this affair, went off and
wrote her invitation to Mrs. Lapham. Later
in the evening, when they again found them-
selves alone, her son said, " I don't think I
understood you, mother, in regard to the
Laphams. I think I do now. I certainly
don't wish you to make more of the acquaint-
ance than I have done. It wouldn't be right ;
it might be very unfortunate. Don't give the
dinner ! "
" It's too late now, my son," said Mrs.
Corey. " I sent my note to Mrs. Lapham an
hour ago." Her courage rose at the trouble
which showed in Corey's face. " But don't be
annoyed by it, Tom. It isn't a family dinner,
you know, and everything can be managed
without embarrassment. If we take up the
affair at this point, you will seem to have been
merely acting for us ; and they can't possibly
understand anything more."
" Well, well ! Let it go ! I dare say it's all
right. At any rate, it can't be helped now."
" I don't wish to help it, Tom," said Mrs.
Corey, with a cheerfulness which the thought
of the Laphams had never brought her before.
" I am sure it is quite fit and proper, and we
can make them have a very pleasant time.
They are good, inoffensive people, and wTe
owe it to ourselves not to be afraid to show
that we have felt their kindness to us, and his
appreciation of you."
" Well," consented Corey. The trouble that
his mother had suddenly cast off was in his
tone ; but she was not sorry. It was quite
time that he should think seriously of his atti-
tude toward these people if he had not thought
of it before, but, according to his father's
theory, had been merely dangling.
It was a view of her son's character that
86o
THE RISE OF SILAS LAPHAM.
could hardly have pleased her in different cir-
cumstances ; yet it was now unquestionably a
consolation if not wholly a pleasure. If she
considered the Laphams at all, it was with the
resignation which we feel at the evils of others,
even when they have not brought them on
themselves.
Mrs. Lapham, for her part, had spent the
hours between Mrs. Corey's visit and her hus-
band's coming home from business in reach-
ing the same conclusion with regard to Corey ;
and her spirits were at the lowest when they
sat down to supper. Irene was downcast with
her ; Penelope was purposely gay ; and the
Colonel was beginning, after his first plate of
the boiled ham, — which, bristling with cloves,
rounded its bulk on a wide platter before him,
— to take note of the surrounding mood, when
the door-bell jingled peremptorily, and the
girl left waiting on the table to go and answer
it. She returned at once with a note for Mrs.
Lapham, which she read, and then, after a
helpless survey of her family, read again.
" Why, what is it, mamma ?" asked Irene;
while the Colonel, who had taken up his
carving-knife for another attack on the ham,
held it drawn half across it.
" Why, I don't know what it does mean,"
answered Mrs. Lapham tremulously, and she
let the girl take the note from her.
Irene ran it over, and then turned to the
name at the end with a joyful cry and a flush
that burned to the top of her forehead. Then
she began to read it once more.
The Colonel dropped his knife and frowned
impatiently, and Mrs. Lapham said, " You
read it out loud, if you know what to make
of it, Irene." But Irene, with a nervous
scream of protest, handed it to her father,
who performed the office.
" Dear Mrs. Lapham :
" Will you and General Lapham "
" I didn't know I was a general," grumbled
Lapham. " I guess I shall have to be look-
ing up my back pay. Who is it writes this,
anyway ? " he asked, turning the letter over
for the signature.
" Oh, never mind. Read it through ! " cried
his wife, with a kindling glance of triumph at
Penelope, and he resumed :
" — and your daughters give us the pleasure
of your company at dinner on Thursday, the
28th, at half-past six.
" Yours sincerely,
"Anna B. Corey."
The brief invitation had been spread over
two pages, and the Colonel had difficulties
with the signature which he did not instantly
surmount. When he had made out the name
and pronounced it, he looked across at his
wife for an explanation.
" / don't know what it all means," she
said, shaking her head and speaking with a
pleased flutter. " She was here this afternoon,
and I should have said she had come to see
how bad she could make us feel. I declare,
I never felt so put down in my life by any-
body."
" Why, what did she do ? What did she
say ? " Lapham was ready, in his dense pride,
to resent any affront to his blood, but doubt-
ful, with the evidence of this invitation to the
contrary, if any affront had been offered.
Mrs. Lapham tried to tell him, but there was
really nothing tangible ; and when she came
to put it into words, she could not make out
a case. Her husband listened to her excited
attempt, and then he said, with judicial su-
periority, " I guess nobody's been trying to
make you feel bad, Persis. What would she
go right home and invite you to dinner for,
if she'd acted the way you say ? "
In this view it did seem improbable, and
Mrs. Lapham was shaken. She could only
say, " Penelope felt just the way I did about
it."
Lapham looked at the girl, who said, " Oh,
I can't prove it ! I begin to think it never
happened. I guess it didn't."
" Humph ! " said her father, and he sat
frowning thoughtfully awhile — ignoring her
mocking irony, or choosing to take her
seriously. " You can't really put your finger
on anything," he said to his wife, " and it
ain't likely there is anything. Anyway, she's
done the proper thing by you now."
Mrs. Lapham faltered between her linger-
ing resentment and the appeals of her flattered
vanity. She looked from Penelope's impassive
face to the eager eyes of Irene. " Well —
just as you say, Silas. I don't know as she was
so very bad. I guess may be she was embar-
rassed some "
" That's what I told you, mamma, from the
start," interrupted Irene. " Didn't I tell you"
she didn't mean anything by it ? It's just
the way she acted at Baie St. Paul, when she
got well enough to realize what you'd done
for her! "
Penelope broke into a laugh. " Is that her
way of showing her gratitude ? I'm sorry I
didn't understand that before."
Irene made no effort to reply. She merely
looked from her mother to her father with a
grieved face for their protection, and Lapham
said, " When we've done supper, you answer
her, Persis. Say we'll come."
" With one exception," said Penelope.
" What do you mean ? " demanded her
father, with a mouth full of ham.
" Oh, nothing of importance. Merely that
I'm not going."
THE RISE OF SILAS LAPHAM.
861
Lapham gave himself time to swallow his
morsel, and his rising wrath went down with
it. " I guess you'll change your mind when
the time comes," he said. " Anyway, Persis,
you say we'll all come, and then, if Penelope
don't want to go, you can excuse her after
we get there. That's the best way."
None of them, apparently, saw any reason
why the affair should not be left in this way,
or had a sense of the awful and binding na-
ture of a dinner-engagement. If she believed
that Penelope would not finally change her
mind and go, no doubt Mrs. Lapham thought
that Mrs. Corey would easily excuse her ab-
sence. She did not find it so simple a matter
to accept the invitation. Mrs. Corey had said
I Dear Mrs. Lapham," but Mrs. Lapham had
her doubts whether it would not be a servile
imitation to say " Dear Mrs. Corey " in re-
turn ; and she was tormented as to the proper
phrasing throughout and the precise tempera-
ture which she should impart to her polite-
ness. She wrote an unpracticed, uncharacter-
istic round hand, the same in which she used
to set the children's copies at school, and she
subscribed herself, after some hesitation be-
tween her husband's given name and her own,
t Yours truly, Mrs. S. Lapham."
Penelope had gone to her room, without
waiting to be asked to advise or criticise ; but
Irene had decided upon the paper, and, on
the whole, Mrs. Lapham's note made a very
decent appearance on the page. .
When the furnace-man came, the Colonel
sent him out to post it in the box at the corner
of the square. He had determined not to say
anything more about the matter before the
girls, not choosing to let them see that he
was elated ; he tried to give the effect of its
being an every-day sort of thing, abruptly
closing the discussion with his order to Mrs.
Lapham to accept ; but he had remained
swelling behind his newspaper during her pro-
longed struggle with her note, and he could
no longer hide his elation when Irene fol-
lowed her sister upstairs.
" Well, Pers," he demanded, " what do you
say now ? "
Mrs. Lapham had been sobered into some-
thing of her former misgiving by her diffi-
culties with her note. " Well, I don't know
what to say. I declare, I'm all mixed up
about it, and I don't know as we've begun as
we can carry out in promising to go. I pre-
sume," she sighed, " that we can #//send some
excuse at the last moment, if we don't want to
go."
" I guess we can carry out, and I guess we
sha'n't want to send any excuse," bragged the
Colonel. " If we're ever going to be anybody
at all, we've got to go and see how it's done.
Vol. XXIX.— 89.
I presume we've got to give some sort of party
when we get into the new house, and this
gives the chance to ask 'em back again. You
can't complain now but what they've made
the advances, Persis ? "
" No," said Mrs. Lapham, lifelessly ; " I
wonder why they wanted to do it. Oh, I
suppose it's all right," she added in depreca-
tion of the anger with her humility which she
saw rising in her husband's face ; " but if it's
all going to be as much trouble as that letter,
I'd rather be whipped. / don't know what
I'm going to wear ; or the girls, either. I do
wonder — I've heard that people go to dinner
in low-necks. Do you suppose it's the cus-
tom ? "
" How should / know ? " demanded the
Colonel. " I guess you've got clothes enough.
Any rate, you needn't fret about it. You just
go round to White's, or Jordan & Marsh's,
and ask for a dinner dress. I guess that'll
settle it ; they'll know. Get some of them im-
ported dresses. I see 'em in the window every
time I pass ; lots of 'em."
" Oh, it ain't the dress ! " said Mrs. Lap-
ham. " I don't suppose but what we could
get along with that ; and I want to do the
best we can for the children ; but / don't
know what we're going to talk about to those
people when we get there. We haven't got
anything in common with them. Oh, I don't
say they're any better," she again made haste
to say in arrest of her husband's resentment.
" I don't believe they are ; and I don't see
why they should be. And there ain't anybody-
has got a better right to hold up their head
than you have, Silas. You've got plenty of
money, and you've made every cent of it."
" I guess I shouldn't amounted to much
without you, Persis," interposed Lapham,
moved to this justice by her praise.
" Oh, don't talk about me I " protested the
wife. " Now that you've made it all right
about Rogers, there ain't a thing in this world
against you. But still, for all that, I can see
— and I can feel it when I can't see it — that
we're different from those people. They're
well-meaning enough, and they'd excuse it, I
presume, but we're too old to learn to be like
them."
" The children ain't," said Lapham,
shrewdly.
" No, the children ain't," admitted his wife,
" and that's the only thing that reconciles
me to it."
" You see how pleased Irene looked when
I read it ? "
" Yes, she was pleased."
" And I guess Penelope'll think better of it
before the time comes."
" Oh, yes, we do it for them. But whether
862
THE RISE OF SILAS LAPHAM.
we're doing the best thing for 'em, goodness
knows. I'm not saying anything against him.
Irene'll be a lucky girl to get him, if she wants
him. But there ! I'd ten times rather she was
going to marry such a fellow as you were, Si,
that had to make every inch of his own way,
and she had to help him. It's in her ! "
Lapham laughed aloud for pleasure in his
wife's fondness ; but neither of them wished
that he should respond directly to it. " I
guess, if it wa'n't for me, he wouldn't have a
much easier time. But don't you fret ! It's
all coming out right. That dinner ain't a
thing for you to be uneasy about. It'll pass
off perfectly easy and natural."
Lapham did not keep his courageous mind
quite to the end of the week that followed.
It was his theory not to let Corey see that he
was set up about the invitation, and when the
young man said politely that his mother was
glad they were able to come, Lapham was
very short with him. He said yes, he believed
that Mrs. Lapham and the girls were going.
Afterward he was afraid Corey might not un-
derstand that he was coming too ; but he did
not know how to approach the subject again,
and Corey did not, so he let it pass. It wor-
ried him to see all the preparation that his
wife and Irene were making, and he tried to
laugh at them for it ; and it worried him to
find that Penelope was making no prepara-
tion at all for herself, but only helping the
others. He asked her what should she do if
she changed her mind at the last moment and
concluded to go, and she said she guessed she
should not change her mind, but if she did,
she would go to White's with him and get
him to choose her an imported dress, he
seemed to like them so much. He was too
proud to mention the subject again to her.
Finally, all that dress-making in the house
began to scare him with vague apprehensions
in regard to his own dress. As soon as he had
determined to go, an ideal of the figure in
which he should go presented itself to his
mind. He should not wear any dress-coat,
because, for one thing, he considered that a
man looked like a fool in a dress-coat, and,
for another thing, he had none — had none on
principle. He would go in a frock-coat and
black pantaloons, and perhaps a white waist-
coat, but a black cravat, anyway. But as soon
as he developed this ideal to his family, which
he did in pompous disdain of their anxieties
about their own dress, they said he should
not go so. Irene reminded him that he was
the only person without a dress-coat at a
corps-reunion dinner which he had taken her
to some years before, and she remembered
feeling awfully about it at the time. Mrs.
Lapham, who would perhaps have agreed of
herself, shook her head with misgiving. " I
don't see but what you'll have to get you one,
Si," she said. " I don't believe they ever go
without 'em to a private house."
He held out openly, but on his way
home the next day, in a sudden panic, he
cast anchor before his tailor's door and got
measured for a dress-coat. After that he be-
gan to be afflicted about his waistcoat, con-
cerning which he had hitherto been airily
indifferent. He tried to get opinion out of his
family, but they were not so clear about it as
they were about the frock. It ended in their
buying a book of etiquette, which settled
the question adversely to a white waistcoat.
The author, however, after being very explicit
in telling them not to eat with their knives, and
above all not to pick their teeth with their
forks, — a thing which he said no lady or gen-
tleman ever did, — was still far from decided as
to the kind of cravat Colonel Lapham ought
to wear : shaken on other points, Lapham had
begun to waver also concerning the black
cravat. As to the question of gloves for the
Colonel, which suddenly flashed upon him
one evening, it appeared never to have en-
tered the thoughts of the etiquette man, as
Lapham called him. Other authors on the
same subject were equally silent, and Irene
could only remember having heard, in some
vague sort of way, that gentlemen did not
wear gloves so much any more.
Drops of perspiration gathered on Lap-
ham's forehead in the anxiety of the debate ;
he groaned, and he swore a little in the com-
promise profanity which he used.
" I declare," said Penelope, where she sat
purblindly sewing on a bit of dress for Irene,
"the Colonel's clothes are as much trouble as
anybody's. Why don't you go to Jordan &
Marsh's and order one of the imported dresses
for yourself, father ? " That gave them all the
relief of a laugh over it, the Colonel joining
in piteously.
He had an awful longing to find out from
Corey how he ought to go. He formulated
and repeated over to himself an apparently
careless question, such as, " Oh, by the way,
Corey, where do you get your gloves ? " This
would naturally lead to some talk on the sub-
ject, which would, if properly managed, clear
up the whole trouble. But Lapham found
that he would rather die than ask this ques-
tion, or any question that would bring up the
dinner again. Corey did not recur to it, and
Lapham avoided the matter with positive
fierceness. He shunned talking with Corey
at all, and suffered in grim silence.
One night, before they fell asleep, his wife
said to him, " I was reading in one of those
books to-day, and I don't believe but what
THE RISE OF SILAS LAPHAM.
863
we've made a mistake if Pen holds out that
she won't go."
" Why ? " demanded Lapham, in the dis-
may which beset him at every fresh recur-
rence to the subject.
" The book says that it's very impolite not
to answer a dinner invitation promptly. Well,
we've done that all right, — at first I didn't
know but what we had been a little too quick,
may be, — but then it says if you're not going,
that it's the height of rudeness not to let them
know at once, so that they can fill your place
at the table."
The Colonel was silent for a while. " Well,
I'm dumned," he said finally, " if there seems
to be any end to this thing. If it was to do
over again, I'd say no for all of us."
" I've wished a hundred times they hadn't
asked us ; but it's too late to think about that
now. The question is, what are we going to
do about Penelope ? "
" Oh, I guess she'll go, at the last moment."
" She says she won't. She took a prejudice
against Mrs. Corey that day, and she can't
seem to get over it."
" Well, then, hadn't you better write in the
morning, as soon as you're up, that she ain't
coming ? "
Mrs.Lapham sighed helplessly. " I shouldn't
know how to get it in. It's so late now ; I
don't see how I could have the face."
" Well, then, she's got to go, that's all."
" She's set she won't."
" And I'm set she shall," said Lapham, with
the loud obstinacy of a man whose women al-
ways have their way.
Mrs. Lapham was not supported by the
sturdiness of his proclamation.
But she did not know how to do what she
knew she ought to do about Penelope, and
she let matters drift. After all, the chilckhad
a right to stay at home if she did not wish to
go. That was what Mrs. Lapham felt, and
what she said to her husband next morning,
bidding him let Penelope alone, unless she
chose herself to go. She said it was too late
now to do anything, and she must make the
best excuse she could when she saw Mrs.
Corey. She began to wish that Irene and her
father would go and excuse her too. She
could not help saying this, and then she and
Lapham had some unpleasant words.
" Look here ! " he cried. " Who wanted to
go in for these people in the first place?
Didn't you come home full of 'em last year,
and want me to sell out here and move some-
wheres else because it didn't seem to suit 'em ?
And now you want to put it all on me ! I
ain't going to stand it."
" Hush ! " said his wife. " Do you want to
raise the house ? I didrft put it on you, as you
say. You took it on yourself. Ever since that
fellow happened to come into the new house
that day, you've been perfectly crazy to get in
with them. And now you're so afraid you
shall do something wrong before 'em, you
don't hardly dare to say your life's your own.
I declare, if you pester me any more about
those gloves, Silas Lapham, I won't go."
" Do you suppose I want to go on my own
account ? " he demanded furiously.
" No," she admitted. " Of course I don't.
I know very well that you're doing it for
Irene ; but, for goodness gracious sake, don't
worry our lives out, and make yourself a per-
fect laughing-stock before the children."
With this modified concession from her,
the quarrel closed in sullen silence on Lap-
ham's part. It was the night before the din-
ner, and the question of his gloves was still
unsettled, and in a fair way to remain so. He
had bought a pair, so as to be on the safe side,
perspiring in company with the young lady
who sold them, and who helped him trytthem
on at the shop ; his nails were still full of
the powder which she had plentifully pep-
pered into them in order to overcome the re-
sistance of his blunt fingers. But he was un-
certain whether he should wear them. They
had found a book at last that said the ladies
removed their gloves on sitting down at table,
but it said nothing about gentlemen's gloves.
He left his wife where she stood half hook-
and-eyed at her glass in her new dress, and
went down to his own den beyond the parlor.
Before he shut his door he caught a glimpse of
Irene trailing up and down before the long
mirror in her new dress, followed by the seam-
stress on her knees ; the woman had her mouth
full of pins, and from time to time she made
Irene stop till she could put one of the pins
into her train ; Penelope sat in a corner
criticising and counseling. It made Lapham
sick, and he despised himself and all his brood
for the trouble they were taking. But another
glance gave him a sight of the young girl's
face in the mirror, beautiful and radiant with
happiness ; and his heart melted again with
paternal tenderness and pride. It was going
to be a great pleasure to Irene, and Lapham
felt that she was bound to cut out anything
there. He was vexed with Penelope that she
was not going, too ; he would have liked to
have those people hear her talk. He held his
door a little open, and listened to the things she
was " getting off" there to Irene. He showed
that he felt really hurt and disappointed about
Penelope, and the girl's mother made her con-
sole him the next evening before they all
drove away without her. " You try to look
on the bright side of it, father. I guess you'll
see that it's best I didn't go when you get
864
THE RISE OF SILAS LAPHAM.
there. Irene needn't open her lips, and they
can all see how pretty she is ; but they
wouldn't know how smart I was unless I
talked, and may be then they wouldn't."
This thrust at her father's simple vanity in
her made him laugh ; and then they drove
away, and Penelope shut the door, and went
upstairs with her lips firmly shutting in a sob.
XIV.
The Coreys were one of the few old fami-
lies who lingered in Bellingham Place, the
handsome, quiet old street which the sympa-
thetic observer must grieve to see abandoned
to boarding-houses. The dwellings are stately
and tall, and the whole place wears an air of
aristocratic seclusion,which Mrs. Corey's father
might well have thought assured when he left
her his house there at his death. It is one of two
evidently designed by the same architect who
built some houses in a characteristic taste on
Beacon street opposite the Common. It has
a wooden portico, with slender fluted columns,
which have always been painted white, and
which, with the delicate moldings of the
cornice, form the sole and sufficient decora-
tion of the street front ; nothing could be sim-
pler, and nothing could be better. Within, the
architect has again indulged his preference for
the classic ; the roof of the vestibule, wide and
low, rests on marble columns, slim and fluted
like the wooden columns without, and an am-
ple staircase climbs in a graceful, easy curve
from the tessellated pavement. Some carved
Venetian scrigni stretched along the wall; a
rug lay at the foot of the stairs ; but otherwise
the simple adequacy of the architectural inten-
tion had been respected, and the place looked
bare to the eyes of the Laphams when they
entered. The Coreys had once kept a man,
but when young Corey began his retrench-
ments the man had yielded to the neat maid
who showed the Colonel into the reception-
room and asked the ladies to walk up two
flights.
He had his charges from Irene not to enter
the drawing-room without her mother, and
he spent five minutes in getting on his gloves,
for he had desperately resolved to wear them
at last. When he had them on, and let his
large fists hang down on either side, they
looked, in the saffron tint which the shop-girl
said his gloves should be of, like canvased
hams. He perspired with doubt as he climbed
the stairs, and while he waited on the landing
for Mrs. Lapham and Irene to come down
from above, before going into the drawing-
room, he stood staring at his hands, now
open and now shut, and breathing hard.
He heard quiet talking beyond the portiere
within, and presently Tom Corey came out.
" Ah, Colonel Lapham ! Very glad to see
you."
Lapham shook hands with him and gasped,
" Waiting for Mis' Lapham," to account for
his presence. He had not been able to but-
ton his right glove, and he now began, with
as much indifference as he could assume, to
pull them both off, for he saw that Corey
wore none. By the time he had stuffed them
into the pocket of his coat-skirt his wife and
daughter descended.
Corey welcomed them very cordially too,
but looked a little mystified. Mrs. Lapham
knew that he was silently inquiring for Penel-
ope, and she did not know whether she ought
to excuse her to him first or not. She said
nothing, and after a glance toward the regions
where Penelope might conjecturably be lin-
gering, he held aside the portiere for the
Laphams to pass, and entered the room with
them.
Mrs. Lapham had decided against low-
necks on her own responsibility, and had in-
trenched herself in the safety of a black silk,
in which she looked very handsome. Irene
wore a dress of one of those shades which
only a woman or an artist can decide to be
green or blue, and which to other eyes looks
both or neither, according to their degrees of
ignorance. If it was more like a ball dress
than a dinner dress, that might be excused to
the exquisite effect. She trailed, a delicate
splendor, across the carpet in her mother's
somber wake, and the consciousness of suc-
cess brought a vivid smile to her face. Lap-
ham, pallid with anxiety lest he should some-
how disgrace himself, giving thanks to God
that he should have been spared the shame
of wearing gloves where no one else did, but
at the same time despairing that Corey should
have seen him in them, had an unwonted as-
pect of almost pathetic refinement.
Mrs. Corey exchanged a quick glance 01
surprise and relief with her husband as she
started across the room to meet her guests,
and in her gratitude to them for being so ir-
reproachable, she threw into her manner a
warmth that people did not always find there.
" General Lapham ?" she said, shaking hands
in quick succession with Mrs. Lapham and
Irene, and now addressing herself to him.
" No, ma'am, only Colonel," said the hon-
est man, but the lady did not hear him. She
was introducing her husband to Lapham's
wife and daughter, and Bromfield Corey was
already shaking his hand and saying he was
very glad to see him again, while he kept his
artistic eye on Irene, and apparently could
not take it off. Lily Corey gave the Lapham
THE RISE OF SILAS LAPHAM.
865
ladies a greeting which was physically rather
than socially cold, and Nanny stood holding
Irene's hand in both of hers a moment, and
taking in her beauty and her style with a gen-
erous admiration which she could afford, for
she was herself faultlessly dressed in the quiet
taste of her city, and looking very pretty.
The interval was long enough to let every
man present confide his sense of Irene's
beauty to every other ; and then, as the party
was small, Mrs. Corey made everybody ac-
quainted. When Lapham had not quite un-
derstood, he held the person's hand, and,
leaning urbanely forward, inquired, " What
name ?" He did that because a great man to
whom he had been presented on the platform
at a public meeting had done so to him, and
he knew it must be right.
A little lull ensued upon the introductions,
and Mrs. Corey said quietly to Mrs. Lapham,
" Can I send any one to be of use to Miss
Lapham ? " as if Penelope must be in the
dressing-room.
Mrs. Lapham turned fire-red, and the grace-
ful forms in which she had been intending to
excuse her daughter's absence went out of her
head. " She isn't upstairs," she said, at her
bluntest, as country people are when embar-
rassed. " She didn't feel just like coming to-
night. I don't know as she's feeling very
well."
Mrs. Corey emitted a very small " O ! " —
very small, very cold, — which began to grow
larger and hotter and to burn into Mrs. Lap-
ham's soul before Mrs. Corey could add, "I'm
very sorry. It's nothing serious, I hope ? "
Robert Chase, the painter, had not come,
and Mrs. James Bellingham was not there, so
that the table really balanced better without
Penelope ; but Mrs. Lapham could not know
this, and did not deserve to know it. Mrs.
Corey glanced round the room, as if to take
account of her guests, and said to her husband,
" I think we are all here, then," and he came
forward and gave his arm to Mrs. Lapham.
She perceived then that in their determination
not to be the first to come, they had been the
last, and must have kept the others waiting
for them.
Lapham had never seen people go down to
dinner arm-in-arm before, but he knew that
his wife was distinguished in being taken out
by the host, and he waited in jealous impa-
tience to see if Tom Corey would offer his
arm to Irene. He gave it to that big girl they
called Miss Kingsbury, and the handsome old
fellow whom Mrs. Corey had introduced as
her cousin took Irene out. Lapham was
startled from the misgiving in which this left
him by Mrs. Corey's passing her hand through
his arm, and he made a sudden movement
forward, but felt himself gently restrained.
They went out the last of all ; he did not
know why, but he submitted, and when they
sat down he saw that Irene, although she
had come in with that Mr. Bellingham, was
seated beside young Corey, after all.
He fetched a long sigh of relief when he
sank into his chair and felt himself safe from
error if he kept a sharp lookout and did only
what the others did. Bellingham had certain
habits which he permitted himself, and one
of these was tucking the corner of his napkin
into his collar ; he confessed himself an un-
certain shot with a spoon, and defended his
practice on the ground of neatness and com-
mon sense. Lapham put his napkin into his
collar too, and then, seeing that no one but
Bellingham did it, became alarmed and took
it out again slyly. He never had wine on his
table at home, and on principle he was a pro-
hibitionist ; but now he did not know just
what to do about the glasses at the right of
his plate. He had a notion to turn them all
down, as he had read of a well-known politi-
cian's doing at a public dinner, to show that
he did not take wine ; but, after twiddling
with one of them a moment, he let them be,
for it seemed to him that would be a little too
conspicuous, and he felt that every one was
looking. He let the servant fill them all, and
he drank out of each, not to appear odd.
Later, he observed that the young ladies
were not taking wine, and he was glad to see
that Irene had refused it, and that Mrs. Lap-
ham was letting it stand untasted. He did
not know but he ought to decline some of the
dishes, or at least leave most of some on his
plate, but he was not able to decide ; he took
everything and ate everything.
He noticed that Mrs. Corey seemed to take
no more trouble about the dinner than any-
body, and Mr. Corey rather less ; he was talk-
ing busily to Mrs. Lapham, and Lapham
caught a word here and there that convinced
him she was holding her own. He was getting
on famously himself with Mrs. Corey, who had
begun with him about his new house ; he was
telling her all about it, and giving her his
ideas. Their conversation naturally included
his architect across the table ; Lapham had
been delighted and secretly surprised to find
the fellow there ; and at something Seymour
said the talk spread suddenly, and the pretty
house he was building for Colonel Lapham
became the general theme. Young Corey
testified to its loveliness, and the architect said
laughingly that if he had been able to make a
nice thing of it, he owed it to the practical
sympathy of his client.
" Practical sympathy is good," said Brom-
field Corey ; and, slanting his head confiden-
866
THE RISE OF SILAS LAPHAM.
tially to Mrs. Lapham, he added, " Does he
bleed your husband, Mrs. Lapham ? He's a
terrible fellow for appropriations ! "
Mrs. Lapham laughed, reddening con-
sciously, and said she guessed the Colonel
knew how to take care of himself. This struck
Lapham, then draining his glass of sauterne,
as wonderfully discreet in his wife.
Bromfield Corey leaned back in his chair a
moment. " Well, after all, you can't say, with
all your modern fuss about it, that you do
much better now than the old fellows who
built such houses as this."
" Ah," said the architect, " nobody can do
better than well. Your house is in perfect
taste ; you know I've always admired it ; and
I don't think it's at all the worse for being old-
fashioned. What we've done is largely to go
back of the hideous style that raged after they
forgot how to make this sort of house. But I
think we may claim a better feeling for struc-
ture. We use better material, and more wisely ;
and by and by we shall work out something
more characteristic and original."
" With your chocolates and olives, and your
clutter of bric-a-brac ? "
" All that's bad, of course, but I don't mean
that. I don't wish to make you envious of
Colonel Lapham, and modesty prevents my
saying that his house is prettier, — though I
may have my convictions, — but it's better
built. All the new houses are better built.
Now, your house "
" Mrs. Corey's house," interrupted the host,
with a burlesque haste in disclaiming respon-
sibility for it that made them all laugh. "My
ancestral halls are in Salem, and I'm told you
couldn't drive a nail into their timbers ; in fact,
I don't know that you would want to do it."
" I should consider it a species of sacrilege,"
answered Seymour, " and I shall be far from
pressing the point I was going to make against
a house of Mrs. Corey's."
This won Seymour the easy laugh, and Lap-
ham silently wondered that the fellow never
got off any of those things to him.
" Well," said Corey, " you architects and
the musicians are the true and only artistic
creators. All the rest of us, sculptors, painters,
novelists, and tailors, deal with forms that we
have before us ; we try to imitate, we try to
represent. But you two sorts of artists create
form. If you represent, you fail. Somehow or
other you do evolve the camel out of your
inner consciousness."
" I will not deny the soft impeachment,"
said the architect, with a modest air.
" I dare say. And you'll own that it's very
handsome of me to say this, after your unjusti-
fiable attack on Mrs. Corey's property."
Bromfield Corey addressed himself again to
Mrs. Lapham, and the talk subdivided itself
as before. It lapsed so entirely away from the
subject just in hand, that Lapham was left
with rather a good idea, as he thought it, to
perish in his mind, for want of a chance to
express it. The only thing like a recurrence
to what they had been saying was Bromfield
Corey's warning Mrs. Lapham, in some con-
nection that Lapham lost, against Miss Kings-
bury. " She's worse," he was saying, " when
it comes to appropriations than Seymour him-
self. Depend upon it, Mrs. Lapham, she will
give you no peace of your mind, now she's
met you, from this out. Her tender mercies
are cruel ; and I leave you to supply the con-
text from your own scriptural knowledge. Be-
ware of her, and all her works. She calls
them works of charity ; but heaven knows
whether they are. It don't stand to reason
that she gives the poor all the money she gets
out of people. I have my own belief" — he
gave it in a whisper for the whole table to
hear — " that she spends it for champagne
and cigars."
Lapham did not know about that kind of
talking ; but Miss Kingsbury seemed to enjoy
the fun as much as anybody, and he laughed
with the rest.
" You shall be asked to the very next de-
bauch of the committee, Mr. Corey ; then you
won't dare expose us," said Miss Kingsbury.
" I wonder you haven't been down upon
Corey to go to the Chardon street home and
talk with your indigent Italians in their native
tongue," said Charles Bellingham. " I saw in
the ' Transcript ' the other night that you
wanted some one for the work."
" We did think of Mr. Corey," replied Miss
Kingsbury ; " but we reflected that he proba-
bly wouldn't talk with them at all ; he would
make them keep still to be sketched, and for-
get all about their wants."
Upon the theory that this was a fair return
for Corey's pleasantry, the others laughed
again.
" There is one charity," said Corey, pretend-
ing superiority to Miss Kingsbury's point,
" that is so difficult I wonder it hasn't oc-
curred to a lady of your courageous inven-
tion."
" Yes ? " said Miss Kingsbury. " What is
that ? "
" The occupation, by deserving poor of
neat habits, of all the beautiful, airy, whole-
some houses that stand empty the whole sum-
mer long, while their owners are away in their
lowly cots beside the sea."
" Yes, that is terrible," replied Miss Kings-
bury, with quick earnestness, while her eyes,
grew moist. " I have often thought of our
great, cool houses standing useless here, and
THE RISE OF SILAS LATHAM.
867
the thousands of poor creatures stifling in their
holes and dens, and the little children dying
for wholesome shelter. How cruelly selfish we
are
" That is a very comfortable sentiment, Miss
Kingsbury," said Corey, " and must make
you feel almost as if you had thrown open
No. 931 to the whole North End. But I am
serious about this matter. I spend my sum-
mers in town, and I occupy my own house, so
that I can speak impartially and intelligently ;
and I tell you that in some of my walks on
the Hill and down on the Back Bay, nothing
but the surveillance of the local policeman
prevents me from personally affronting those
long rows of close-shuttered, handsome, bru-
tally insensible houses. If I were a poor man,
with a sick child pining in some garret or cel-
lar at the North End, I should break into one
of them, and camp out on the grand piano."
" Surely, Bromfield," said his wife, " you
don't consider what havoc such people would
make with the furniture of a nice house ! "
" That is true," answered Corey, with meek
conviction. " I never thought of that."
"And if you were a poor man with a sick child,
I doubt if you'd have so much heart for burglary
as you have now," said James Bellingham.
" It's wonderful how patient they are," said
Mr. Sewell, the minister. " The spectacle of
the hopeless luxury and comfort the hard-
working poor man sees around him must be
hard to bear at times."
Lapham wanted to speak up and say that
he had been there himself, and knew how
such a man felt. He wanted to tell them that
generally a poor man was satisfied if he could
make both ends meet ; that he didn't envy
any one his good luck, if he had earned it, so
long as he wasn't running under himself.
But before he could get the courage to ad-
dress the whole table, Sewell added, " 1 sup-
pose he don't always think of it."
" But some day he will think about it," said
Corey. " In fact, we rather' invite him to think
about it, in this country."
" My brother-in-law," said Charles Belling-
ham, with the pride a man feels in a mention-
ably remarkable brother-in-law, " has no end
of fellows at work under him out there at
Omaha, and he says it's the fellows from
countries where they've been kept from think-
ing about it that are discontented. The Amer-
icans never make any trouble. They seem to
understand that so long as we give unlimited
opportunity, nobody has a right to complain."
" What do you hear from Leslie ? " asked
Mrs. Corey, turning from these profitless ab-
stractions to Mrs. Bellingham.
" You know," said that lady in a lower
tone, " that there is another baby ? "
" No ! I hadn't heard of it ! "
" Yes ; a boy. They have named him after
his uncle."
" Yes," said Charles Bellingham, joining
in. " He is said to be a noble boy and to re-
semble me."
" All boys of that tender age are noble,"
said Corey, " and look like anybody you
wish them to resemble. Is Leslie still home-
sick for the bean-pots of her native Boston ? "
" She is getting over it, I fancy," replied
Mrs. Bellingham. " She's very much taken
up with Mr. Blake's enterprises, and leads a
very exciting life. She says she's like people
who have been home from Europe three
years ; she's past the most poignant stage of
regret, and hasn't reached the second, when
they feel that they must go again."
Lapham leaned a little toward Mrs. Corey,
and said of a picture which he saw on the
wall opposite, " Picture of your daughter, I
presume ? "
" No ; my daughter's grandmother. It's
a Stuart Newton ; he painted a great many
Salem beauties. She was a Miss Polly Bur-
roughs. My daughter is like her, don't you
think ? " They both looked at Nanny Corey
and then at the portrait. " Those pretty old-
fashioned dresses are coming in again. I'm
not surprised you took it for her. The others"
— she referred to the other portraits more or
less darkling on the walls — " are my people ;
mostly Copleys."
These names, unknown to Lapham, went
to his head like the wine he was drinking ;
they seemed to carry light for the moment,
but a film of deeper darkness followed. He
heard Charles Bellingham telling funny stories
to Irene and trying to amuse the girl ; she
was laughing and seemed very happy. From
time to time Bellingham took part in the gen-
eral talk between the host and James Belling-
ham and Miss Kingsbury and that minister,
Mr. Sewell. They talked of people mostly ;
it astonished Lapham to hear with what free-
dom they talked. They discussed these per-
sons unsparingly ; James Bellingham spoke
of a man known to Lapham for his business
success and great wealth as not a gentleman ;
his cousin Charles said he was surprised that
the fellow had kept from being governor so
long.
When the latter turned from Irene to make
one of these excursions into the general talk,
young Corey talked to her ; and Lapham caught
some words from which it seemed that they
were speaking of Penelope. It vexed him to
think she had not come ; she could have talked
as well as any of them ; she was just as bright;
and Lapham was aware that Irene was not
as bright, though when he looked at her face,
868
THE RISE OE SILAS LATHAM.
radiant with its young beauty and happiness,
he said to himself that it did not make any
difference. He felt that he was not holding
up his end of the line, however. When some
one spoke to him he could only summon a
few words of reply, that seemed to lead to
nothing ; things often came into his mind ap-
propriate to what they were saying, but before
he could get them out they were off on some-
thing else; they jumped about so, he could
not keep up ; but he felt, all the same, that he
was not doing himself justice.
At one time the talk ran off upon a subject
that Lapham had never heard talked of be-
fore ; but again he was vexed that Penelope
was not there, to have her say ; he believed
that her say would have been worth hearing.
Miss Kingsbury leaned forward and asked
Charles Bellingham if he had read " Tears, Idle
Tears," the novel that was making such a
sensation ; and when he said no, she said she
wondered at him. " It's perfectly heart-break-
ing, as you'll imagine from the name; but
there's such a dear old-fashioned hero and
heroine in it, who keep dying for each other
all -the way through and making the most
wildly satisfactory and unnecessary sacrifices
for each other. You feel as if you'd done
them yourself."
" Ah, that's the secret of its success," said
Bromneld Corey. " It flatters the reader by
painting the characters colossal, but with his
chin and lips, so that he feels himself of their
supernatural proportions. You've read it,
Nanny ? "
" Yes," said his daughter. " It ought to
have been called ' Slop, Idle Slop.' "
" Oh, not quite slop, Nanny," pleaded Miss
Kingsbury.
" It's astonishing," said Charles Belling-
ham, " how we do like the books that go for
our heart-strings. And I really suppose that
you can't put a more popular thing than self-
sacrifice into a novel. We do like to see peo-
ple suffering sublimely."
" There was talk some years ago," said
James Bellingham, " about novels going out."
" They're just coming in ! " cried Miss
Kingsbury.
" Yes," said Mr. Sewell, the minister.
" And I don't think there ever was a time
when they formed the whole intellectual ex-
perience of more people. They do greater
mischief than ever."
" Don't be envious, parson," said the host.
" No," answered Sewell. " I should be
glad of their help. But those novels with old-
fashioned heroes and heroines in them — ex-
cuse me, Miss Kingsbury — are ruinous ! "
" Don't you feel like a moral wreck, Miss
Kingsbury ? " asked the host.
But Sewell went on : " The novelists might
be the greatest possible help to us if they
painted life as it is, and human feelings in
their true proportion and relation, but for the
most part they have been and are altogether
noxious."
This seemed sense to Lapham ; but Brom-
neld Corey asked : " But what if life as it is
isn't amusing ? Aren't we to be amused ? "
" Not to our hurt," sturdily answered the
minister. " And the self-sacrifice painted in
most novels like this "
" Slop, Idle Slop ? " suggested the proud
father of the inventor of the phrase.
"Yes — is nothing but psychical suicide,
and is as wholly immoral as the spectacle of
a man falling upon his sword."
" Well, I don't know but you're right, par-
son," said the host ; and the minister, who had
apparently got upon a battle-horse of his,
careered onward in spite of some tacit at-
tempts of his wife to seize the bridle.
" Right ? To be sure I am right. The
whole business of love, and love-making and
marrying, is painted by the novelists in a
monstrous disproportion to the other relations
of life. Love is very sweet, very pretty "
" Oh, thank you, Mr. Sewell," said Nanny
Corey in a way that set them all laughing.
" But it's the affair, commonly, of very
young people, who have not yet character
and experience enough to make them interest-
ing. In novels it's treated, not only as if it
were the chief interest of life, but the sole in-
terest of the lives of two ridiculous young per-
sons ; and it is taught that love is perpetual,
that the glow of a true passion lasts forever;
and that it is sacrilege to think or act other-
wise."
" Well, but isn't that true, Mr. Sewell ? "
pleaded Miss Kingsbury.
" I have known some most estimable people
who had married a second time," said the
minister, and then he had the applause with
him. Lapham wanted to make some open
recognition of his good sense, but could not.
" I suppose the passion itself has been a
good deal changed," said Bromneld Corey,
"since the poets began to idealize it in the
days of chivalry."
" Yes ; and it ought to be changed again,"
said Mr. Sewell.
"What! Back?"
" I don't say that. But it ought to be rec-
ognized as something natural and mortal,
and divine honors, which belong to righteous-
ness alone, ought not to be paid it."
" Oh, you ask too much, parson," laughed
his host, and the talk wandered away to
something else.
It was not an elaborate dinner; but Lap-
THE RISE OE SILAS LAPHAM.
869
ham was used to having everything on the
table at once, and this succession of dishes
bewildered him ; he was afraid perhaps he
was eating too much. He now no longer made
any pretense of not drinking his wine, for he
was thirsty, and there was no more water,
and he hated to ask for any. The ice-cream
came, and then the fruit. Suddenly Mrs.
Corey rose and said across the table to her
husband, " I suppose you will want your
coffee here." And he replied, " Yes ; we'll
join you at tea."
The ladies all rose, and the gentlemen got up
with them. Lapham started to follow Mrs.
Corey, but the other men merely stood in
their places, except young Corey, who ran
and opened the door for his mother. Lapham
thought with shame that it was he who ought
to have done that; but no one seemed to
notice, and he sat down again gladly, after
kicking out one of his legs which had gone
to sleep.
They brought in cigars with coffee, and
Bromfield Corey advised Lapham to take
one that he chose for him. Lapham confessed
that he liked a good cigar about as well as
anybody, and Corey said : " These are new.
I had an Englishman here the other day who
was smoking old cigars in the superstition
that tobacco improved with age, like wine."
" Ah," said Lapham, " anybody who had
ever lived off a tobacco country could tell him
better than that." With the fuming cigar
between his lips he felt more at home than he
had before. He turned sidewise in his chair
and, resting one arm on the back, intertwined
the fingers of both hands, and smoked at
large ease.
James Bellingham came and sat down by
him. " Colonel Lapham, weren't you with
the 96th Vermont when they charged across
the river in front of Pickensburg, and the rebel
battery opened fire on them in the water? "
Lapham slowly shut his eyes and slowly
dropped his head for assent, letting out a
white volume of smoke from the corner of his
mouth.
" I thought so," said Bellingham. " I was
with the 85th Massachusetts, and I sha'n't
forget that slaughter. We were all new to it
still. Perhaps that's why it made such an
impression."
" I don't know," suggested Charles Bel-
lingham. " Was there anything much more
impressive afterward ? I read of it out in
Missouri, where I was stationed at the time,
and I recollect the talk of some old army
men about it. They said that death-rate
couldn't be beaten. I don't know that it
ever was."
" About one in five of us got out safe,"
said Lapham, breaking his cigar-ash off on
the edge of a plate. James Bellingham
reached him a bottle of Apollinaris. He
drank a glass, and then went on smoking.
They all waited, as if expecting him to
speak, and then Corey said : " How incred-
ible those things seem already ! You gentle-
men know that they happened ; but are you
still able to believe it ? "
" Ah, nobody feels that anything hap-
pened," said Charles Bellingham. " The past
of one's experience doesn't differ a great deal
from the past of one's knowledge. It isn't
much more probable ; it's really a great deal
less vivid than some scenes in a novel that
one read when a boy."
" I'm not sure of that," said James Belling-
ham.
" Well, James, neither am I," consented
his cousin, helping himself from Lapham's
Apollinaris bottle. " There would be very
little talking at dinner if one only said the
things that one was sure of."
The others laughed, and Bromfield Corey
remarked thoughtfully, " What astonishes
the craven civilian in all these things is the
abundance — the superabundance — of hero-
ism. The cowards were the exception ; the
men that were ready to die, the rule."
"The woods were full of. them," said Lap-
ham, without taking his cigar from his mouth.
" That's a nice little touch in ' School,' "
interposed Charles Bellingham, " where the
girl says to the fellow who was at Inkerman,
' I should think you would be so proud of
it,' and he reflects awhile, and says, ' Well,
the fact is, you know, there were so many
of us.'"
" Yes, I remember that," said James Bel-
lingham, smiling for pleasure in it. " But I
don't see why you claim the credit of being a
craven civilian, Bromfield," he added, with a
friendly glance at his brother-in-law, and with
the willingness Boston men often show to
turn one another's good points to the light in
company ; bred so intimately together at
school and college and in society, they all
know these points. " A man who was out
with Garibaldi in '48," continued James Bel-
lingham.
" Oh, a little amateur red-shirting," Corey
interrupted in deprecation. " But even if you
choose to dispute my claim, what has become
of all the heroism ? Tom, how many club men
do you know who would think it sweet and
fitting to die for their country ? "
" I can't think of a great many at the mo-
ment, sir," replied the son, with the modesty
of his generation.
" And I couldn't in '61," said his uncle.
" Nevertheless they were there."
870
THE RISE OE SILAS LATHAM.
" Then your theory is that it's the occasion
that is wanting," said Bromfield Corey. " But
why shouldn't civil-service reform, and the
resumption of specie payment, and a tariff for
revenue only, inspire heroes ? They are all
good causes."
" It's the occasion that's wanting," said
James Bellingham, ignoring the persiflage.
" And I'm very glad of it."
" So am I," said Lapham, with a depth of
feeling that expressed itself in spite of the
haze in which his brain seemed to float.
There was a great deal of .the talk that he could
not follow ; it was too quick for him ; but here
was something he was clear of. " I don't
want to see any more men killed in my time."
Something serious, something somber must
lurk behind these words, and they waited for
Lapham to say more ; but the haze closed
round him again, and he remained silent,
drinking Apollinaris.
" We non-combatants were notoriously
reluctant to give up fighting," said Mr.
Sewell, the minister; " but I incline to think
Colonel Lapham and Mr. Bellingham may
be right. I dare say we shall have the heroism
again if we have the occasion. Till it comes,
we must content ourselves with the every-day
generosities and sacrifices. They make up in
quantity what they lack in quality, perhaps."
" They're not so picturesque," said Brom-
field Corey. " You can paint a man dying
for his country, but you can't express on can-
vas a man fulfilling the duties of a good
citizen."
" Perhaps the novelists will get at him by
and by," suggested Charles Bellingham. "If
I were one of these fellows, I shouldn't pro-
pose to myself anything short of that."
" What : the commonplace ? " asked his
cousin.
" Commonplace ? The commonplace is just
that light, impalpable, aerial essence which
they've never got into their confounded books
yet. The novelist who could interpret the com-
mon feelings of commonplace people would
have the answer to ' the riddle of the painful
earth ' on his tongue."
" Oh, not so bad as that, I hope," said the
host; and Lapham looked from one to the
other, trying to make out what they were at.
He had never been so up a tree before.
" I suppose it isn't well for us to see human
nature at white heat habitually," continued
Bromfield Corey, after a while. " It would
make us vain of our species. Many a poor
fellow in that Avar and in many another has
gone into battle simply and purely for his
country's sake, not knowing whether, if he
laid down his life, he should ever find it again,
or whether, if he took it up hereafter, he should
take it up in heaven or hell. Come, parson ! "
he said, turning to the minister, " what has
ever been conceived of omnipotence, of om-
niscience, so sublime, so divine as that ? "
" Nothing," answered the minister, quietly.
" God has never been imagined at all. But
if you suppose such a man as that was Au-
thorized, I think it will help you to imagine
what God must be."
" There's sense in that," said Lapham. He
took his cigar out of his mouth, and pulled
his chair a little toward the table, on which
he placed his ponderous fore-arms. " I want
to tell you about a fellow I had in my own
company when we first went out. We were
all privates to begin with ; after a while they
elected me captain — I'd had the tavern
stand, and most of 'em knew me. But Jim
Millon never got to be anything more than
corporal; corporal when he was killed." The
others arrested themselves in various attitudes
of attention, and remained listening to Lap-
ham with an interest that profoundly flattered
him. Now, at last, he felt that he was hold-
ing up his end of the rope. " I can't say he
went into the thing from the highest motives,
altogether; our motives are always pretty
badly mixed, and when there's such a hur-
rah-boys as there was then, you can't tell
which is which. I suppose Jim Millon's wife
was enough to account for his going, herself.
She was a pretty bad assortment," said Lap-
ham, lowering his voice and glancing round
at the door to make sure that it was shut,
and she used to lead Jim one kind of life.
" Well, sir," continued Lapham, synthetizing
his auditors in that form of address, " that
fellow used to save every cent of his pay and
send it to that woman. Used to get me to do
it for him. I tried to stop him. ' Why, Jim,'
said I, ' you know what she'll do with it.'
' That's so, Cap,' says he, ' but I don't know
what she'll do without it.' And it did keep
her straight — straight as a string — as long
as Jim lasted. Seemed as if there was some-
thing mysterious about it. They had a little
girl, — about as old as my oldest girl, — and
Jim used to talk to me about her. Guess he
done it as much for her as for the mother;
and he said to me before the last action we
went into, ' I should like to turn tail and
run, Cap. I ain't comin' out o' this one. But
I don't suppose it would do.' ' Well, not for
you, Jim,' said I. ' I want to live,' he says;
and he bust out crying right there in my tent.
' I want to live for poor Molly and Zerrilla ' —
that's what they called the little one ; I dunno
where they got the name. ' 1 ain't ever had
half a chance ; and now she's doing better,
and I believe we should get along after this.'
He set there cryin' like a baby. But he
THE RISE OF SILAS LAPHAM.
871
wa'n't no baby when he went into action. I
hated to look at him after it was over, not so
much because he'd got a ball that was meant
for me by a sharp-shooter — he saw the devil
takin' aim. and he jumped to warn me — as
because he didn't look like Jim ; he looked
like — fun ; all desperate and savage. I guess
he died hard."
The story made its impression, and Lap-
ham saw it. " Now I say," he resumed, as if
he felt that he was going to do himself jus-
tice, and say something to heighten the effect
his story had produced. At the same time,
he was aware of a certain want of clearness.
He had the idea, but it floated vague, elu-
sive, in his brain. He looked about as if for
something to precipitate it in tangible shape.
" Apollinaris ? " asked Charles Bellingham,
handing the bottle from the other side. He
had drawn his chair closer than the rest to
Lapham's, and was listening with great in-
terest. When Mrs. Corey asked him to meet
Lapham he accepted gladly. " You know I
go in for that sort of thing, Anna. Since Les-
lie's affair we're rather bound to do it. And I
think we meet these practical fellows too little.
There's always something original about them."
He might naturally have believed that the
reward of his faith was coming.
" Thanks, I will take some of this wine,"
said Lapham, pouring himself a glass of Ma-
deira from a black and dusty bottle caressed
by a label bearing the date of the vintage.
He tossed off the wine, unconscious of its
preciousness, and waited for the result. That
cloudiness in his brain disappeared before it,
but a mere blank remained. He not only
could not remember what he was going to say,
but he could not recall what they had been
talking about. They waited, looking at him,
and he stared at them in return. After a
while he heard the host saying, " Shall we
join the ladies ? "
Lapham went, trying to think what had
happened. It seemed to him a long time
since he had drunk that wine.
Miss Corey gave him a cup of tea, where
he stood aloof from his wife, who was talking
with Miss Kingsbury and Mrs. Sewell ; Irene
was with Miss Nanny Corey. He could not
hear what they were talking about; but if
Penelope had come he knew that she would
have done them all credit. He meant to let
her know how he felt about her behavior
when he got home. It was a shame for her
to miss such a chance. Irene was looking
beautiful, as pretty as all the rest of them put
together, but she was not talking, and Lap-
ham perceived that at a dinner party you
ought to talk. He was himself conscious of
having talked very well. He now wore an air
of great dignity, and, in conversing with the
other gentlemen, he used a grave and weighty
deliberation. Some of them wanted him to
go into the library. There he gave his ideas
of books. He said he had not much time for
anything but the papers ;' but he was going to
have a complete library in his new place.
He made an elaborate acknowledgment to
Bromfield Corey of his son's kindness in sug-
gesting books for his library ; he said that he
had ordered them all, and that he meant
to have pictures. He asked Mr. Corey who
was about the best American painter going
now. " I don't set up to be a judge of
pictures, but I know what I like," he said.
He lost the reserve which he had main-
tained earlier, and began to boast. He him
self introduced the subject of his paint, in
a natural transition from pictures ; he said
Mr. Corey must take a run up to Lapham
with him some day, and see the Works ;
they would interest him, and he would drive
him round the country; he kept most of his
horses up there, and he could show Mr.
Corey some of the finest Jersey grades in the
country. He told about his brother William,
the judge at Dubuque ; and a farm he had
out there that paid for itself every year in
wheat. As he cast off all fear, his voice rose,
and he hammered his arm-chair with the thick
of his hand for emphasis. Mr. Corey seemed
impressed; he sat perfectly quiet, listening,
and Lapham saw the other gentlemen stop in
their talk every now and then to listen. After
this proof of his ability to interest them, he
would have liked to have Mrs. Lapham suggest
again that he was unequal to their society, or
to the society of anybody else. He surprised
himself by his ease among men whose names
had hitherto overawed him. He got to call-
ing Bromfield Corey by his surname alone.
He did not understand why young Corey
seemed so preoccupied, and he took occasion
to tell the company how he had said to his
wife the first time he saw that fellow that he
could make a man of him if he had him in
the business ; and he guessed he was not mis-
taken. He began to tell stories of the different
young men he had had in his employ. At
last he had the talk altogether to himself; no
one else talked, and he talked unceasingly.
It was a great time ; it was a triumph.
He was in this successful mood when word
came to him that Mrs. Lapham was going;
Tom Corey seemed to have brought it, but
he was not sure. Anyway, he was not
going to hurry. He made cordial invita-
tions to each of the gentlemen to drop in and
see him at his office, and would not be satis-
fied till he had exacted a promise from each.
He told Charles Bellingham that he liked
872
THE RISE OE SILAS LAPHAM.
him, and assured James Bellingham that it
had always been his ambition to know him,
and that if any one had said when he first
came to Boston that in less than ten years
he should be hobnobbing with Jim Belling-
body had been very polite ; on the way home
they celebrated the amiability of both the
Miss Coreys and of Miss Kingsbury. Mrs.
Lapham thought that Mrs. Bellingham was
about the pleasantest person she ever saw ;
ham, he should have told that person he lied, she had told her all about her married daugh-
He would have told anybody he lied that
had told him ten years ago that a son of
Bromfield Corey would have come and asked
him to take him into the business. Ten years
ago he, Silas Lapham, had come to Boston,
a little worse off than nothing at all, for he
was in debt for half the money that he had
bought out his partner with, and here he was
now worth a million, and meeting you gentle-
men like one of you. And every cent of that
was honest money, — no speculation, — every
copper of it for value received. And here,
only the other day, his old partner, who had
been going to the dogs ever since he went
out of the business, came and borrowed
twenty thousand dollars of him ! Lapham
lent it because his wife wanted him to : she
had always felt bad about the fellow's having
to go out of the business.
He took leave of Mr. Sewell with patroniz-
ing affection, and bade him come to him if he
ever got into a tight place with his parish
work ; he would let him have all the money
he wanted; he had more money than he knew
what to do with. " Why, when your wife sent
to mine last fall," he said, turning to Mr. Corey,
" I drew my check for five hundred dollars,
but my wife wouldn't take more than one
hundred ; said she wasn't going to show off
before Mrs. Corey. I call that a pretty good
joke on Mrs. Corey. I must tell her how Mrs.
Lapham done her out of a cool four hundred
dollars."
He started toward the door of the draw-
ing-room to take leave of the ladies ; but
Tom Corey was at his elbow, saying, " I think
Mrs. Lapham is waiting for you below, sir,"
and in obeying the direction Corey gave
him toward another door he forgot all about
his purpose, and came away without saying
good-night to his hostess.
Mrs. Lapham had not known how soon
she ought to go, and had no idea that in her
quality of chief guest she was keeping the
others. She staid till eleven o'clock, and was
a little frightened when she found what time
it was ; but Mrs. Corey, without pressing her
to stay longer, had said it was not at all late.
She and Irene had had a perfect time. Every-
ter who had married an inventor and gone
to live in Omaha — a Mrs. Blake.
" If it's that car-wheel Blake," said Lap-
ham, proudly, " I know all about him. I've
sold him tons of the paint."
" Pooh, papa ! How you do smell of smok-
ing ! " cried Irene.
" Pretty strong, eh ? " laughed Lapham,
letting down a window of the carriage. His
heart was throbbing wildly in the close air,
and he was glad of the rush of cold that came
in, though it stopped hjs tongue, and he lis-
tened more and more drowsily to the rejoic-
ings that his wife and daughter exchanged.
He meant to have them wake Penelope up
and tell her what she had lost ; but when he
reached home he was too sleepy to suggest
it. He fell asleep as soon as his head touched
the pillow, full of supreme triumph.
But in the morning his skull was sore with
the unconscious, night-long ache; and he rose
cross and taciturn. They had a silent break-
fast. In the cold gray light of the morning
the glories of the night before showed poorer.
Here and there a painful doubt obtruded
itself and marred them with its awkward
shadow. Penelope sent down word that she
was not well, and was not coming to break-
fast, and Lapham was glad to go to his office
without seeing her.
He was severe and silent all day with his
clerks, and peremptory with customers. Of
Corey he was slyly observant, and as the day
wore away he grew more restively conscious.
He sent out word by his office-boy that he
would like to see Mr. Corey for a few minutes
after closing. The type-writer girl had lin-
gered too, as if she wished to speak with him,
and Corey stood in abeyance as she went
toward Lapham's door.
" Can't see you to-night, Zerrilla," he said
bluffly, but not unkindly. " Perhaps I'll call
at the house, if it's important."
" It is," said the girl, with a spoiled air of
insistence.
"Well," said Lapham; and, nodding to
Corey to enter, he closed the door upon her.
Then he turned to the young man and de-
manded : " Was I drunk last night ? "
(To be continued.)
W. D. Howells.
THE COLONISTS AT HOME.
BY EDWARD EGGLESTON.
I.
THE HOUSE.
Strange ex-
pedients for shel-
ter were adopted
by some of the
first colonists and
by those sec-
ondary pioneers
who were ever
planting new set-
tlements in the
COCKED HAT. (FROM AN ADVERTISE- WlldemeSS. 1 he
MENTg!5e™, • "xX) Y°RK sheltering foliage
of a dense tree
was the first house of some of the earliest Penn-
sylvanians. Almost as primitive was the life of
certain backwoods Virginians of a later period,
who dwelt in the capacious trunks of hollow
sycamores, and lost their corn by irruptions
of buffaloes. In parts of New England, in
New Netherland, and in Pennsylvania, many
of the first-comers began the new world as
cave-dwellers in cellars, which were usually
formed by digging into a bank; the earth at the
sides was supported by timbers; the roofs were
of bark, or, better, of turf. To account these
warm burrows merely a novel device evolved
to meet the exigency of the situation might
be an error, since there were at that time in
the midland counties of England, as well as in
parts of France, people living in subterranean
caves and others in cabins of "mud." The
primitive house of clay, built above ground,
appears to have been known on the Delaware,
where at least one such house was standing
as late as the middle of the eighteenth cen-
tury. Men can with difficulty originate, evenin
anew hemisphere ; perhaps the most the earlier
colonists could do was to modify some device
already known in the familiar life of Europe,
or to improve upon some shift borrowed from
the savages about them. Of thirty buildings
on Manhattan in 1626, all but one were of
bark ; the bark wigwam was, indeed, a very
common resort of American pioneers. In the
Middle and South this took the form of the
I half-faced camp," which was a wigwam with
one side open. The open side served for
door, for window, and for fire-place, the fire
being directly in front of it. The half-faced
camp was sometimes built more substantially
of logs, and at the South it was in some
cases only a booth with sides and roof of pal-
metto leaves. Even that most American of
houses, the log-cabin, cannot be said to have
originated with the settlers. It has probably
been known to every race of people who
constructed dwellings in a well-wooded coun-
try. In the time of Tacitus, the Teutonic
tribes built with " rude, unhewn timbers," and
the Indians of the Muscogee confederacy
had winter houses of logs. . The hut of round
logs, notched at the corners, with open
cracks, and without floor or loft, was the
rudest form known to the American settlers ;
the addition of a floor of rough puncheons
hewn out with an axe was a first step in its
evolution. Then came the chinking of the
cracks with bits of wood and the daubing of
these with clay. There were many cabins with-
out chinking or daubing; one man had his
head bitten by a hungry wolf which thrust its
nozzle through the open cracks of his dwelling
while he was asleep. Some lightly covered
the cracks by attaching long, rough shingles,
called clapboards, by pegs, to the outside of
the logs ; some, quite omitting the logs, made
a slighter house by hanging the clapboards on
a frame. The dwellers in these undaubed and
windy structures, whether of logs or clap-
boards, burned their faces by the fire to keep
from freezing, and sometimes watched at
night by turns to keep the great fire from
going down. On the frontier, the house of
logs from which the bark had been peeled
was a mark of gentility, and a second
story was a luxury, although the most hon-
ored guest might have to reach his cham-
ber under the roof-poles by ascending steps
on the outside, or by climbing up a perpen-
dicular ladder within the house. A dwell-
ing of logs hewn and squared with the
broad-axe and adze was the highest of the
kind ; in some places it distinguished its
owner as a man of superior wealth and social
dignity.
Nails were scarce and wrought by hand
on the anvils of the colonial blacksmiths;
lawless people were accustomed to procure
them by burning down uninhabited dwellings.
Very many houses were built without iron ;
the hinges and latches were of wood, and the
shingles or clapboards of the roof were held
874
THE COLONISTS AT HOME.
in place by " weight timbers." The nipping
draughts that whistled through the crevices
of the log walls, the puncheon floor, and the
clapboard roof rendered necessary a huge
uproaring fire within the fire-place, which was
of a size proportioned to the coldness of
the house and the inexhaustible supply of
fuel. The chimneys were usually built of
sticks of wood and well plastered on the inside
with clay. These "katted" chimneys, as they
were called in New England, often took fire,
and in the towns were a constant source of
anxiety during the earlier years of the colonies,
when conflagrations could only be extin-
guished by forming lines of men to pass up
pails of water. The fire-engines, where there
were any, could only throw water which had
been poured into them from pails ; it was
after more than a quarter of the eighteenth
century had elapsed that engines were brought
which had " suction." Throughout the whole
colonial period the chimney-sweep was in re-
quest ; hanging his blanket across the wide
fire-place, he worked his way to the top, where,
thrusting his sooty head out, he gave notice
of the completion of his task by singing :
" Sweep O ! sweep O !
There are sweepers in high life as well as in low."
" Bring oiled paper for your windows,"
writes one of the Plymouth pilgrims to some
who were about to come over. Window- glass
was not then in general use in England, and
oiled paper for a long time let a dusky light
into the obscure rooms of many settlers'
houses. The Swedish pioneers on the Dela-
ware used sheets of mica — " muscovy-glass,"
it was called — for the same purpose. Farther
toward the south, where winter was less feared,
a board shutter, sometimes "made very pretty
and convenient," was at first the main device
for closing a window, but about 1700 "win-
dows shasht with crystal glass " — that is, with
glass that one could see through — are spoken
of as a luxury recently affected by the Vir-
ginia gentry.
Many of the earliest houses were far from
being rude. Five years after the first landing,
the Jamestown colonists began to build the
lower story of their " competent and decent
houses " of brick of their own burning. In
New England some substantial houses were
erected very early ; New Haven people built
city houses at the outset ; but primitive Car-
olina dwellings were of rough clapboards
nailed to a frame ; and the houses of the poor
were generally left unplastered, not only in
Carolina, but as far north as Connecticut.
Paint was rarely seen outside of the larger
towns. Oyster-shell lime was the material
most commonly in use for plastering; often
the walls were covered with mortar from
the nearest clay-bank, and whitewashed
with shell lime. A concrete of oyster shells,
called " tabby," was much used on the south-
ern coast ; walls and columns of this material,
built before the Revolution, are still standing.
Oglethorpe, true to his military ideals, had
all freeholders' houses in Savannah, his own
included, made exactly alike : twenty-four
feet long and sixteen broad, inclosed with
feather-edge clapboards, roofed with shingles,
and floored with deals. It was a city of shan-
ties— a fixed military encampment. Penn
planned a somewhat larger house for his
colonists, to be divided into two rooms, the
walls clapboarded outside and in, the inter-
vening space filled with earth, the ground floor
of clay, and a loft floor of boards. He reck-
oned that such a house might last ten years.
A common form of cottage in parts of New
England was built eighteen feet square with
eaves seven feet high, and a loft in the peak
of the roof. To these pioneer dwellings we
must add the New Jersey house, introduced
by the Swedish pioneers. The sides of this
were palisades of split timbers, set upright.
Nor should I omit from the list the abodes
of some of the aquatic Dutch, who dwelt with
their families all the year round aboard their
sloops plying in the rivers and bays about
New York, and up the Hudson to Albany,
just as their ancestors, the Holland boatmen,
had lived upon the rivers and canals of the
Low Countries, and as their New York suc-
cessors to-day rear families on far-wandering
lighters and canal-boats.
Life in the pioneer houses was necessarily
simple and generally rude. With the ambitious
settler, a cave-house or cabin was but a rough
thoroughfare to a better lot, when the stub-
born phalanx of forest trees should have been
gradually beaten back, and when the disen-
cumbered fields should yield a surplus, and
leisure and comfort compensate for hard be-
ginnings. But there was another class whose
congenial home was the puncheon floor and
mud-daubed walls. These people, who had not
yet emerged from Saxon barbarism, were
hereditary pioneers. As soon as neighbors
approached them, the log-cabin dwellers sold
their little clearings to a race of thriftier men,
and pushed farther into the woods, where
wild food was plentiful and where manners
and morals were unfettered. Their social
pleasures were marked by rude jollity without
any attempt at luxury or display, or any re-
gard for the restraints of refinement ; they
were hospitable, generous, fierce, coarse, su-
perstitious, and fond of strong drink ; given to
fighting, and some of them to the barbarous
THE COLONISTS AT HOME.
875
diversion of gouging out one another's eyes, the pioneer period, and which were virtually
Indian wars and their own barbarity have
wrought the extermination of some of the
worst strains in this tribe of log-hut builders.
The finer American houses* were for the
most part imitated from the forms prevailing
at the same period in England. The large
room called " the hall " — a relic of the primi-
tive undivided Anglo-Saxon dwelling — was
the most striking feature of many of the
better dwellings of the seventeenth and eight-
eenth centuries. There exist to-day examples
of colonial architecture in which a great hall
that served for an assembly-room dominates
the whole building. For instance, Drayton
Hall, on the Ashley River, in South Carolina,
is a brick dwelling in a style seen in some
English country houses of the same period.
In front there are steps, leading up to a stately
portico. One enters thence into a spacious
room in the middle of the house, for the
only unvarying trait of a "hall" is that it is
always entered directly on passing the main
door. In the Drayton house the living-rooms
are grouped at either end of the great hall
like little satellites depending on a central
sun. There are wood-carvings on the elab-
orate chimney-pieces and on the moldings
about the wainscotings, and the balusters
of the double stairway that rises from a
lobby in the rear of the hall are carved.
This weather-stained house, despoiled of
many of its ornaments by lawless tourists dur-
ing the war period, is still a legible record of
the social fabric of the colony. Such mansions
were built, not for domestic retirement, but for
festivity. They were the abodes of rich and
hospitable planters, whose delight it was to
live surrounded by friends and guests and
to rival one another in the magnificence of
their great assemblies. William Penn built a
similar mansion on his manor at Pennsbury,
the great room of which was called the
audience hall; here the proprietor met his
council and held parleys with the Indians.
In Virginia and Maryland the great houses
were built on a similar plan, but in some cases
a curious modification of the old English
hall appears to have taken place out of
deference to the climate. The central room
became in many houses a wide, open pas-
sage through the middle of the dwelling.
It was still called "the hall," and in it the
family sat to receive guests, except in cold
weather, when the wainscoted parlor that
adjoined was cheered by a crackling fire.
Perhaps this opening of the hall into a spa-
cious passageway was a trait borrowed from
built "
two cabins joined by an " entry," open at
both ends, whose width was regulated by the
convenient and usual length of the log cut
for house-building.
The great proprietors, though perhaps
more numerous in the tobacco colonies than
elsewhere, were vastly outnumbered by the
middling planters, a class from whose ranks
sprang the Washingtons and Lees of the
Revolution. Gentlemen of this class, like the
English squires of the time, often carried their
pride and personal independence to the verge
of rudeness, and yet were generous, hospitable,
and many of them intelligent. They lived
mainly in sober one-story houses, or in houses
whose curb-roofs were broken by dormer
windows that gave light to a low second
story. Such dwellings were probably built
at that period in all the colonies. Some of
them are yet standing about New York. The
plainer Virginia house also had the passage
through the middle, " for an air-draught in
summer," as a writer of Spotswood's time tells
us. But some of the earlier middling houses, in
Virginia as at the North, were built about a
great stack of chimneys, which stood like a
core in the middle. Bricks for the chimneys
and for the walls of the finer houses at the
South were usually brought from England as
ballast. Most Virginia and Maryland dwellings
stood fronting to the rivers, so as to be easily
reached by the shipping. All Southern houses
of pretension were approached by a drive
through a lawn, and most of them were em-
bowered in trees. All the planters had kitch-
ens detached from the dwelling, except where
the house was built in imitation of the " Italian
style," so called; then the kitchen was placed
in the extremity of one of the long wings. The
buildings were adapted to the climate and to
the domestic service of negro slaves. In the
towns in both Carolinas many houses stood
gabling to the street, with a long veranda,
light and airy, at the side, through which one
passed to the cool and sheltered rooms.
In parts of Maryland, and in Pennsylva-
nia and southern New Jersey, the Qua-
kers and Germans had founded a different
society. The traveler toward the North might
note the gradual disappearance of the over-
seer's cabin, the negro quarters, and the de-
tached kitchen. The houses were generally
of hewed logs, those of the richer farmers of
stone. Everywhere one saw substantial com-
fort and frugality. The smoke-house was a
little smaller than that of the planter to the
southward, but the barns were large, some-
times vast. The protracted battle with the
the double log-houses which were bunt in
* See the engravings of some colonial houses that accompany the article on " Social Conditions in the
Colonies " in The Century Magazine for September, 1884.
876
THE COLONISTS AT HOME.
primeval forest had begotten a hostility to
trees; the Pennsylvania house, even of the
better sort, often confronted a midsummer
sun with no shade to intervene. A little clay
oven stood by each house, and on some
slope near by there was usually a low hut,
beneath which the spring running cold from
between the limestone strata spread its water
over a flat rock. In the almost icy shallows of
this " spring house " stood earthen crocks of
milk and jars of butter, with perhaps some
large water-melons cooling for use in the
middle of the day. Such farm-houses were the
homes of yeomanry, who had little leisure to
cultivate the social refinements of their neigh-
bors at the South, but who lived comfortably
and exemplified what one of the early historians
of their thrift calls the " republican virtues."
There were worse dwellings than these in
the back country of Pennsylvania and New
Jersey, and there were better ones near the
cities. In Philadelphia the houses, except
those of the poor, were very early built of
brick and stone. Almost all of them about
1700 had balconies running the entire length
of the upper story. At the time of the Rev-
olution Philadelphia houses were of various
styles, and straggling in arrangement. The
uniform rows of monotonous red were
thought a great improvement when they
were first brought in, some years after the
close of the war. In 1771 four hundred
Philadelphia houses had private wells, and
there were two hundred pumps in the streets.
The finer suburban and country houses of
the middle region were large, and were often
surrounded by cedars, which were pruned
into pyramids and cones. Penn had set the
fashion of planting Lombardy poplars, and
there were rows of these grenadier-like trees
both in Philadelphia and along the roads
which ran into the country. These, with
the cedars, must have given a trim regularity
to the prospect. The gardens were also stiff
and English in appearance, with " walks and
alleys nodding to their brothers."
In New York and the region about the
Hudson River, the foundation form of the
early dwelling was the Dutch house built,
like many other colonial town houses, with its
gable to the street. The top of the gable wall
was notched into corbel steps, and the black
fire-bricks of the kiln were laid alternating with
red or yellow ones to make checks on the
gable front. The date of erection and the
initials of the owner were sometimes wrought
with bricks of diverse colors ; sometimes these
were shown by letters and figures in iron on
the front ; and this rather childish decoration
was usually completed by a weather-cock sur-
mounting the whole. The primitive thatched
roofs gave way after a while to Dutch
tiles. Within, one found the incredible Dutch
cleanliness; the walls of the houses were
whitewashed and hung with small pictures ;
the wood- work was painted a bluish gray, as
were the walls of the alcoves for beds, which
were constructed on each side of the chim-
ney. In some of the better houses porcelain
tiles with pictures of Scripture subjects were
built in and around the fire-places. In New
York, as in Pennsylvania, the little stoop be-
fore the front door was almost universal. In
these outdoor lodges the family sat in sum-
mer evenings, and often in the day-time, re-
ceiving informal calls from gossiping neigh-
bors. In Albany the gargoyles projected so as
to pour rain-water from the roof far into the
street, and the town retained its quaint Dutch
character until after the Revolution. An Ital-
ian traveler compares it to " those antique vil-
lages represented in the paintings of Teniers."
After 1700 the English taste modified the
form of the houses in New York. They were
built large, some of them with a touch of mag-
nificence ; they no longer stood with gables to
the street, and many of them had balconies on
the roofs, which afforded a cool and more pri-
vate retreat than the stoop-benches, while the
outlook over the waters and islands of the bay
and rivers was very agreeable. Sycamores,
water-beech, and locusts, with some basswood
trees and elms, made abundant shade in the
New York streets. Kalm, the Swedish traveler,
declares that promenading in New York in
1750 was like walking through a garden.
The vociferous notes of tree-frogs sometimes
made it difficult to hear conversation.
In the country houses of the landed gentry
of New York we find a curious resemblance
to the houses of the great planters of the
South. Here were the same large porticoes,
and often the same wide hallway running
through the house, and here were also de-
tached kitchens for use in the summer. The
conditions of life were somewhat similar to
those at the South ; for, though the broad
acres of a great New York or New Jersey
proprietor were farmed by tenants, the house
was always filled with domestic slaves. On
the Hudson, as at the South, there was a
tendency of the landed gentry to imitate the
life of the English country families, so far as
the surrounding conditions permitted.
Besides houses in other styles, New Eng-
land had one very common form of building
that was almost peculiar to the North-east —
a house two stories high in front, the roof of
which from a sharp gable sloped down at
the back to a low story. This low portion in
the rear was called the " lean-to " ; it was
sometimes written by the colonists, as it is still
THE COLONISTS AT HOME.
877
DUTCH HOUSE IN ALBANY, N. Y. (FROM AN OLD PRINT.)
pronounced by many old-fashioned people,
"linter." Houses in New England usually
faced exactly south, so that noon-time was
marked by the sun's shining straight into the
front door. The sides were covered with rived
clapboards, the walls filled in with clay; the
ceiling overhead was left unplastered; the
floor-boards were thick and fastened with
wooden pins; the ample chimney, which
usually stood in the middle, was of stone or
brick. The lower floor was sometimes laid
below the sills, leaving those great beams
projecting into the room. Some of the dwell-
ings of the rich were very commodious; the
house of Eaton, the first governor of New
Haven colony, had nineteen fire-places, and
that of Davenport, the first minister of New
Haven, had thirteen. In these early houses
the " hall," which was entered directly by the
front door, was ample. It did not change
into an open passage through the house, as
in Virginia ; the New England climate sug-
gested an opposite transformation, and some
early houses were altered after building by
dividing the hall into smaller rooms.
In Boston the later colonial buildings were
generally of white pine, inclosed with over-
lapped siding. They were two or three stories
high, and, like similar houses in New York,
had a belvedere on the roof for the enjoyment
of fresh air in summer evenings. Though the
roofs were generally of the prevailing cedar,
a single trait of the more solid covering of the
Vol. XXIX.— 90.
English house remained : these shingle roofs
were capped with a row of ridge-tiles until
after the Revolution.
11.
FURNITURE AND INTERIORS.
A study of colonial furniture reminds us
that life with many English families in the
seventeenth century was hardly a step above
that of their barbarous Anglo-Saxon fore-
fathers. In the ruder part of North Carolina,
for example, the traveler Smyth found but
one bed in the house, occupied by the house-
holder and his wife ; while the sons and
daughters and the guest slept in a row upon
the floor, after the manner common, perhaps,
in King Alfred's day. Spotswood lodged
with one poor planter who had no bed at all,
nor was such destitution very uncommon in
pioneer regions. But the puncheon floor was
often a little mitigated for sleeping purposes
by spreading deer, buffalo, or bear skins upon
it. The pallet on the floor — "the kermis
bed," as the Dutch called it — was an occa-
sional resort even in good houses. The La-
badist travelers in 1688 sojourned in a New
Jersey tavern that put its guests to sleep on
a horse-bedding of hay before the fire; and, a
hundred years later, Chateaubriand found an
inn on the New York frontier where every-
body slept about a central post that upheld
the roof, heads outward and feet toward the
center. Such poor people in the colonies as
had tastes too luxurious to enjoy a deer-skin
WROUGHT-IRON LAMP AND SAD-IRON. (NEW YORK STATE
CABINET OF NATURAL HISTORY, ALBANY.)
878
THE COLONISTS AT HOME.
IRISH IMMIGRANT S FLAX-WHEEL.
on the hearth were
accustomed to fill
their bed-sacks and
pillows with fibrous
mistletoe, the down
of the cat-tail flag,
or with feathers of
pigeons slaughtered
from the innumera-
ble migrating flocks.
The cotton from
the milkweed, then
called " silk-grass,"
was used for pillows
and cushions.
In the houses of
^ the prosperous, good
feather and even
down beds were in
use. The Pennsylvania German smothered and
roasted himself between two of these even in
summer nights, and sometimes without sheets
or pillows. Trundle-beds, pushed under the
standing beds in the day-time, were com-
monly used; the stove-heated room of a
German settler's house often held two stand-
ing and two trundle beds.
Robert Beverley, the Virginia historian,
who lived in plenty and entertained friends
and strangers with the most cordial and in-
sistent hospitality, was probably a type of a
class of men of competent fortunes who had
been nurtured in pioneer conditions and were
content to live in substantial plainness — were
even defiant of habits of luxury and ostenta-
tion. He had good beds, but, for a wonder,
no curtains to them ; while for chairs he had
only wooden stools, made in the country.
But there was always, from the first, in every
colony, a gentry that valued very highly their
elegant furniture, particularly the bed that
stood in the parlor. And in the quarter of a
century or more before the Revolution, when
large fortunes had been acquired in trade, in
agriculture, and by the increase in the value
of lands, there came to be a very considerable
number of people in the several colonies able
to live with luxury and ostentation. These
rich provincials spent money freely in fine
furniture, seeking to purchase at one swoop
outfits that should rival the accumulations of
generations in old English houses. In the
dwellings of the richer colonial gentry, as in
the mansions of similar people in England,
there was a household idol, known as the
state bed, very much adored, and kept shut
up from vulgar eyes, to be exhibited only on
rare occasions. It was in all ways extrava-
gantly costly ; its coverlets and hangings were
sometimes richly embroidered in divers colors;
but it was stiff, ugly, uninviting, and useless,
A COLONIAL FLAX-WHEEL.
A COMFORTIER, OR CHAFING-DISH. (NEW YORK STATE
CABINET OF NATURAL HISTORY, ALBANY.)
as idols are wont to be. No ordinary family
friend was ever allowed to occupy it. In this
later and richer time wealthy householders
came to prefer the newly introduced mahog-
any wood from the West Indies to native
walnut and cherry ; some of them even had
chimney-pieces, door-casings, wainscotings,
and balusters of mahogany elaborately carved.
Since this is not the place for an antiquary's
list, I must content myself with a passing
mention of the ancient " dresser " of the earlier
colonial time, with its stock of pewter, the
dignified " chest of drawers," the carved
oaken chest for linen, and the high-backed
chairs of various grades with bottoms of hair-
cloth, of serge, of rushes, or of wood. Carpets
were little known in England and were hardly
known at all in America until near the middle
of the eighteenth century. Floors were swept
with brooms of birch or hemlock twigs, with
Indian brooms of shaved wood or of corn-
husks, or with imported brooms of hair ; some-
times the floor was dry-rubbed with sand;
sometimes the parlor floor was strewn with
sand laid off in ornamental figures. Clocks
and watches were exceedingly rare at first ;
THE COLONISTS AT HOME.
879
the noon-mark at the door told the dinner-
hour, and in some cases a sun-dial indicated
the time of day when the sun shone. In
school, in church, and in a few houses there
were hour-glasses ; but most people depended
upon their expertness in estimating time by
the sun's altitude or by guess. When two
persons, however slightly acquainted, met
upon the road, it was but an ordinary civility
for them to exchange their reckonings of the
hour, as ships give latitude and longitude to
one another at sea. " Passing the time of
day " is the well-worn phrase yet used in the
country for the exchange of commonplace
courtesies between acquaintances. The beat-
ing of a drum in the street, and, at a later
period, the ringing of the church bells, were
necessary warnings for religious and other as-
semblies. In the larger towns a curfew-bell
was sometimes rung at nine in the even-
ing, and the cry of the hour at night by the
watchman with a hand-bell must have been
very convenient where time-pieces were so
scarce.
During the eighteenth century fine pier-
glasses and dressing-glasses were affected. For
these there were frames of walnut, of olive-
wood, and of glass, as well as frames gilt and
japanned. The walls of the opulent, from
the earliest period, were sometimes hung with
rich cloth, with linen, or with tapestry repre-
senting stories from the ancient classics and
other subjects. Toward the middle of the
eighteenth century paper-hangings began to
come into vogue. The prints which adorned
the rooms in that day were of several sorts,
COLONIAL LOOM. (WARREN COUNTY, N. Y.)
such as "landskips," pictures of ships, battle-
pieces, historical scenes, and representations
of " noblemen's and gentlemen's feasts." The
paintings which hung alongside these were
portraits, made in England, of ancestors, or
more recent portraits, made by some strug-
gling provincial "limner" — that was the
genteel word — or by
some English painter
" of the highest fashion,"
to whom the wealthy
colonist had sat on a
visit " home," as the
phrase of the time ran.
That which more than
all else lent character
to the interior of the
average colonial house
was the fire-place, some-
times wide enough to
drive a cart and horses
between the jambs. The
living-room in the plain-
er houses served also for
dining-room and kitch-
en ; and here the devour-
ing fire made in sum-
mer an insufferable heat,
while in winter its tre-
mendous draught pro-
duced disagreeable air-
currents. But fire-places
so open did not always
draw well, on which
account a " chimney-
cloth " had to be used
at times to close the
upper part of the fire-
place and keep the
smoke from escaping
into the room. Logs
were sometimes drawn
on to the ample hearth
by a horse ; the chil-
dren, in the chimney-
corners Of SOme houses, watch and chain of the
. 1 v colonial period, in pos-
mignt see tne stars session of col. charles
through the capacious DRAYTON> OF drayton
0 r HALL, s. c.
chimney-top ; and the
myriads of mosquitoes that infested the woods
found ready entrance by this opening when the
fire lay dormant under the ashes in the oppres-
sive summer nights. The bonfires built in these
gaping fire-places were in accord with the rude
and hearty life of the time. One is not sur-
prised to learn that by such firesides " Chevy
Chase " and other ancient ballads of blood
and slaughter were sung. Stories of more
recent encounters with the Indians must have
mingled well with old English folk-songs ; and
witch and marvel tales had no difficulty in
obtaining credence when the last flickering
blaze had died away, and the dim light of
smoldering embers left the corners of the room
and the rugged recesses of the blackened
chimney to be peopled by the excited fancy.
In the finer houses the fire-places, at least
in the smaller rooms, were not so large, and
THE COLONISTS AT HOME.
as fuel grew scarce some of the large fire-
places in town houses were reduced by build-
ing " little chimneys " within the big ones.
Already in 1744 Franklin, living in Phila-
delphia, could speak of the great fire-place
back-plate of the stove. The manifest economy
of the German stoves probably moved Franklin
to introduce, in 1742, his " New Pennsylvania
Fire-place," which was a complicated arrange-
ment, somewhat different from the " Franklin
COLONIAL TEA-SET OF GOLD, BELONGING TO THE DRAYTONS, OF DRAYTON HALL, S. C.
as " the chimney of our fathers." In Boston,
Philadelphia, and other cities, coal brought
from over the sea was found cheaper than wood
in the later years of the colonial time. Even
where wood was abundant the Pennsylvania
Germans gained an economical advantage over
their neighbors by the use of stoves. Of these
they had more than one kind; the most
curious was made like " a box with one
side out." The open side of this stove was
outside of the room, sometimes quite outside
of the house itself, so that while the back of
the stove projected through the wall into the
room, the fire was fed from without. A trav-
eler in the middle colonies could tell at sight
that a house with a single chimney in the
middle was inhabited by Germans, and
warmed with stoves ; the English settler had
two chimneys, and a fire-place at either end
of his house. The stoves, and especially the
drums, with which last the " Pennsylvania
Dutch " heated the second-story rooms of
their dwellings, were a continual wonder to their
English neighbors and to travelers. There
was at least one Quaker meeting-house in
Pennsylvania furnished with a German stove
opening outside. The men warmed themselves
by the fire before going into meeting ; the wo-
men sat in the end of the room heated by the
stove " as we know it. There were also so-
called " stoves " in Boston soon after 1700,
but these were perhaps the open grates used
at that time in London, which stood within
the fire-places and bore the name of stoves.
With the open fire-place belonged the and-
irons, the cob-irons with hooks to hold the spit,
and the fire-dogs or creepers; sometimes all
three kinds appear to have stood in one kitchen
chimney to hold wood of various lengths at
different elevations above the hearth. A crane
or chain with pot-hooks to hold kettles al-
ways hung within the kitchen chimney; on
the hearth were skillets, griddles, pipkins, and
other vessels for cooking over the coals, and a
little three-legged trivet on which a tankard
or coffee-boiler might sit with live coals be-
neath ; and there was often a small oven in
the side of the chimney. The fire on the
hearth was rarely allowed to die out ; if by
chance the embers expired, coals were
usually brought from a neighbor's house, — a
practice that was very dangerous in towns
and villages, especially where roofs were of
thatch.
For light our ancestors learned from the
savages to burn, on the hearth or in a torch,
the bright-blazing pitch-pine, called "can-
dlewood"in New England and " lightwood "
THE COLONISTS AT HOME.
881
at the South. A rough iron lamp filled with
grease of any sort was used in some parts of
the country. Tallow " dips " were common,
molded tallow candles less so, but a candle
made of the wax of the wax-myrtle berry was
much used ; it shed a balsamic perfume when
blown out. Spermaceti candles, a fruit of the
colonial whaleries,
probably suited bet-
ter than any others
the gilt and carved
sconces, and the
" sconces with fine
braSS arms," which spectacles worn by Patrick
are advertised in
New York, and such chandeliers as one sees
yet in the Bull-Pringle mansion at Charles-
ton. Candlesticks were of pewter, of iron, of
brass, and of silver ; one pair is noted in a
Connecticut inventory of 1640 as of" wyer"
— that is, perhaps, of twisted metal.
in.
MEATS AND DRINKS.
The most brilliant and accomplished Vir-
ginia gentleman of his time laid it down as a
maxim, in 1728, that "pewter bright" was
the mark of a good housewife, and the same
standard was accepted in New England. In-
deed, the colonial period might be called
the pewter age. Pewter was getting the bet-
ter of wooden ware when America was set-
tled, and it was yielding to porcelain at the
era of American Independence. The first
colonists in many cases used great wooden
platters to serve meats in. Their plates were
sometimes mere square blocks of wood ; but
some of these were rounded into form on
the lathe. One finds the trade of dish-
turning followed in New Jersey as late as
1675. But from the first planting of the col-
onies well-to-do people affected pewter, and an
ample collection of this ware was a sign of
prosperity. All kinds of household vessels,
even bottles, were made of pewter. People
drank from " cans " or mugs of pewter, glass,
or silver ; they ate their porridge and their In-
dian mush from small bowl-shaped pewter
porringers, which, like the cans, had handles.
From pewter plates or wooden trenchers the
first-comers ate without forks. There were
spoons of pewter, or better of a mixed metal
called " alchymy," but fingers were much more
serviceable at the table then than now.
It was characteristic of the seventeenth
century that, along with a rather scant assort-
ment of articles necessary and convenient,
there should be many things whose chief use
was display. A considerable part of the es-
tate of a well-to-do family was invested in
household plate ; partly, perhaps, because
secure investments for capital were not easy
to find. In the house of a leading man, an
ample reserve of
silverware stood
always ready to
outshine on state
occasions the
burnished pew-
ter of every-day
life. The incom-
ing of tea and
coffee opened a
new field for the
silversmith in the
MILLIGAN'S
zohs
WINDSOR CHAIR. FACSIMILE OF A CUT IN THE " NEW
YORK WEEKLY GAZETTE AND POST-BOY." (1765.)
eighteenth cen- advertisement from the "new
fnr-17- Tn cilvf>r YORK WEEKLY GAZETTE AND
iury. ±u biivci post-boy." (1765.)
tankards, beak-
ers, and double-handled cups for stronger
liquors, there were added tea-services of silver
and even of gold.
With the new "china drink" came china
cups and saucers, and from that moment por-
celain began to threaten the reign of pewter,
which, however, gave ground but slowly.
The early tea-cups contained about a gill; the
tea-pot was a little globular vessel holding
about a pint. Sometimes, by way of extra
finery, the pretty china tea-pot had its nozzle
tipped off with silver.
English usages held their own for a while
in the colonies, in affairs relating to food.
The New England town community in some
cases provided bolting-mills, where each man
might bolt his own flour. People in the more
considerable towns of the colonies long pre-
served the English custom of buying their
bread fresh at the baker's, and the price and
weight of bread were regularly fixed by au-
thority. Among the " happy blessings " for
which a writer of 1698 thinks the people of
Philadelphia should be devoutly thankful, are
Vol. XXIX.— 91.
882
THE COLONISTS AT HOME.
COLONIAL WIGS. (DRAWN FROM PORTRAITS IN MEMORIAL HALL, HARVARD UNIVERSITY, AND THE ROOMS OF THE
MASSACHUSETTS HISTORICAL SOCIETY.)
" several cook-shops, both Roasting and Boyl-
ing, as in the city of London." Fish-days —
not the Fridays and fast-days of " popish "
observance, but good Protestant fish-days —
had long been prescribed in England. This
was in order that the reformation of religion
might not increase the consumption and en-
hance the price of meat, and especially that
the fisheries might not fail of support, and so
the naval strength of a Protestant nation be
weakened by the decrease of sailors. Following
this example, the Massachusetts people duti-
fully ate salt cod-fish dressed with butter and
hard-boiled eggs on Saturdays, the year round,
and this lasted until after the Revolution.
The conflict between old habits and the
pressure of new conditions, which extended
to every department of life, showed itself cu-
riously in the preparation of food. The break-
fast which the English settlers transplanted
from England was a frugal one, consisting of
" a draught of beer and a toast, or a hunk of
bread and cheese, or a wooden noggin of
good porridge and bread." " Milk and bread
boiled, or tea with bread and butter, or milk
coffee " with similar accompaniments appear
to have been later forms a little less frugal.
The thin porridge of peas and beans, with but
a savor of meat, seems to have been a common
breakfast. In some parts of New England this
WIGS AND WIG-BAG. FACSIMILE OF A CUT IN THE "NEW
WEEKLY GAZETTE AND POST-BOY." (1771.)
porridge appears to have lingered through the
whole colonial period, though its place was dis-
puted by the new mush of Indian meal to which
the people of the north-eastern colonies trans-
ferred the name "hasty-
pudding," — a name ap-
plied to a porridge of
oatmeal in some parts
of England. But mush
and milk was oftener
used for supper among
frugal people. In the
Middle and South break-
fast very early came to
be a substantial meal,
with a basis of some kind
of salt meat. One of the
commonest dinner dish-
es in New England, es-
pecially in winter, was
the Indian pudding,
which was almost an
exact copy from aborig-
inal cookery. It was
made of Indian meal
with which dried fruit
was mixed, and it was
enveloped in a bag and
boiled for many hours in the omnivorous pot
that held the meat and vegetables. But In-
dian meal, like pumpkin pie, was
eaten by the first New Englanders
as an unwelcome makeshift ; it was
thought injurious to those not hab-
ituated to it. Perhaps it was this
feeling which led to the invention
of that compound and compromise
known as "rye and Indian," which
was used in the Wednesday bread-
baking of the New Englander, and
also to make a sort of johnny-cake.
HEAD-DRESS OF A CITY
BELLE, 1776. (FROM THE
MSS. OF JOHN F. WATSON,
IN THE PHILADELPHIA
LIBRARY.)
THE COLONISTS AT HOME.
883
The Dutch in Albany and
New York, like the New Eng-
enders, seem to have held
on to certain habits of the
fatherland, retaining an espe-
cial liking for great salads
with bacon and "picked but-
termilk." An English clergy-
man of the time explains that
it was in consequence of this
diet that the New York Dutch
ii- i . i Costume of Thomas Han-
Were Obliged tO Smoke SO cock. Black velvet coat,
i //,i ,i" 11 waistcoat, and breeches.
much : " to keep their phlegm (About i7s5.) *
from coagulating and curdling."
The abundance of Indian corn did more
than anything else to change the diet of the
colonists. Where mills could not be erected, it
was pounded in mortars, or ground in querns
after having been soaked. Hominy, at
first merely the coarser bits left in the rude
grinding or pounding, was usually cooked in
milk where milk was to be had, and formed
the staple food of the poor in the middle and
southern regions. Although the upper class
made it a point to have wheaten bread upon
the table, many of them preferred the pone
baked from the meal of Indian corn. As early
as 1 7 20, the Southern habit of having a wheaten
loaf warm from the
oven every day was
Collar of Gov. Edward Winslow.
(About 1645.)
Collar of Gor. John Endicott.
(About 1655.)
remarked upon, and the custom remains to-
day as fixed and characteristic as the equally
ancient and persistent custom of having Sun-
day baked beans in New England.
The broiling of meats of all kinds upon the
bare live coals was one of the resorts by which
pioneer life made amends for the scarcity of
utensils, and those accustomed to meat thus
prepared easily came to account it more deli-
cate and savory than that which was cooked
with the intervention of a gridiron. So, also,
potatoes, green corn, sweet potatoes, and
squashes were accounted delicious
when roasted in the Indian way, by
burying in the hot ashes. Apples
and eggs and "ro'sin' ears," or green
corn, were sometimes baked by lay-
ing them between the andirons in
front of the fire. Cakes of Indian
corn meal, of buckwheat flour, or of "rye and
Indian," were baked on a stone, or a hoe, or
Cuff of Nicho-
las Boylston.
(About 1760.)
ston. White satin waist-
coat, gold trimming.
(ADout 1720. )
an oak board, or a pewter plate, before the fire.
One finds "a good baking stone" advertised
for sale at Princeton, New Jersey, in 1750.
These modes of cooking were probably of
Indian derivation, as was, beyond doubt, the
baking of the " ash-cake " under the ashes.
The fruits of the country were all pressed into
service to give variety to the settler's diet; dried
peaches were cooked with meats when vege-
tables were scarce in Pennsylvania, and the
North Carolinians even made puddings and
what they called tarts of the American papaw.
Besides the salads familiar to us, some of the
early colonists, following a very ancient English
practice, used violets and
roses both for salads and to
flavor broth; they also made
a salad of the flowers of the
sassafras, but the blossoms
of the red-bud tree were es-
teemed the best of all. Sas-
safras flowers, "when gath-
ered from the husky bud,"
made a "curious preserve,"
and poke leaves were boiled
for spinach, as were many
Other plantS. It WaS in a Costume of Thoma ; Boyl-
search after salads or plants
for " greens " that some of
the soldiers in Bacon's rebellion discovered
the poisonous properties of stramonium. After
eating its leaves, they suffered a delirium of
several days, whence the plant got its name
of Jamestown weed, long since corrupted to
its present form of "jimson weed."
The change of dietary habits which was
wrought partly by Indian corn in the middle
and Chesapeake colonies was probably, in the
Carolinas, due more to the sweet potato, which
was so abundant that even the slaves ate it.
The root was cooked in many ways; it was
was roasted under the ash-
es, it was boiled, it was
made into puddings, it was
used as a substitute for
bread, it was made into
pancakes, which were eaten
with tea for breakfast, and
which to a foreigner tasted
" as though composed of
sweet almonds."
Except in the houses of
the higher classes, the table
provision in England in the
period of American settlement was meager.
The abundance of wild food and the fertility
of the soil made the living in America some-
what more plentiful and varied; but even
Costume of Peter Faneuil
Velvet coat, cloth waist-
coat, velvet ruffles.
(About 1740.)
* All of the illustrations of costume in this article are from portraits of Americans resident in the colonies,
li except where otherwise described. Many of these are from the collection in Memorial Hall, Cambridge, and
i that of the Massachusetts Historical Society.
884
THE COLONISTS AT HOME.
velvet coat — col-
lar not rounded.
(About 1765.)
during the Revolution the diet
of a Connecticut farmer was
said to be " like that of the
ancient patriarchs." " Vege-
tables, maize, milk, and butter"
were " their ordinary nourish-
ment," according to the Abbe
Robin ; " the use of the insipid
beverage," tea, was the onlyCostumeofGov.Thomas
luxury. The lower classes in 'Jg^.fi'Sg8
Virginia ate more meat and
drank no tea. " Meat, bread,
and milk was the ordinary food of all my ac-
quaintance," says Jarratt. On the other hand,
the tables of the rich in all the colonies were
lavishly supplied ; there was, indeed, a general
conviction that Americans ate too much meat.
Alcoholic stimulants were not held in as low
repute as they are by the majority of Ameri-
cans to-day ; they were not even ranked as
luxuries, but were about as necessary a pro-
vision as bread. In the reign of James I. the
sailors in the king's navy were supplied with
a gallon of beer daily;
a gallon of beer was
served with every pound
of bread. Bradford, the
pilgrim governor, com-
plains of his deprivation
of beer; and Higginson,
the pioneer minister of
Salem, makes it a mat-
ter for boast that he
could and did " often-
times drink New England water very well."
Many repented their coming during the first
winter in Salem, when beer was scarce ; it was
thought a great mark of fortitude that " even
the most honored as well as others" con-
tentedly rejoiced " in a cup of cold water,"
for water in that day was rarely drunk at all.
In 1627 it was a proof of returning prosperity
in Virginia that " few of the upper planters
drinke any water." But twenty-nine years
later beer had already grown
scarce in Virginia. In many
places in 1656 the distressed
traveler could find nothing
stronger than water, or milk
and water, or "beverige," which
last appears to have been a
drink made of molasses and
water. One of the earliest signs
of the change of English habits
in the new environment was this decline of
malt liquors, which was petulantly attrib-
uted to "idle good-wives," too lazy to brew.
Bristol beer continued to be imported and
highly esteemed in Virginia, and English
malt was also brought over. But barley was
not a chief grain, and brewing was incon-
Costume of Rev. Thomas Prince.
Black silk coat and scarf.
(About 1740.)
Costume of Benjamin
Pollard. (About
1755- )
venient in a new country. Rum, or "kill-
devil," as it was everywhere called, was ren-
dered plentiful by the trade with the West
Indies and by the New England stills. It
was cheap, portable, and strong enough to
bear dilution in punch, toddy, flip, and grog.
The abundant growth of apples made cider
more abundant even than rum. Trade brought
various kinds of wines from Spain, Portugal,
and the Canaries ; but Madeira was the favor-
ite drink of the fashionable
and luxurious in all the
colonies.
A people so full of in-
genious makeshifts as the
English settlers naturally
tried many new experi-
ments, and applied manv CostumeofJ°hnWentworth»
.. ' . rl r , . J Lt.-Gov. of N. H. Neck
Old deVlCeS IOr prOdUCmg scarf and slashed sleeve.
... i J • 1 r*m J (About 1770.)
stimulant drinks. Cider
they reenforced by distilling it into " pupe-
lo," or brandy ; and, wherever the supply of
rum was inadequate on account of the dis-
tance from seaports or lack of trade, a com-
mon resort was a destructive brandy dis-
tilled from the great quantities
of peaches raised on every farm.
Brandy was also made from cher-
ries, plums, persimmons, wild
crab-apples, and grapes ; in some
regions there was a still in nearly
every house. The Irish, Scotch,
and German immigrants made
costume of Gov. whisky from rye, wheat, barley,
L0ancaethafaiFelcfroem and potatoes, and it was soon
riecchkko!deia£fflon found that Indian corn would
coat, ve"vet wcaat serve as well. The colonists
(About 1745- ) brought from England the an-
cient art of making metheglin or mead from
honey and water. That made in the colonies
was praised on all hands ; it was " as good
as Malaga sack." A so-called metheglin was
made from the sweet bean of the honey-
locust, and some projectors in Virginia even
set out plantations of that thorniest of all trees.
People of delicate tastes ground pears to make
perry, but the " quince-drink "
was preferred by epicures to
all other liquors of the country.
Innumerable weaker drinks, as
substitutes for home-brewed
beer, were tried by colonists
whose race had long lost the
art of drinking water. One
of the earliest of these was
Costume of Charles
made by putting molasses with Paxton, commissioner
J r _. ° . of Customs. Velvet
bran or Indian corn m water, coat, sca.-.et edge, em-
r . broidered waistcoat,
When fermented, this pro- tie, wig, shirt ruffled
1 1 . ' r stifflawn. (About i77°- J
duced a refreshing beverage
still used in Virginia. " Beer " was also made
from Indian corn meal dried like malt,
THE COLONISTS AT HOME.
From portrait of Mrs. Simeon
Stoddard. (About 1725.)
From portrait of Mrs. Anna
Gee. (About 1745.)
From portrait of Mrs. Mary
Sinibert. (About 1735.)
From portrait of Mrs. Thomas
Boylston. (About 1765.)
COSTUMES OF WOMEN IN THE AMERICAN COLONIES.
from baked cakes of a paste of persimmons,
from the green stalks of the Indian corn cut
small and bruised, from potatoes, and from
Jerusalem artichokes. These were Virginia
methods. The commonest small beer of the
northern colonies was made by mixing a de-
coction from spruce or birch or sassafras twigs
with molasses and water, or, better still, by
boiling the twigs in the sap of the sugar maple.
Arts like this came in some form, no doubt, from
England, since early Massachusetts colonists,
deprived of beer, boast, in an ancient ballad :
"We can make liquor to sweeten our lips
Of pumpkins, and parsnips, and walnut-tree chips."
These mild drinks, of which there were
varieties that I have not thought it worth
while to name, were chiefly for women and
children, whose heads could not bear much
rum, and for men between times and when
rum was scarce. There was no class in the
colonies that could be called temperate, if
judged by modern American standards ; our
forefathers were a most thirsty people. Even
their wines were of those fiery kinds which
are backed up with brandy. Drinking was
universal. The birth of a child, the moving
into a new house, the taking possession of a
piece of land, the induction of a new minis-
ter, an election of officers, the assembling of
a court, of a body of clergymen, of a Quaker
yearly meeting, weddings, funerals, auctions,
buyings and sellings, arrivals and departures,
and even religious meetings in private houses,
were occasions for drinking. In Boston, and
perhaps elsewhere, the great punch-bowl
came on the table first of all ; the master of
the house, after setting an example, sent
around the table the cup that he had drunk
from, that each guest might drink in turn.
A " generous bottle " of fiery Madeira topped
off every dinner among the gentry in New
York. In Virginia a host now and then showed
his hospitality by locking the door and cheer-
ily notifying his guests that no man might
depart until all were drunk.
Even after Puritan magistrates had ceased
to punish the habitual drunkard by hanging
a letter D about his neck, and when they no
longer sent an officer to watch a stranger lest
he drink too much, there was less of down-
right intemperance in Massachusetts than else-
where ; but there was an abundance of dis-
tressing excess even in Massachusetts. The
outspoken Governor Belcher officially ex-
pressed his fear that the people of Massa-
chusetts would " be deluged with spirituous
liquors." In 1744 an effort was made to work
a reform by persuading men to abstain from
" unreasonable tippling in the forenoon " ;
and there was a similar movement in Penn-
sylvania. The potency and frequency of
drams increased as one went southward. It
was estimated early in the eighteenth cen-
tury that about one building in every ten
in Philadelphia was used in some way for the
sale of rum. In a diary we find the young
lady guests at a Virginia country house hav-
ing their beds moved into the chamber of
a married lady, in anticipation of the return
of the young gentlemen of the house from a
dinner-party, drunk. " The gentlemen ar-
rived, and we had to scamper. Both tipsy ! "
writes the young lady diarist, with evident en-
joyment of the adventure, though one of the
From portrait of the wife of Governor
Dudley.
From portrait of Mrs. Nathaniel
Appleton. (About 1760.)
From portrait of Major Robert From portrait of Jonathan Mason.
Pike. (About 1690.; (About 1695.)
COSTUMES OF WOMEN IN THE COLONIES.
COSTUMES OF MEN IN THE COLONIES.
SS6
THE COLONISTS AT HOME.
tipsy youths was her brother. Dr. Ramsay,
in his history of South Carolina, declares
drunkenness to be endemic there. Many
gentlemen of ^fortune in that province short-
ened their days by intemperance, and hence
many great estates were in the control
of widows. We are told by a writer of the
young ladies in Connecticut who, in their
eagerness to test the new drink, boiled it in a
kettle and served it like broth, with the leaves
for thickening. Coffee was never so generally
drunk as tea in any of the colonies.
The excessive and destructive use of strong
liquors attracted less attention than the
time that South Carolina ladies rarely drank rapid advance of tea-drinking, which excited
anything but water, and this certainly could many ludicrous fears in the breasts of conser-
not be said of any other class in the colonies.
Trivial as it may seem,
the coming in of choco-
late, tea, and coffee marks
a considerable advance
in refinement. The tea-
party was often insipid ; but it was society on
Cuff and buttons, from velvet
coat of John Adams.
(About 1760.)
vative people. It was urged in the " New
York Gazette " of 1730 that tea produced fatal
effects on the health, and was especially inju-
rious to the mind. The frequent loss of teeth
in America was set down to the account of
tea, when it had chardly been in general use
for one generation. " Our people," says the
its good behavior, while the rival " drinking colonial historian of New York in 1756, "are
frolic " was beastliness in good clothes. Tea
and coffee began to get a foothold in Eng-
land at the Restoration ; they first appear in
the statute-book in 1660, and they were rare
for years after that date. Early in the eight-
eenth century, tea, accompanied by porce-
lain from which to drink it, and sometimes
lacquered tables to serve it on, began to
make some figure in the houses of the
colonial gentry, who readily followed an
English fashion. Before 1725, tea — "green
and bohea" — had not only become estab-
lished in the larger towns, but had found
a secure lodgment among the country gentry
of Virginia and the Carolinas ; in North
Carolina the " better sort " early showed a
preference for such " sober liquors." When
" beaux " were announced in the afternoon,
Virginia young ladies were accustomed to go
out into the hall and pour tea for them. The
Dutch of New York became very fond of the
new beverage ; they drank it after a fashion
shamefully gone into tea-drinking," and an
Annapolis broadside of 1774 calls it "that
detestable weed, tea." In 1742 Benjamin Lay,
the Quaker Elijah, went into the
market-place in Philadelphia at
noon-time, during a general meet-
ing of the Society of Friends, and
"bore a testimony" against tea-
drinking by mounting a huckster's
stall and breaking piece by piece
with a hammer a valuable lot of
china-ware that had belonged to his
deceased wife. In vain the crowd
sought to stay his hand bv offering Knee-buttons
1 . -i j • ■• and clasp, shoe-
to buy the dainty cups and sau- buckle and shoe.
, •, , J \ . . (John Adams.)
cers ; the people at last pushed
the enthusiast down and carried off what was
left of the china. The great popularity of tea-
drinking was probably due in part to the wide-
spread notion that it was a novel and rather
dangerous dissipation. But all the effects sup-
posed to come from tea-drinking were not bad,
for the Abbe Robin, who says that
the Americans took tea at least
twice a day, attributes to this
beverage the ability of the Revo-
lutionary soldiers to endure the
military punishment of flogging.
The fondness for tobacco was
general. In Virginia pipes were
eagerly lighted as soon as the min-
ister had made an end of the ser-
vices. In New York women of
of their own, laying by each cup a lump of fashion opened their snuff-boxes at the table,
sugar, wrhich they put into the mouth and and, if we may believe the satirist, tendered
Quaker bonnet. Black silk bonnet. Musk-melon bonnet.
(FROM THE MSS. OF JOHN F. WATSON, IN THE PHILADELPHIA LIBRARY.)
held there while they sipped the tea. It is
significant that the famous well from which
pure water was carted into New York to
be sold in the street was known as the
" tea-water pump." Tea made its way in
New England much more slowly than else-
where, and was not in general use until
about the middle of the century. There
a pinch to the church-warden when he came
around with the collection-box. The "irrever-
ant habit " of taking snuff and chewing tobacco
in meeting was frequently reprobated by the
Society of Friends. But Boston was the best
market for snuff. The early law-makers of
Massachusetts had sought to put tobacco
under ban, or at least to hamper it, after the
is a pretty well authenticated story of some example set in England, where tobacco was
THE COLONISTS AT HOME.
887
forbidden in ale-houses because
it was believed to excite a thirst
for strong drink. But revered
preachers became fond of the
pipe, and the restrictions were
quite broken down by their ex-
ample. Groups of New England
ministers were wont to fill a room
so full of smoke that it became
Costume of a Vir- . - .
ginia lady. (From a stmmg. Long before the close
colonial portrait. ) r -, -. ,
of the seventeenth century, ladies
of social standing in New England " smoked
it," as the phrase ran; and in 1 708 one finds the
Governor of Massachusetts showing friendly
feeling by sociably smoking a pipe with the
wife of Judge Sewall. The wide fire-places of
the early time were convenient outlets for
tobacco smoke, and Franklin suggested that
where his stove was substituted a hole should
be made directly into the flue, so arranged that
it could be opened when a room became too
full of smoke. But the New York Dutch prob-
ably excelled all the other colonists in unin-
termitting devotion to the pipe ; a writer who
knew them in the last years of the seven-
teenth century calls them " obstinate and in-
cessant smokers."
IV.
DRESS.
Dress was an affair of some solemnity with
our forefathers. Clothes were a badge of
rank: to dress above one's station was an
affront to superiors; and disrespect to rank
and dignity was a kind of minor blasphemy
in the seventeenth century. In 1623 no Vir-
ginians but those who were of the governor's
council were allowed to wear silk ; and in 165 1,
thirty years after the last sumptuary law had
been passed in the British Islands, the Gen-
eral Court of Massachusetts expressed its
" utter detestation and dislike that men or
women of meane condition, educations and
callinges should take uppon them the garbe of
gentlemen, by the wearinge of gold or silver
lace, or buttons, or poynts at theire knees, to
walke in greate boots, or women of the same
ranke to weare silke or tiffany hoodes or
scarfes." But magistrates and public officers,
and their families, and persons of property of
a certain amount, are by this act " left to
theire discretion in wearinge of apparrill."
Part of the New England sumptuary legis-
lation had its origin in a puritanic aversion
to display and extravagance, but in the act
cited above there is evident a desire to repress
unbecoming self-assertion in people of the
lower orders. In like manner, the titles Mr.
and Mrs. were only given to those of a cer-
tain rank; a plain man was addressed as
" Goodman " So-and-so, and a woman in the
same station as " Goodwife " ; this last was
often abbreviated to " Goody." No one
might enlist in the Massachusetts Cavalry
unless he were a man of a certain amount of
property. Lads in college had their names ar-
ranged in the catalogue, not by scholarship or
seniority, but by the relative dignity of their
family connections ; and a boy in Harvard was
required to give the baluster side of the stairs
Mourning Rings. (Permission of Dr. G. E. Manigault, Charleston, S. C.)
Costume of a burgomaster of New Amsterdam. (From a portrait in the
New York Historical Society.)
to his social superior. Committees in the sev-
eral New England towns gave their days and
nights to marking with religious care the
nicer distinctions of social importance in as-
signing seats in church to the villagers. In
some old Virginia churches the gallery-pews
were the post of honor, and were studiously
monopolized by the chief families of the
parish. Among Virginians the great social
line between gentlemen and non-gentlemen
was marked by the wig. The Rev. Devereux
Jarratt was born below the periwig line, and
he confesses that in boyhood he used to leave
the road and skulk in the woods to avoid con-
fronting a person with this appalling badge
of gentility. When Jarratt himself was about
to set up as a school-master, he bought
a cast-off wig from a slave in order
to appear with professional dignity in
a new neighborhood.
Any attempt to describe with full-
ness the costume of the colonists would
carry me into the complex details of the
888
THE COLONISTS AT HOME.
Costume from an old portrait. (New York Historical Society.)
fluctuations of English dress in the seventeenth
and eighteenth centuries; for the richer Ameri-
cans kept up a resolute stern-chase of the Eng-
lish fashions of the time. To dress in the manner
of " the best fashion at home " was the object
of social ambition in the colonies. True, the
Puritans at the outset justified their nickname
of Roundhead by fighting hard, for St. Paul's
sake, against long hair on the head of men.
In Virginia, on the other hand, long hair was
universal in the days before periwigs. Cutting
the hair short was the brand of disgrace and the
mark of identification affixed to a servant
who ran away before his term of inden-
ture had expired. New England Puritanism
was pretty successful in its fight against long
hair, but when in the reign of Charles II. the
periwig reappeared, it proved too enticing for
human vanity to resist. In vain did some of
the ministers and magistrates of Massachu-
setts denounce periwigs as a thing abominable,
struggling against the wicked fashion, with
books and in many hand-to-hand contests by
personal interviews with offenders. And in
vain did Sewall, in the very last days of the
seventeenth century, walk boldly into meeting
with his partly bald head protected by a little
black cap, for a testimony against them. The
portraits of the later magnates of New Eng-
land show how completely the wig triumphed
over the heads of its opponents. Even the
Philadelphia Friends, with their declared
hatred to superfluity, yielded to the wig.
The periwig probably succumbed at length
to the very completeness of its victory. Not
only did men of dignity wear it, but many
, and even in Charleston there
varieties of
humbler men came to follow their example.
One finds half-fed country school-masters in
wigs; tradesmen proceeded also to shave off"
their natural hair and don the mass of thread,
silk, horse-hair, or woman's hair, with which
wigs of various kinds were compounded.
Apprentice-lads under twenty are described
in advertisements of runaways as wearing
wigs; hired servants aped the quality, and
transported rogues were tricked out in wigs
to make them marketable.
Soon after 1750, perhaps, the decline of the
wig set in; but the exuberant fancy of the
age still made the heads of gentlemen to
blossom. The wig-maker's tortures fell upon
the natural hair : it was curled, frizzled, and
powdered; it was queued or clubbed. ' The
man of dignity, even the fashionable clergy-
man, sat long beneath the hands of the barber
every day of his life. Side-locks and dainty
little toupees were cultivated. The "mac-
caroni " — type and pink of the most de-
bauched English dandyism — made his ap-
pearance in 1774 in the fashionable assemblies
of Charleston
were two
these creatures : the
one wore the hair club-
bed, the other pre-
ferred the dangling
queue. The rage for
growing the longest
possible switch of hair
infected the lower
classes ; sailors and
boatmen wrapped in
eel-skin their cherished
locks, and the back-
countryman in some
places was accustomed to preserve his from
injury by enveloping it in a piece of bear's-gut
dyed red, or clubbing it in a buckskin bag.
The dressing of women's hair kept pace with
that of men. The " commode " or " tower "
head-dress rose to a great height in the days
of Queen Anne, and then declined to rise into
a new deformity in the years just preceding
the American Revolution. In 177 1 a bright
young girl in Boston wrote to her mother in
the country a description of the construction
upon her own head of one of these coiffures,
composed of a roll of red cow's tail mixed
Costume of the wife of Gov. Spots-
wood, of Va. (About 1720.)
** *****
SILHOUETTES OF PHILADELPHIA COLONISTS.
THE COLONISTS AT HOME.
889
DUTCH COSTUME. (FROM AN ENGRAVING ON THE TANKARD PRESENTED TO SARAH RAPELJE,
THE FIRST WHITE PERSON BORN IN NEW NETHERLAND.)
with horse-hair and a little human hair of a
yellow color, all carded and twisted together
and built up until by actual measurement the
superstructure was an inch longer than the
face below it. Of a hair-dresser at work on
another lady's head, she says : " I saw him
twist and tug and pick and cut off whole locks
of gray hair at a slice for the space of an
SHOE OF THE KIND WORN BY THE PALATINES. (STATE
AGRICULTURAL SOCIETY, ALBANY, N. Y.)
Vol. XXIX.— 92.
hour and a half, when I left him, he seeming
not to be near done." One may judge of the
vital necessity there was for all this art from
the fact that a certain lady in Annapolis about
the close of the colonial period was accustomed
to pay six hundred dollars a year for the dress-
ing of her hair. On great occasions the hair-
dresser's time was so fully occupied that some
ladies were obliged to have their mountainous
coiffures built up two days beforehand, and to
sleep sitting in their chairs, or, according to a
Philadelphia tradition, with their heads in-
closed in a box.
The clothes of early settlers, except of those
of the highest rank, must have been simple ;
but increasing wealth brought increasing elab-
oration and display in the costumes worn in
towns and among the country gentry of the
tobacco and rice-growing provinces, where
many planters, lawyers, and factors acquired
fortune and had an abundant leisure. In-
deed, the fluctuation of English fashions can
be quickly traced in all the provinces. When
women's dresses were worn audaciously low
in the immodest days of the Stuarts, the
minister of the Old South, in Boston, found
it needful to denounce " naked breasts "
in a sermon on the seventh commandment.
890
THE COLONISTS AT HOME.
AN ENGLISH GENTLEMAN — 1640. (FROM A PRINT AFTER
SIR GODFREY KNELLER.)
The " plate-silver " buttons made of Spanish
dollars and smaller coins, which flourished in
England in the days of Queen Anne, were
also worn in America. One of the curious
minor traits of costume for some years before
the Revolution was the wearing of paste
brilliants. Gentlemen's shoe-buckles shone
with this cheap luster, and women wore paste
combs, paste pins, and even — though it hardly
seems worth while — paste garnets.
Next to the hair-dresser's business in im-
portance must have been that of the dealer
in silver buckles for the knees and ankles, and
the maker of stays. Even children were laced,
and one man announces that he can make stays
in which " crooked women and children will
appear straight." Hoopskirts a few years be-
fore the middle of the eighteenth century
attained an expansion that would be incred-
ible if it were not avouched by all the pictures
of the time.
Watches for the pocket were first made in
England in 1658, and their use in the colo-
nies was late and confined to the richer classes.
Some of the colonial watches were of very large
size ; one reads of the theft of a large strik-
ing watch, with an inner case of brass and an
outer of silver, " with round holes to let the
sound out." Some of the watches in the
eighteenth century had exterior cases of fish-
skin, studded and hooped with silver. It was
customary to attach the key and two or three
seals to the watch by a leathern string.
" Umbrilloes " were madeof oiled linen; they
were unknown until late in the colonial period,
and the use of them by men was accounted a
sign of effeminacy. Sun-fans of green paper
were sometimes used by ladies to shield the
face, and green masks were worn to protect
the face in riding ; black velvet masks were
used in New England as a shield from the
cold. The mask was held in place by means
of a silver mouth-piece.
The distinctive mark of the laboring man
was that his ordinary breeches, his jacket,
waistcoat, doublet or coat, were usually of
leather, of sheep-skin or deer-skin. Entire
suits of deer-skin were worn on Sunday in the
newer parts of the country, and backwoods
rustics were familiarly known as " buckskins."
Coats were sometimes made of bear-skin ;
raccoon-skin was also worn, and the tails
of the raccoon were used for mufflers. Silks,
satins, velvets, silver, gold, jewels, true and
false, and fabrics in gay colors were freely used
in the dress of gentlemen of that day. Besides
the showy buckles at the knees and in the
shoes, there was the jaunty cocked hat upon
the head; there were the shirts with ruffled
bosoms and cuffs, and gold sleeve-buttons;
breeches of rich stuffs and vivid colors. The
Friends made amends by the richness of their
fabrics for the plainness of their patterns ;
some of them ventured to wear starched cuffs
and silver buckles ; for their laxity these
were dubbed " wet Quakers." The lower
A PURITAN GENTLEMAN OF 1650. (FROM AN OLD COPPER-
PLATE.)
THE COLONISTS AT HOME.
891
AN ENGLISH GENTLEMAN — I7OO. (FROM BARNARD'S " HISTORY
OF ENGLAND.")
classes must have been equally given to gay
colors, unless we conclude that all renegade
servants stole their masters' garments. Bond-
men ran away, according to the advertise-
ments, in blue breeches adorned with red puffs,
leather breeches with red puffs, coats with
blue shoulder-knots, carved silver shoe-
buckles, and one with a green waistcoat but-
toned with octagonal metal buttons of two
sorts, and bound with green cord. One ser-
vant carries off a black silk crape jacket, lined
with black silk and laced on both sides with
green lace. In the " Virginia Gazette " there is
advertised a joiner from Ireland who must
have been clad in his master's finery, for he
wears a blue broadcloth frock-coat with metal
buttons^ — a garment that was dear to the
Southern gentleman everywhere, — and he
has also a green silk waistcoat with gold but-
tons and vellum button-holes. In Andover,
Massachusetts, a well-to-do farmer when he
died left behind him, besides other garments,
a red coat and breeches, a blue coat and
breeches, and a dark-green coat and jacket.
The Abbe Robin tells of New Jersey women
with their hair fashionably dressed, driving
country wagons drawn by high-mettled horses
into the lines of the French army to sell pro-
visions; and, Frenchman though he is, Robin
is ever surprised at the fine dressing of ladies
in the American cities.
The frontiersmen and hunters did not quite
escape the prevailing fondness for the deco-
rative and fanciful in dress. That some of
them clubbed and some of them queued their
hair, I have already remarked. Their " hunt-
ing-shirt," which served for vest and coat also,
was of linsey-woolsey or buckskin in winter
and of tow-linen in the summer. It had many
fringes and a broad belt about the middle.
The hunter wore either breeches of buckskin
or thin trousers ; over these he fastened
coarse woolen leggins tied with garters or
laced well up to the thigh, as a defense against
mud, serpents, insects, and thorns. He wore
moccasins, and covered his head with a flap-
ped hat of a reddish hue, or a cap. The sharp
tomahawk stuck in his belt served for weapon,
for hatchet, for hammer, and for a whole kit
of tools besides. The shot-bag and powder-
horn completed his outfit; the powder-horn
was his darling, and upon it he lavished all
the resources of his ingenuity, carving it with
whimsical devices of many sorts. And there
was probably less that was in false taste in
UNIFORM OF THE 43D REGIMENT OF FOOT, RAISED IN
AMERICA. (1740.)
Black hat, white binding, scarlet coat, collar, waistcoat, and breeches,
light-green lapels and cuffs, white skirt facings, belts and leggins,
silver buttons. (From a drawing in the British Museum.)
892
THE COLONISTS AT HOME.
A LADY OF QUALITY — 1640. (FROM BARNARD'S
"HISTORY OF ENGLAND.")
the woodsman's outfit than in any costume of
the period.
The ordinary dress of country people was
of cloth, spun, dyed, and woven at home. The
greater wheel for spinning wool, the little
treadle- wheel for flax, the great hand-loom,
and the unsavory dye-kettle in the chimney-
corner were common articles of house-furniture.
The country people were usuallytheir own tail-
ors, and sometimes their own shoe-makers.
Rustics wore " skills," that is, a kind of short,
wide trousers, reaching to a little below the
knee, and these, by extension, came in time to
take the form of the modern trousers. Well-to-
do countrymen, in some cases, wore trousers in-
stead of the conventional short-clothes, and
even ventured into places of public amuse-
ment thus attired; and they often went
about in public without shoes or stockings.
A dozen years after the close of the Rev-
olution, one of the regulations of a dancing
assembly in a Pennsylvania town read : " No
gentleman to enter the ball-room without
breeches, or to be allowed to dance without
his coat."
But when we pass out of the region of home-
spun we are at once struck with a fondness
for ornamentation in the people of the eight-
eenth century that seems to us childish. The
bright-colored coats, waistcoats, and breeches,
the display of gold and silver buttons and
buckles, the abundant shimmering of paste
jewelry, the cocking up of hat-brims, the ruf-
fled shirt, the frizzled wigs, the " craped " and
powdered hair, the public parade of costly
gold snuff-boxes, some of them with " Egyp-
tian pebble " tops, the high wooden heels
of women's shoes, sometimes made conspic-
uous by their red color, the well-padded
coat-tails of the men, the exact and puerile
distinctions of rank, the pomps, ceremonies,
and never-ending dress-parades, present to
us a people with more external dignity than
real mental seriousness. Life in the colonies
was simply the life of Europe in the eight-
eenth century made small by reflection in
a provincial mirror.
Edward Eggleston.
LADY'S SATIN SHOE. (IN THE HISTORICAL SOCIETY OF PENNSYLVANIA.)
THE BOSTONIANS.*
BY HENRY JAMES,
Author of " Portrait of a Lady," " Daisy Miller," " Lady Barberina," etc.
CHAPTER X. (Continued.)
Even to Verena, as we know, she was con-
fused and confusing ; the girl had not yet had
an opportunity to ascertain the principles on
which her mother's limpness was liable sud-
denly to become rigid. This phenomenon
occurred when the vapors of social ambition
mounted to her brain, when she extended an
arm, from which a crumpled dressing-gown
fluttered back, to seize the passing occasion.
Then she surprised her daughter by a volu-
bility of exhortation as to the duty of making
acquaintances, and by the apparent wealth
of her knowledge of the mysteries of good
society. She had, in particular, a way of ex-
plaining confidentially — and in her desire to
be graphic she often made up the oddest faces
— the interpretation that you must sometimes
give to the manners of the best people, and
the delicate dignity with which you should
meet them, which made Verena wonder what
secret sources of information she possessed.
Verena took life, as yet, very simply; she was
not conscious of so many differences of social
complexion. She knew that some people were
rich and others poor, and that her father's house
had never been visited by such abundance as
might make one ask one's self whether it
were right, in a world so full of the disin-
herited, to roll in luxury. But except when
her mother made her slightly dizzy by a resent-
ment of some slight that she herself had never
perceived, or a flutter over some opportunity
that appeared already to have passed (while
Mrs. Tarrant was looking for something to
" put on " at such a crisis), Verena had no
vivid sense that she was not as good as any
one else, for no authority appealing really to
her imagination had fixed the place of mes-
meric healers in the scale of fashion. As I
have said, it was impossible to know in ad-
vance how Mrs. Tarrant would take things.
Sometimes she was abjectly indifferent ; at
others she thought that every one who looked
at her wished to insult her. At moments she
was full of suspicion of the ladies (they were
mainly ladies) whom Selah mesmerized ; then
again she appeared to have given up every-
thing but her slippers and the evening paper
(from this publication she derived inscrutable
solace), so that if Mrs. Foat in person had
returned from the summer-land (to which she
had some time since taken her flight), she
would not have disturbed Mrs. Tarrant's al-
most cynical equanimity.
It was, however, in her social subtleties
that she was most beyond her daughter ; it
was when she discovered extraordinary though
latent longings on the part of people they met
to make their acquaintance, that the girl be-
came conscious of how much she herself had
still to learn. All her desire was to learn, and
it must be added that she regarded her
mother, in perfect good faith, as a wonderful
teacher. She was perplexed sometimes by
her worldliness; that, somehow, was not a
part of the higher life which every one in
such a house as theirs must wish above all
things to lead ; and it was not involved in the
reign of justice, which they were all trying to
bring about, that such a strict account should
be kept of every little snub. Her father seemed
to Verena to move more consecutively on the
high plane; though his indifference to old-
fashioned standards, his perpetual invocation
of the brighter day, had not yet led her to ask
herself whether, after all, men are more dis-
interested than women. Was it interest that
prompted her mother to respond so warmly
to Miss Chancellor, to say to Verena, with an
air of knowingness, that the thing to do was
to go in and see her immediately ? No italics
can represent the earnestness of Mrs. Tar-
rant's emphasis. Why hadn't she said, as she
had done in former cases, that if people
wanted to see them they could come out to
their home ; that she was not so low down in
the world as not to know there was such a
ceremony as leaving cards ? When Mrs. Tar-
rant began on the question of ceremonies she
was apt to go far; but she had waived it in
this case ; it suited her more to hold that Miss
Chancellor had been very gracious, that she
was a most desirable friend, that she had
been more affected than any one by Verena's
beautiful outpouring ; that she would open to
her the best saloons in Boston; that when she
said " Come soon " she meant the very next
day , that this was the way to take it, anyhow
* Copyright, 1884, by Henry James.
Vol. XXIX.— 93.
894
THE BOSTONIANS.
(one must know when to go forward grace-
fully) ; and that in short she, Mrs. Tarrant,
knew what she was talking about.
Verena accepted all this, for she was young
enough to enjoy an)' journey in a horse-car,
and she was over-curious about the world;
she only wondered a little how her mother
knew so much about Miss Chancellor just
from looking at her once. What Verena had
mainly observed in the young lady who came
up to her that way the night before was that
she was rather dolefully dressed, that she
looked as if she had been crying (Verena
recognized that look quickly, she had seen it
so much), and that she was in a hurry to get
away. However, if she was as remarkable as
her mother said, one would very soon see it ;
and meanwhile there was nothing in the
girl's feeling about herself, in her sense of
her importance, to make it a painful effort for
her to run the risk of a mistake. She had no
particular feeling about herself; she only
cared, as yet, for outside things. Even the
development of her " gift " had not made her
think herself too precious for mere experi-
ments ; she had neither a particle of diffidence
nor a particle of vanity. Though it would
have seemed to you eminently natural that a
daughter of Selah Tarrant and his wife should
be an inspirational speaker, yet, as you knew
Verena better, you would have wondered im-
mensely how she came to issue from such a
pair. Her ideas of enjoyment were very sim-
ple ; she enjoyed putting on her new hat,
with its redundancy of feather, and twenty
cents appeared to her a very large sum of
money.
XI.
" I was certain you would come — I have
felt it all day — something told me ! " It was
with these words that Olive Chancellor greeted
her young visitor, coming to her quickly from
the window, where she might have been wait-
ing for her arrival. Some weeks after she ex-
plained to Verena how definite this prevision
had been, how it had filled her all day with a
nervous agitation so violent as to be painful.
She told her that such forebodings were a
peculiarity of her organization, that she didn't
know what to make of them, that she had to
accept them ; and she mentioned, as another
example, the sudden dread that had come to
her the evening before in the carriage, after
proposing to Mr. Ransom to go with her to
Miss Birdseye's. This had been as strange as
it had been instinctive, and the strangeness,
of course, was what must have struck Mr.
Ransom ; for the idea that he might come
had been hers, and yet she suddenly veered
round. She couldn't help it ; her heart had
begun to throb with the conviction that if he
crossed that threshold some harm would
come of it for her. She hadn't prevented
him, and now she didn't care, for now, as she
intimated, she had the interest of Verena, and
that made her indifferent to every danger, to
every ordinary pleasure. By this time Verena
had learned how peculiarly her friend was
constituted, how nervous and serious she was,
how personal, how exclusive, what a force of
will she had, what a concentration of pur-
pose. Olive had taken her up, in the literal
sense of the phrase, like a bird of the air, had
spread an extraordinary pair of wings, and
carried her through the dizzying void of space.
Verena liked it, for the most part"; liked to
shoot upward without an effort of her own
and look down upon all creation, upon all
history, from such a height. From this first
interview she felt that she was seized, and she
gave herself up, only shutting her eyes a little,
as we do whenever a person in whom we
have perfect confidence proposes, with our
assent, to subject us to some sensation.
" I want to know you," Olive said, on this
occasion; " I felt that I must last night, as
soon as I heard you speak. You seem to me
very wonderful. I don't know what to make
of you. I think we ought to be friends ; so I
just asked you to come to me straight off,
without preliminaries, and I believed you
would come. It is so right that you have
come, and it proves how right I was." These
remarks fell from Miss Chancellor's lips one
by one, as she caught her breath, with the
tremor that was always in her voice, even
when she was the least excited, while she
made Verena sit down near her on the sofa,
and looked at her all over, in a manner that
caused the girl to rejoice at having put on the
jacket with the gilt buttons. It was this
glance that was the beginning; it was with
this quick survey, omitting nothing, that
Olive took possession of her. " You are very
remarkable ; I wonder if you know how re-
markable ! " she went on, murmuring the
words as if she were losing herself, becoming
inadvertent in admiration.
Verena sat there smiling, without a blush,
but with a pure, bright look which, for her,
would always make protests unnecessary.
" Oh, it isn't me, you know ; it's something
outside ! " She tossed this off lightly, as if
she were in the habit of saying it, and Olive
wondered whether it were a sincere disclaimer
or only a phrase of the lips. The question
was not a criticism, for she might have been
satisfied that the giri was a mass of fluent
catch-words and yet scarcely have liked her
the less. It was just as she was that she liked
THE BOSTONIANS.
895
her ; she was so strange, so different from the
girls one usually met, seemed to belong to
some queer gipsy-land or transcendental
Bohemia. With her bright, vulgar clothes,
her salient appearance, she might have been
a rope-dancer or a fortune-teller ; and this had
the immense merit, for Olive, that it appeared
to make her belong to the " people," threw
her into the social dusk of that mysterious
democracy which Miss Chancellor held that
the fortunate classes know so little about, and
with which (in a future possibly very near)
they will have to count. Moreover, the girl
had moved her as she had never been moved,
and the power to do that, from whatever
source it came, was a force that one must
admire. Her emotion was still acute, how-
ever much she might speak to her visitor as
if everything that had happened seemed to
her natural j and what kept it, above all, from
subsiding was her sense that she found here
what she had been looking for so long — a
friend of her own sex with whom she might
have a union of soul. It took a double
consent to make a friendship, but it was
not possible that this intensely sympathetic
girl would refuse. Olive had the penetra-
tion to discover in a moment that she was a
creature of unlimited generosity. I know not
what may have been the reality of Miss Chan-
cellor's other premonitions, but there is no
doubt that in this respect she took Verena's
measure on the spot. This was what she
wanted ; after that the rest didn't matter ;
Miss Tarrant might wear gilt buttons from
head to foot, her soul could not be vulgar.
" Mother told me I had better come right
in," said Verena, looking now about the room,
very glad to find herself in so pleasant a place,
and noticing a great many things that she
should like to see in detail.
" Your mother saw that I meant what I
said ; it isn't everybody that does one the
honor to perceive that. She saw that I was
shaken from head to foot. I could only say
three words — I couldn't have spoken more !
What a power — what a power, Miss Tarrant ! "
" Yes, I suppose it is a power. If it wasn't
a power, it couldn't do much with me! "
" You are so simple — so much like a child,"
Olive Chancellor said. That was the truth,
and she wanted to say it because, quickly,
without forms or circumlocutions, it made
them familiar. She wished to arrive at this;
her impatience was such that before the girl
had been five minutes in the room she jumped
to her point — inquired of her, interrupting
herself, interrupting everything : " Will you
be my friend, my friend of friends, beyond
every one, everything, forever and forever? "
Her face was full of eagerness and tenderness.
Verena gave a laugh of clear amusement,
without a shade of embarrassment or con-
fusion. " Perhaps you like me too much."
" Of course I like you too much ! When I
like, I like too much. But of course it's an-
other thing, your liking me," Olive Chan-
cellor added. " We must wait — we must
wait. When I care for anything, I can be pa-
tient." She put out her hand to Verena, and
the movement was at once so appealing and
so confident that the girl instinctively placed
her own in it. So, hand in hand, for some
moments, these two young women sat look-
ing at each other. " There's so much I want
to ask you," said Olive.
" Well, I can't say much except when father
has worked on me," Verena answered, with an
ingenuousness beside which humility would
have seemed pretentious.
" I don't care anything about your father,"
Olive Chancellor rejoined very gravely, with
a great air of security.
" He is very good," Verena said, simply.
" And he's wonderfully magnetic."
" It isn't your father, and it isn't your
mother ; I don't think of them, and it's not
them I want. It's only you — just as you are."
Verena dropped her eyes over the front
of her dress. " Just as she was " seemed to
her indeed very well.
" Do you want me to give up " she
demanded, smiling.
Olive Chancellor drew in her breath for an
instant, like a creature in pain ; then, with
her quavering voice, touched with a vibration
of anguish, she said : " Oh, how can I ask you
to give up ? / will give up — I will give up
everything ! "
Filled with the impression of her hostess's
agreeable interior, and of what her mother
had told her about Miss Chancellor's wealth,
her position in Boston society, Verena, in her
fresh, diverted scrutiny of the surrounding
objects, wondered what could be the need of
this scheme of renunciation. Oh, no, indeed,
she hoped she wouldn't give up — at least not
before she, Verena, had had a chance to see.
She felt, however, that for the present there
would be no answer for her save in the mere
pressure of Miss Chancellor's eager nature,
that intensity of emotion which made her
suddenly exclaim, as if in a nervous ecstasy
of anticipation, " But we must wait ! Why do
we talk of this ? We must wait ! All will be
right," she added more calmly, with great
sweetness.
Verena wondered afterward why she had
not been more afraid of her — why, indeed,
she had not turned and saved herself by dart-
ing out of the room. But it was not in this
young woman's nature to be either timid or
896
THE BOSTONIANS.
cautious ; she had as yet to make acquaint-
ance with the sentiment of fear. She knew
too little of the world to have learned to mis-
trust sudden enthusiasms, and if she had had
a suspicion it would have been (in accordance
with common worldly knowledge) the wrong
one — the suspicion that such a whimsical
liking would burn itself out. She could not
have that one, for there was a light in Miss
Chancellor's magnified face which seemed to
say that a sentiment with her might consume
its object, might consume Miss Chancellor,
but would never consume itself. Verena, as
yet, had no sense of being scorched ; she was
only agreeably warmed. She also had
dreamed of a friendship, though it was not
what she had dreamed of most, and it came
over her that this was the one which fortune
might have been keeping. She never held
back.
" Do you live here all alone ? " she asked
of Olive.
" I shouldn't if you would come and live
with me ! "
Even this really passionate rejoinder failed
to make Verena shrink; she thought it so
possible that in the wealthy class people made
each other such easy proposals. It was a part
of the romance, the luxury, of wealth ; it be-
longed to the world of invitations, in which
she had had so little share. But it seemed
almost a mockery when she thought of the
little house in Cambridge, where the boards
were loose in the steps of the porch.
" I must stay with my father and mother,"
she said. " And then I have my work, you
know. That's the way I must live now."
" Your work ? " Olive repeated, not quite
understanding.
" My gift," said Verena, smiling.
" Oh, yes, you must use it. That's what I
mean ; you must move the world with it ; it's
divine."
It was so much what she meant that she
had lain awake all night thinking of it, and
the substance of her thought was that if she
could only rescue the girl from the danger
of vulgar exploitation, could only constitute
herself her protectress and devotee, the two,
between them, might achieve the great work.
Verena's genius was a mystery, and it might
remain a mystery; it was impossible to see
how this charming, blooming, simple creature,
all youth and grace and innocence, got her
extraordinary powers of reflection. When her
gift was not in exercise she appeared anything
but reflective, and as she sat there now, for
instance, you would never have dreamed that
she had had a vivid revelation. Olive had to
content herself, provisionally, with saying that
her precious faculty had come to her just as
her beauty and distinction (to Olive she was
full of that quality) had come; it had dropped
straight from heaven, without filtering through
her parents, whom Miss Chancellor decidedly
didn't fancy. Even among reformers she dis-
criminated ; she thought all wise people
wanted great changes, but the votaries of
change were not necessarily wise. She re-
mained silent a little after her last remark,
and then she repeated again, as if it were the
solution of everything, as if it represented with
absolute certainty some immense happiness
in the future — "We must wait, we must
wait ! " Verena was perfectly willing to wait,
though she didn't exactly know what they
were to wait for, and the aspiring frankness
of her assent shone out of her face, and seemed
to pacify their mutual gaze. Olive asked her
innumerable questions ; . she wanted to enter
into her life. It was one of those talks which
people remember afterwards, in which every
word has been given and taken, and in which
they see the signs of a beginning that was to
be justified. The more Olive learnt of her
visitor's life, the more she wanted to enter
into it, the more it took her out of herself.
Such strange lives are led in America, she
always knew that ; but this was queerer than
anything she had dreamed of, and the queer-
est part was that the girl herself didn't appear
to think it queer. She had been nursed in
darkened rooms, and suckled in the midst of
manifestations ; she had begun to " attend
lectures," as she said, when she was quite an
infant, because her mother had no one to
leave her with at home. She had sat on the
knees of somnambulists, and had been passed
from hand to hand by trance-speakers ; she
was familiar with every kind of " cure," and
had grown up among lady editors of news-
papers advocating new religions, and people
who disapproved of the marriage-tie. Verena
talked of the marriage-tie as she would have
talked of the last novel — as if she had heard
it as frequently discussed ; and at certain
times, listening to the answers she made to
her questions, Olive Chancellor closed her
eyes in the manner of a person waiting till
giddiness passed. Her young friend's revela-
tions actually gave her the vertigo ; they made
her perceive everything from which she should
have rescued her. Verena was perfectly un-
contaminated, and she would never be
touched by evil; but though Olive had no
views about the marriage-tie except that she
should hate it for herself, — that particular re-
form she did not propose to consider, — she
didn't like the " atmosphere " of circles in
which such institutions were called into ques-
tion. She had no wish now to enter into an
examination of that particular one ; neverthe-
THE BOSTONIANS.
897
less, to make sure, she would just ask Verena
whether she disapproved of it.
" Well, I must say," said Miss Tarrant, " I
prefer free unions."
Olive held her breath an instant ; such an
idea was so disagreeable to her ! Then, for
all answer, she murmured, irresolutely, " I
wish you would let me help you ! " Yet it
seemed, at the same time, that Verena needed
little help, for it was more and more clear
that her eloquence, when she stood up that
way before a roomful of people, was literally
inspiration. She answered all her friend's
questions with a good-nature which evidently
took no pains to make things plausible, an
effort to oblige, not to please ; but, after all,
she could give very little account of herself.
This was very visible when Olive asked her
where she had got her " intense realization"
of the suffering of women ; for her address at
Miss Birdseye's showed that she, too (like
Olive herself), had had that vision in the
watches of the night. Verena thought a mo-
ment, as if to understand what her com-
panion referred to, and then she inquired,
always smiling, where Joan of Arc had got
her idea of the suffering of France. This was
so prettily said that Olive could scarcely keep
from kissing her; she looked at the moment
as if, like Joan, she might have had visits
from the saints. Olive, of course, remembered
afterwards that it had not literally answered
the question; and she also reflected on some-
thing that made an answer seem more diffi-
cult— the fact that the girl had grown up
among lady doctors, lady mediums, lady
editors, lady preachers, lady healers, women
who, having rescued themselves from a pas-
sive existence, could illustrate only partially
the misery of the sex at large. It was true
that they might have illustrated it by their
talk, by all they had " been through " and all
they could tell a younger sister; but Olive
was sure that Verena's prophetic impulse had
not been stirred by the chatter of women
(Miss Chancellor knew that sound as well as
any one); it had proceeded rather out of their
silence. She said to her visitor that whether
or no the angels came down to her in glitter-
ing armor, she struck her as the only person
she had yet encountered who had exactly
the same tenderness, the same pity, for women
that she herself had. Miss Birdseye had some-
thing of it, but Miss Birdseye wanted passion,
wanted keenness, was capable of the weakest
concessions. Mrs. Farrinder was not weak,
of course, and she brought a great intellect to
the matter ; but she was not personal enough
— she was too abstract. Verena was not ab-
stract ; she seemed to have lived in imagina-
tion through all the ages. Verena said she
did think she had a certain amount of imagi-
nation ; she supposed she couldn't be so ef-
fective on the platform if she hadn't a rich
fancy. Then Olive said to her, taking her
hand again, that she wanted her to assure her
of this — that it was the only thing in all the
world she cared for, the redemption of women,
the thing she hoped under Providence to give
her life to. Verena flushed a little at this ap-
peal, and the deeper glow of her eyes was the
first sign of exaltation she had offered. " Oh,
yes ! I want to give my life !" she exclaimed,
with a vibrating voice ; and then she added,
gravely, " I want to do something great ! "
" You will, you will, we both will ! " Olive
Chancellor cried in rapture. But after a little
she went on : " I wonder if you know what it
means, young and lovely as you are — giving
your life !"
Verena looked down for a moment in medi-
tation. " Well," she replied, " I guess I have
thought more than I appear "
" Do you understand German ? Do you
know ' Faust ' ? " said Olive. " lEntsagen sollst
du, sollst entsagen / ' "
" I don't know German ; I should like so
to study it ; I want to know everything."
"We will work at it together — we will
study everything," Olive almost panted ; and
while she spoke the peaceful picture hung
before her of still winter evenings under the
lamp, with falling snow outside, and tea on a
little table, and successful renderings, with a
chosen companion, of Goethe, almost the
only foreign author she cared about; for she
hated the writing of the French, in spite of
the importance they have given to women.
Such a vision as this was the highest indul-
gence she could offer herself; she had it only
at considerable intervals. It seemed as if
Verena caught a glimpse of it too, for her face
kindled still more, and she said she should
like that ever so much. At the same time she
asked the meaning of the German words.
" ' Thou shalt renounce, refrain, abstain ! '
That's the way Bayard Taylor has translated
them," Olive answered.
" Oh, well, I guess I can abstain ! " Verena
exclaimed, with a laugh. And she got up
rather quickly, as if by taking leave she might
give a proof of what she meant. Olive put
out her hands to hold her, and at this mo-
ment one of the portieres of the room was
pushed aside, while a gentleman was ushered
in by Miss Chancellor's little parlor-maid.
XII.
Verena recognized him; she had seen him
the night before at Miss Birdseye's, and she
898
THE JBOSTONIANS.
said to her hostess, " Now I must go — you
have got another caller ! " It was Verena's
belief that in the fashionable world (like Mrs.
Farrinder, she thought Miss Chancellor be-
longed to it — thought that, in standing there,
she herself was in it) — in the highest social
walks, I say, it was the custom of a prior
guest to depart when another friend arrived.
She had been told at people's doors that she
could not be received because the lady of the
house had a visitor, and she had retired on
these occasions with a feeling of awe much
more than a sense of injury. They had not
been the portals of fashion, but in this re-
spect, she deemed, they had emulated such
bulwarks. Olive Chancellor offered Basil
Ransom a greeting which she believed to be
consummately lady-like, and which the young
man, narrating the scene several months later
to Mrs. Luna, whose susceptibilities he did
not feel himself obliged to consider (she con-
sidered his so little), described by saying that
she glared at him. Olive had thought it very
possible he would come that day if he was to
leave Boston ; though she was perfectly mind-
ful that she had given him no encouragement
at the moment they separated. If he should
not come she should be annoyed, and if he
should come she should be furious ; she was
also sufficiently mindful of that. But she had
a foreboding that, of the two grievances, for-
tune would confer upon her only the less ;
the only one she had as yet was that he had
responded to her letter — a complaint rather
wanting in richness. If he came, at any rate,
he would be likely to come shortly before
dinner, at the same hour as yesterday.
He had now anticipated this period consider-
ably, and it seemed to Miss Chancellor that
he had taken a base advantage of her, stolen
a march upon her privacy. She was startled,
disconcerted, but, as I have said, she was
rigorously lady-like. She was determined not
again to be fantastic, as she had been about
his coming to Miss Birdseye's. The strange
dread associating itself with that was some-
thing which, she devoutly trusted, she had
felt once for all. She didn't know what he
could do to her. He hadn't prevented, on
the spot though he was, one of the happiest
things that had befallen her for so long — this
quick, confident visit of Verena Tarrant. It
was only just at the last that he had come in,
and Verena must go now ; Olive's detaining
hand immediately relaxed itself.
It is to be feared there was no disguise of
Ransom's satisfaction at finding himself once
more face to face with the charming creature
with whom he had exchanged that final speech-
less smile the evening before. He was more
glad to see her than if she had been an old
friend, for it seemed to him that she had sud-
denly become a new one. " The delightful
girl," he said to himself; " she smiles at me
as if she liked me ! " He could not know
that this was fatuous, that she smiled so at
every one ; the first time she saw people she
treated them as if she recognized them.
Moreover, she didn't seat herself again in his
honor; she let it be seen that she was still
going. The three stood there together in the
middle of the long, characteristic room, and,
for the first time in her life, Olive Chancellor
chose not to introduce two persons who met
under her roof. She hated Europe, but she
could be European if it were necessary.
Neither of her companions had an idea that
in leaving them simply planted face to face
(the terror of the American heart) she had so
high a warrant ; and presently Basil Ransom
felt that he didn't care whether he were in-
troduced or not, for the greatness of an evil
didn't matter if the remedy were equally great.
" Miss Tarrant won't be surprised if I rec-
ognize her — if I take the liberty to speak to
her. She is a public character ; she must pay
the penalty of her distinction." These words
he boldly addressed to the girl, with his most
gallant Southern manner, saying to himself
meanwhile that she was prettier still by day-
light.
" Oh, a great many gentlemen have spoken
to me," Verena said. " There were quite a
number at Topeka — " And her phrase lost
itself in her look at Olive, as if she were won-
dering what was the matter with her.
" Now, I am afraid you are going the very
moment I appear," Ransom went on. " Do
you know that's very cruel to me ? I know
what your ideas are — you expressed them
last night in such beautiful language ; of
course you convinced me. I am ashamed
of being a man ; but I am, and I can't help
it, and I'll do penance any way you may
prescribe. Must she go, Miss Olive ? " he
asked of his cousin. " Do you flee before the
individual male ? " And he turned again to
Verena.
This young lady gave a laugh that re-
sembled speech in liquid fusion. " Oh, no ; I
like the individual ! "
As an incarnation of a " movement," Ran-
som thought her more and more singular, and
he wondered how she came to be closeted so
soon with his kinswoman, to whom, only a
few hours before, she had been a complete
stranger. These, however, were doubtless the
normal proceedings of women. He begged
her to sit down again ; he was sure Miss
Chancellor would be sorry to part with her.
Verena, looking at her friend, not for permis-
sion, but for sympathy, dropped again into a
THE BOSTONIANS.
899
chair, and Ransom waited to see Miss Chan-
cellor do the same. She gratified him after a
moment, because she couldn't refuse without
appearing to put a hurt upon Verena; but it
went hard with her, and she was altogether
discomposed. She had never seen any one
so free in her own drawing-room as this loud
Southerner, to whom she had so rashly offered
a footing; he extended invitations to her
guests under her nose. That Verena should
do as he asked her was a signal sign of the
absence of that " home-culture " (it was so
that Miss Chancellor expressed the missing
quality) which she never supposed the girl
possessed — fortunately, as it would be sup-
plied to her in abundance in Charles street.
(Olive, of course, held that home-culture was
perfectly compatible with the widest emanci-
pation.) It was with a perfectly good con-
science that Verena complied with Basil Ran-
som's request ; but it took her quick sensibil-
ity only a moment to discover that her friend
was not pleased. She scarcely knew what
had ruffled her, but at the same moment there
passed before her the vision of the anxieties
(of this sudden, unexplained sort, for instance,
and much worse) which intimate relations with
Miss Chancellor might entail.
" Now, I want you to tell me this," Basil
Ransom said, leaning forward toward Verena,
with his hands on his knees, and completely
oblivious of his hostess. " Do you really be-
lieve all that pretty moonshine you talked
last night ? I could have listened to you for
another hour ; but I never heard such mon-
strous sentiments. I must protest — I must,
as a calumniated, misrepresented man. Con-
fess you meant it as a kind of reductio ad ab-
surdum — a satire on Mrs. Farrinder ? " He
spoke in a tone of the freest pleasantry ^ with
his familiar, friendly Southern cadence.
Verena looked at him with eyes that grew
large. " Why, you don't mean to say you
don't believe in our cause ! "
" Oh, it won't do — it won't do ! " Ransom
went on, laughing. " You are on the wrong
tack altogether. Do you really take the ground
that your sex has been without influence ?
Influence ? Why, you've led us all by the
nose to where we are now ! Wherever we
are, it's all you. You are at the bottom of
everything."
" Oh, yes, and we want to be at the top,"
said Verena.
" Ah, but the bottom is a better place, de-
pend on it, when from there you move the
whole mass ! Besides, you are on the top as
well ; you are everywhere, you are everything.
I am of the opinion of that historical charac-
ter — wasn't he some king ? — who thought
there was a lady behind everything. What-
ever it was, he held, you have only to look
for her ; she is the explanation. Well, I al-
ways look for her, and I always find her ; of
course, I am always delighted to do so ; but
it proves she is the universal cause. Now,
you don't mean to deny that power, the
power of setting men in motion. You are at
the bottom of all the wars."
"Well, I am like Mrs. Farrinder; I like
opposition ! " Verena exclaimed, with a happy
smile.
" That proves, as I say, how in spite of
your expressions of horror you delight in the
shock of battle. What do you say to Helen
of Troy and the fearful carnage she excited ?
It is well known that the Empress of France
was at the bottom of the last war in that
country. And as for our four fearful years of
slaughter, of course you won't deny that there
the ladies were the great motive power. The
Abolitionists brought it on, and were not the
Abolitionists principally females ? Who was
that celebrity that was mentioned last night ?
— Eliza P. Moseley. I regard Eliza as the
cause of the biggest war of which history
preserves the record."
Basil Ransom enjoyed his humor the more
because Verena appeared to enjoy it ; and the
look with which she replied to him, at the
end of this little tirade, " Why, sir, you ought
to take the platform too ; we might go round
together as poison and antidote ! " — this
made him feel that he had convinced her, for
the moment, quite as much as it was impor-
tant he should. In Verena's face, however, it
lasted but an instant — an instant after she
had glanced at Olive Chancellor, who, with
her eyes fixed intently on the ground (a look
she was to learn to know so well), had a
strange expression. The girl slowly got up ;
she felt that she must go. She guessed Miss
Chancellor didn't like this handsome joker
(it was so that Basil Ransom struck her) ;
and it was impressed upon her ("in time,"
as she thought) that her new friend would be
more serious even than she about the woman-
question, serious as she had hitherto believed
herself to be.
" I should like so much to have the pleasure
of seeing you again," Ransom continued. " I
think I should be able to interpret history for
you by a new light."
" Well, I should be very happy to see you
in my home." These words had barely fallen
from Verena's lips (her mother told her they
were, in general, the proper thing to say
when people expressed such a desire as that ;
she must not let it be assumed that she would
come first to them) — she had hardly, I re-
peat, uttered this hospitable speech, when she
felt the hand of her hostess upon her arm and
900
THE BOSTONIANS.
became aware that a passionate appeal sat in
Olive's eyes.
" You will just catch the Charles street
car," that young woman murmured, with
muffled sweetness.
Verena didn't understand further than to
see that she ought already to have departed;
and the simplest response was to kiss Miss
Chancellor, an act which she briefly per-
formed. Basil Ransom understood still less,
and it was a melancholy commentary on his
contention that men are not inferior, that this
meeting could not come, however rapidly, to
a close without his plunging into a blunder
which necessarily aggravated those he had
already made. He had been invited by the
little prophetess, and yet he had not been in-
vited ; but he didn't take that up, because he
must absolutely leave Boston on the morrow,
and, besides, Miss Chancellor appeared to
have something to say to it. But he put out
his hand to Verena and said, " Good-bye, Miss
Tarrant; are we not to have the pleasure of
hearing you in New York ? I am afraid we
are sadly sunk."
" Certainly, I should like to raise my voice
in the biggest city," the girl replied.
" Well, try to come on. I won't refute
you. It would be a very stupid world, after
all, if we always knew what women were go-
ing to say."
Verena was conscious of the approach of
the Charles street car, as well as of the fact
that Miss Chancellor was in pain ; but she
lingered long enough to remark that she
could see he had the old-fashioned ideas —
he regarded woman as the toy of man.
" Don't say the toy — say the joy ! " Ran-
som exclaimed. " There's one statement I'll
venture to advance : I am quite as fond of
you as you are of each other!"
" Much he knows about that !" said Ve-
rena, with a sidelong smile at Olive Chan-
cellor.
For Olive, it made her more beautiful than
ever; still there was no trace of this mere
personal elation in the splendid sententious-
ness with which, turning to Mr. Ransom, she
remarked : " What women may be, or may
not be, to each other, I won't attempt just
now to say ; but what the truth may be to a
human soul, I think perhaps even a woman
may faintly suspect!"
" The truth ? My dear cousin, your truth
is a most vain thing ! "
" Gracious me ! " cried Verena Tarrant; and
the gay vibration of her voice as she uttered
this simple ejaculation was the last that Ran-
som heard of her. Miss Chancellor swept her
out of the room, leaving the young man to
extract a relish from the ineffable irony with
which she uttered the words " even a woman."
It was to be supposed, on general grounds,
that she would reappear, but there was noth-
ing in the glance she gave him, as she turned
her back, that was an earnest of this. He
stood there a moment, wondering; then his
wonder spent itself on the page of a book
which, according to his habit at such times,
he had mechanically taken up, and in which
he speedily became interested. He read it
for five minutes in an uncomfortable-looking
attitude, and quite forgot that he had been
forsaken. He was recalled to this fact by the
entrance of Mrs. Luna, arrayed as if for the
street, and putting on her gloves again — she
seemed always to be putting on her gloves.
She wanted to know what in the world he
was doing there alone — whether her sister
had not been notified.
" Oh, yes," said Ransom, " she has just
been with me, but she has gone downstairs
with Miss Tarrant."
" And who in the world is Miss Tarrant ? "
Ransom was surprised that Mrs. Luna
shouldn't know of the intimacy of the two
young ladies, in spite of the brevity of their
acquaintance, being already so great. But,
apparently, Miss Olive had not mentioned
her new friend. " Well, she is an inspirational
speaker — the most charming creature in the
world ! "
Mrs. Luna paused in her manipulations,
gave an amazed, amused stare, then caused
the room to ring with her laughter. " You
don't mean to say you are converted —
already ? "
" Converted to Miss Tarrant, decidedly."
" You are not to belong to any Miss Tar-
rant; you are to belong to me," Mrs. Luna
said, having thought over her Southern kins-
man during the twenty-four hours, and made
up her mind that he would be a good man
for a lone woman to know. Then she added :
" Did you come here to meet her — the in-
spirational speaker ? "
" No ; I came to bid your sister good-bye."
"Are you really going? I haven't made
you promise half the things I want yet. But
we'll settle that in New York. How do you
get on with Olive Chancellor ? " Mrs. Luna
continued, making her points, as she always
did, with eagerness, though her roundness
and her dimples had hitherto prevented her
from being accused of that vice. It was her
practice to speak of her sister by her whole
name, and you would have supposed, from
her usual manner of alluding to her, that
Olive was much the older, instead of having
been born ten years later than Adeline. She
had as many ways as possible of marking
the gulf that divided them. But she bridged
THE BOSTONIANS.
901
it over lightly now by saying to Basil Ran- his tone to friendly pleading, and the offen-
som : kk Isn't she a dear old thing ? "
This bridge, he saw, would not bear his
weight and her question seemed to him to
have more audacity than sense. Why should
she be so insincere ? She might know that
a man couldn't recognize Miss Chancellor in
such a description as that. She was not old —
she was sharply young ; and it was inconceiv-
able to him, though he had just seen the little
prophetess kiss her, that she should ever be-
come any one's " dear." Least of all was she a
" thing"; she was intensely, fearfully a person.
He hesitated a moment, and then he replied :
" She's a very remarkable woman."
" Take care — don't be reckless ! " cried
Mrs. Luna. " Do you think she is very
dreadful ? "
" Don't say anything against my cousin,"
Basil answered; and at that moment Miss
Chancellor reentered the room. She mur-
mured some request that he would excuse
her absence, but her sister interrupted her
with an inquiry about Miss Tarrant.
" Mr. Ransom thinks she is wonderfully
charming. Why didn't you show her to me ?
Do you want to keep her all to yourself? "
Olive rested her eyes for some moments
upon Mrs. Luna, without speaking. Then
she said : " Your veil is not put on straight,
Adeline."
" I look like a monster — that, evidently,
is what you mean ! " Adeline exclaimed, go-
ing to the mirror to rearrange the peccant
tissue.
Miss Chancellor did not again ask Ransom
to be seated ; she appeared to take it for
granted that he would leave her now. But
instead of this he returned to the subject of
Verena ; he asked her whether she supposed
the girl would come out in public — would
go about like Mrs. Farrinder ?
" Come out in public ! " Olive repeated ; "in
public ? Why, you don't imagine that pure
voice is to be hushed ? "
" Oh, hushed, no ! it's too sweet for that.
But not raised to a scream ; not forced and
cracked and ruined. She oughtn't to become
like the others. She ought to remain apart."
" Apart — apart ? " said Miss Chancellor;
" when we shall all be looking to her, gather-
ing about her, praying for her \". There was
an exceeding scorn in her voice. " If /can
help her, she shall be an immense power for
good."
" An immense power for quackery, my dear
Miss Olive ! " This broke from Basil Ran-
som's lips in spite of a vow he had just taken
not to say anything that should "aggravate"
his hostess, who was in a state of tension it
was not difficult to detect. But he had lowered
sive word was mitigated by his smile.
She moved away from him, backwards, as
if he had given her a push. " Ah, well, now
you are reckless," Mrs. Luna remarked,
drawing out her ribbons before the mirror.
" I don't think you would interfere if you
knew how little you understand us," Miss
Chancellor said to Ransom.
"Whom do you mean by 'us' — your
whole delightful sex ? I don't understand you,
Miss Olive."
" Come away with me, and I'll explain her
as we go," Mrs. Luna went on, having fin-
ished her toilet.
Ransom offered his hand in farewell to his
hostess ; but Olive found it impossible to do
anything but ignore the gesture. She couldn't
have let him touch her. " Well, then, if you
must exhibit her to the multitude, bring her
on to New York," he said, with the same
attempt at a light treatment.
" You'll have me in New York — you don't
want any one else ! " Mrs. Luna ejaculated,
coquettishly. " I have made up my mind to
winter there now."
Olive Chancellor looked from one to the
other of her two relatives, one near and the
other distant, but each so little in sympathy with
her, and it came over her that there might be
a kind of protection for her in binding them
together, entangling them with each other.
She had never had an idea of that kind in her
life before, and that this sudden subtlety should
have gleamed upon her as a momentary talis-
man gives the measure of her present nervous-
ness.
" If I could take her to New York, I would
take her farther," she remarked, hoping she
was enigmatical.
" You talk about ' taking ' her, as if you
were a lecture-agent. Are you going into that
business ? " Mrs. Luna asked.
Ransom could not help noticing that Miss
Chancellor would not shake hands with him,
and he felt, on the whole, rather injured. He
paused a moment before leaving the room —
standing there with his hand on the knob of
the door. " Look here, Miss Olive, what did
you write to me to come and see you for ? "
He made this inquiry with a countenance not
destitute of gayety, but his eyes showed some-
thing of that yellow light — just momentarily
lurid — of which mention has been made. Mrs.
Luna was on her way downstairs, and her
companions remained face to face.
"Ask my sister — I think she will tell you,"
said Olive, turning away from him and going
to the window. She remained there, looking
out ; she heard the door of the house close,
and saw the two cross the street together. As
90:
THE BOSTONIANS.
they passed out of sight her fingers played,
softly, a little air upon the pane ; it seemed
to her that she had had an inspiration.
Basil Ransom, meanwhile, put the question
to Mrs. Luna. " If she wasn't going to like
me, why in the world did she write to me ? "
" Because she wanted you to know me —
she thought / would like you ! " And appa-
rently she had not been wrong ; for Mrs. Luna,
when they reached Beacon street, would not
hear of his leaving her to go her way alone,
would not in the least admit his plea that he
had only an hour or two more in Boston (he
was to travel, economically, by the boat) and
must devote the time to his business. She
appealed to his Southern chivalry, and not in
vain; practically, at least, he admitted the
rights of women.
XIII.
Mrs. Tarrant was delighted, as may be
imagined, with her daughter's account of
Miss Chancellor's interior, and the reception
the girl had found there ; and Verena, for the
next month, took her way very often to Charles
street. " Just you be as nice to her as you
know how," Mrs. Tarrant had said to her;
and she reflected with some complacency that
her daughter did know — she knew how to do
everything of that sort. It was not that
Verena had been taught ; that branch of the
education of young ladies which is known as
" manners and deportment" had not figured,
as a definite head, in Miss Tarrant's curric-
ulum. She had been told, indeed, that she
must not lie nor steal; but she had been told
very little else about behavior ; her only great
advantage, in short, had been the parental ex-
ample. But her mother liked to think that she
was quick and graceful, and she questioned
her exhaustively as to the progress of this
interesting episode ; she didn't see why, as
she said, it shouldn't be a permanent " stand-
by " for Verena. In Mrs. Tarrant's medita-
tions upon the girl's future she had never
thought of a fine marriage as a reward of
effort; she would have deemed herself very
immoral if she had endeavored to capture for
her child a rich husband. She had not, in fact,
a very vivid sense of the existence of such
agents of fate ; all the rich men she had seen
already had wives, and the unmarried men,
who were generally very young, were distin-
guished from each other not so much by the
figure of their income, which came little into
question, as by the degree of their interest in
regenerating ideas. She supposed Verena
would marry some one, some day, and she
hoped the personage would be connected
with public life — which meant, for Mrs. Tar-
rant, that his name would be visible, in the
lamplight, on a colored poster, in the door-
way of Tremont Temple. But she was not
eager about this vision, for the implications
of matrimony were for the most part wanting
in brightness, — consisted of a tired woman
holding a baby over a furnace-register that
emitted lukewarm air. A real lovely friend-
ship with a young woman who had, as Mrs.
Tarrant expressed it, " prop'ty," would oc-
cupy agreeably such an interval as might oc-
cur before Verena should meet her sterner
fate ; it would be a great thing for her to have
a place to run into when she wanted a change,
and there was no knowing but what it might
end in her having two homes. For the idea of
the home, like most American women of her
quality, Mrs. Tarrant had an extreme rever-
ence ; and it was her candid faith that in all
the vicissitudes of the past twenty years she
had preserved the spirit of this institution. If
it should exist in duplicate for Verena, the
girl would be favored indeed.
All this was as nothing, however, compared
with the fact that Miss Chancellor seemed to
think her young friend's gift was inspirational,
or at any rate, as Selah had so often said,
quite unique. She couldn't make out very ex-
actly, by Verena, what she thought ; but if the
way Miss Chancellor had taken hold of her
didn't show that she believed she could rouse
the people, Mrs. Tarrant didn't know what it
showed. It was a satisfaction to her that
Verena evidently responded freely ; she didn't
think anything of what she spent in car-
tickets, and indeed she had told her that Miss
Chancellor wanted to stuff her pockets with
them. At first she went in because her mother
liked to have her; but now, evidently, she
went because she was so much drawn. She
expressed the highest admiration of her new
friend ; she said it took her a little while to
see into her, but now that she did, well, she
was perfectly splendid. When Verena wanted
to admire she went ahead of every one, and it
was delightful to see how she was stimulated
by the young lady in Charles street. They
thought everything of each other — that was
very plain ; you could scarcely tell which
thought most. Each thought the other so
noble, and Mrs. Tarrant had a faith that be-
tween them they would rouse the people.
What Verena wanted was some one who would
know how to handle her (her father hadn't
handled anything except the healing, up to
this time, with real success), and perhaps Miss
Chancellor would take hold better than some
that made more of a profession.
" It's beautiful, the way she draws you out,"
Verena had said to her mother ; " there's
something so searching that the first time I
THE BOSTONIANS.
9°3
visited her it quite realized my idea of the Day
of Judgment. But she seems to show all that's
in herself at the same time, and then you see
how lovely it is. She's just as pure as she can
live ; you see if she is not, when you know
her. She's so noble herself that she makes you
feel as if you wouldn't want to be less so. She
doesn't care for anything but the elevation of
our sex; if she can work a little toward that,
it's all she asks. I can tell you, she kindles
me ; she does, mother, really. She doesn't
care a speck what she wears — only to have
an elegant parlor. Well, she has got that;
it's a regular dream-like place to sit. She's
going to have a tree in, next week ; she says
she wants to see me sitting under a tree. I
believe it's some oriental idea; it has lately
been introduced in Paris. She doesn't like
French ideas as a general thing ; but she says
this has more nature than most. She has got
so many of her own that I shouldn't think she
would require to borrow any. I'd sit in a
forest to hear her bring some of them out,"
Verena went on, with characteristic raciness.
" She just quivers when she describes what
our sex has been through. It's so interesting
to me to hear what I have always felt. If she
wasn't afraid of facing the public, she would
go far ahead of me. But she doesn't want to
speak herself; she only wants to call me out.
Mother, if she doesn't attract attention to me
there isn't any attention to be attracted. She
says I have got the gift of expression — it
doesn't matter where it comes from. She says
it's a great advantage to a movement to be
personified in a bright young figure. Well, of
course I'm young, and I feel bright enough
when once I get started. She says my serenity
while exposed to the gaze of hundreds is in it-
self a qualification ; in fact, she seems to think
my serenity is quite God-given. She hasn't
got much of it herself; she's the most emo-
tional woman I have met, up to now. She
wants to know how I can speak the way I do
unless I feel ; and of course I tell her I do
feel, so far as I realize. She seems to be real-
izing all the time ; I never saw any one that
took so little rest. She says I ought to do
something great, and she makes me feel as if
I should. She says I ought to have a wide in-
fluence, if I can obtain the ear of the public ;
and I say to her that if I do it will be all her
influence."
Selah Tarrant looked at all this from a
higher stand-point than his wife ; at least such
an altitude on his part was to be inferred
from his increased solemnity. He committed
himself to no precipitate elation at the idea
of his daughter's being taken up by a pa-
troness of movements who happened to have
money ; he looked at his child only from the
point of view of the service she might render
to humanity. To keep her ideal pointing in
the right direction, to guide and animate her
moral life — this was a duty more imperative
for a parent so closely identified with revela-
tions and panaceas than seeing that she
formed profitable worldly connections. He
was " off," moreover, so much of the time
that he could keep little account of her com-
ings and goings, and he had an air of being
but vaguely aware of whom Miss Chancellor,
the object now of his wife's perpetual refer-
ence, might be. Verena's initial appearance
in Boston, as he called her performance at
Miss Birdseye's, had been a great success;
and this reflection added, as I say, to his
habitually sacerdotal expression. He looked
like the priest of a religion that was passing
through the stage of miracles ; he carried his
responsibility in the general elongation of his
person, of his gestures (his hands were now
always in the air, as if he were being photo-
graphed in postures), of his words and sen-
tences, as well as in his smile, as noiseless as
a patent door, and in the folds of his eternal
water-proof. He was incapable of giving an
off-hand answer or opinion on the simplest
occasion, and his tone of high deliberation
increased in proportion as the subject was
trivial or domestic. If his wife asked him at
dinner if the potatoes were good, he replied
that they were strikingly fine (he used to
speak of the newspaper as "fine" — he ap-
plied this term to objects the most dissimilar),
and embarked on a parallel worthy of Plu-
tarch, in which he compared them with other
specimens of the same vegetable. He pro-
duced, or would have liked to produce, the
impression of looking above and beyond
everything, of not caring for the immediate,
of reckoning only with the long run. In
reality he had one all-absorbing solicitude —
the desire to get paragraphs put into the news-
papers, paragraphs of which he had hitherto
been the subject, but of which he was now
to divide the glory with his daughter. The
newspapers were his world, the richest ex-
pression, in his eyes, of human life ; and, for
him, if a diviner day was to come upon earth,
it would be brought about by copious adver-
tisement in the daily prints. He looked with
longing for the moment when Verena should
be advertised among the ;' personal items,"
and to his mind the supremely happy people
were those (and there were a good many of
them) of whom there was some journalistic
mention every day in the year. Nothing less
than this would really have satisfied Selah
Tarrant ; his ideal of bliss was to be as regu-
larly and indispensably a component part of
the newspaper as the title and date or the
9°4
THE BOSTONIANS.
column of Western jokes. The vision of that
publicity haunted his dreams, and he would
gladly have sacrificed to it the innermost
sanctities of home. Human existence to him,
indeed, was a huge publicity, in which the
only fault was that it was sometimes not suf-
ficiently effective. There had been a Spiritual-
ist paper of old which he used to pervade ;
but he couldn't persuade himself that through
this medium his personality had attracted gen-
eral attention ; and, moreover, the sheet, as
he said, was played out anyway. Success
was not success so long as his daughter's
physique, the rumor of her engagement, were
not included in the "Jottings," with the cer-
tainty of being extensively copied.
The account of her exploits in the West
had not made their way to the seaboard with
the promptitude that he had looked for; the
reason of this being, he supposed, that the
few addresses she had made had not been
lectures, announced in advance, to which
tickets had been sold, but incidents, of abrupt
occurrence, of certain multitudinous meetings,
where there had been other performers better
known to fame. They had brought in no
money ; they had been delivered only for the
good of the cause. If it could only be known
that she spoke for nothing, that might deepen
the reverberation ; the only trouble was that
her speaking for nothing was not the way to
remind him that he had a remunerative daugh-
ter. It was not the way to stand out so very
much either, Selah Tarrant felt ; for there were
plenty of others that knew how to make as
little money as she would. To speak — that
was the one thing that most people were will-
ing to do for nothing. It was not a line in
which it was easy to appear conspicuously
disinterested. Disinterestedness, too, was in-
compatible with receipts ; and receipts were
what Selah Tarrant was, in his own parlance,
after. He wished to bring about the day when
they would flow in freely; the reader perhaps
sees the gesture with which, in his colloquies
with himself, he accompanied this mental
image.
It seemed to him at present that the fruit-
ful time was not far off; it had been brought
appreciably nearer by that fortunate evening
at Miss Birdseye's. If Mrs. Farrinder could
be induced to write an " open letter " about
Verena, that would do more than anything
else. Selah was not remarkable for delicacy
of perception, but he knew the world he lived
in well enough to be aware that Mrs. Far-
rinder was liable to rear up, as they used to
say down in Pennsylvania, where he lived
before he began to peddle lead-pencils. She
wouldn't always take things as you might
expect, and if it didn't meet her views to pay
a public tribute to Verena, there wasn't any
way known to Tarrant's ingenious mind of
getting round her. If it was a question of a
favor from Mrs. Farrinder, you just had to
wait for it, as you would for a rise in the
thermometer. He had told Miss Birdseye
what he would like, and she seemed to think,
from the way their celebrated friend had been
affected, that the idea might take her some
day of just letting the public know all she
had felt. She was off somewhere now (since
that evening), but Miss Birdseye had an idea
that when she was back in Roxbury she
would send for Verena and give her a few
points. Meanwhile, at any rate, Selah was
sure he had a card ; he felt there was money
in the air. It might already be said there
were receipts from Charles street ; that rich,
peculiar young woman seemed to want to
lavish herself. He pretended, as I have inti-
mated, not to notice this ; but he never saw
so much as when he had his eyes fixed on
the cornice. He had no doubt that if he
should make up his mind to take a hall some
night, she would tell him where the bill might
be sent. That was what he was thinking of
now, whether he had better take a hall right
away, so that Verena might leap at a bound
into renown, or wait till she had made a few
more appearances in private, so that curiosity
might be worked up.
These meditations accompanied him in his
multifarious wanderings through the city and
the suburbs of the New England capital. As
I have also mentioned, he was absent for
hours — long periods during which Mrs. Tar-
rant, sustaining nature with a hard-boiled egg
and a doughnut, wondered how in the world
he stayed his stomach. He never wanted
anything but a piece of pie when he came in ;
the only thing about which he was particular
was that it should be served up hot. She had
a private conviction that he partook, at the
houses of his lady patients, of little lunches;
she applied this term to any episodical repast,,
at any hour of the twenty-four. It is but fair
to add that once, when she betrayed her sus-
picion, Selah remarked that the only refresh-
ment he ever wanted was the sense that he-
was doing some good. This effort with him
had many forms ; it involved, among other
things, a perpetual perambulation of the
streets, a haunting of horse-cars, railway sta-
tions, shops that were " selling off." But the
places that knew him best were the offices
of the newspapers and the vestibules of the
hotels — the big marble-paved chambers of
informal reunion which offer to the streets,
through high glass plates, the sight of the
American citizen suspended by his heels.
Here, amid the piled-up luggage, the conven-
THE BOSTONIANS.
9°5
ient spittoons, the elbowing loungers, the dis-
consolate " guests," the truculent Irish porters,
the rows of shaggy-backed men in strange
hats, writing letters at a table inlaid with ad-
vertisements, Selah Tarrant made innumera-
ble contemplative stations. He couldn't have
told you, at any particular moment, what he
was doing ; he only had a general sense that
such places were national nerve-centers, and
that the more one looked in, the more one
was " on the spot." The penetralia of the
daily press were, however, still more fascinat-
ing, and the fact that they were less accessible,
that here he found barriers in his path, only
added to the zest of forcing an entrance. He
abounded in pretexts ; he even sometimes
brought contributions; he was persistent and
penetrating, he was known as the irrepressible
Tarrant. He hung about, sat too long, took
up the time of busy people, edged into the
printing-rooms when he had been eliminated
from the office, talked with the compositors
till they set up his remarks by mistake, and
to the newsboys when the compositors had
turned their backs. He was always trying to
find out what was "going in"; he would have
liked to go in himself, bodily, and, failing in
this, he hoped to get advertisements inserted
gratis. The wish of his soul was that he might
be interviewed ; that made him hover at the
editorial elbow. Once he thought he had
been, and the headings, five or six deep,
danced for days before his eyes ; but the re-
port never appeared. He expected his re-
venge for this the day after Verena should
have burst forth ; he saw the attitude in which
he should receive the emissaries who would
come after his daughter.
XIV.
" We ought to ask some one to meet her,"
Mrs. Tarrant said ; " I presume she wouldn't
care to come out just to see us." " She," be-
tween the mother and the daughter, at this
period, could refer only to Olive Chancellor,
who was discussed in the little house at Cam-
bridge at all hours and from every possible
point of view. It was never Verena now who
began, for she had grown rather weary of the
topic ; she had her own ways of thinking of
it, which were not her mother's, and if she
lent herself to this lady's extensive considera-
tions, it was because that was the best way of
keeping her thoughts to herself.
Mrs. Tarrant had an idea that she (Mrs.
Tarrant) liked to study people, and that she
was now engaged in an analysis of Miss Chan-
cellor. It carried her far, and she came out at
unexpected times with her results. It was still
her purpose to interpret the world to the in-
genuous mind of her daughter, and she trans-
lated Miss Chancellor with a confidence
which made little account of the fact that she
had seen her but once, while Verena had this
advantage nearly every day. Verena felt that
by this time she knew Olive very well, and her
mother's most complicated versions of motive
and temperament (Mrs. Tarrant, with the most
imperfect idea of the meaning of the term,
was always talking about people's tempera-
ment) rendered small justice to the phenom-
ena it was now her privilege to observe in
Charles street. Olive was much more re-
markable than Mrs. Tarrant suspected, re-
markable as Mrs. Tarrant believed her to be.
She had opened Verena's eyes to extraordi-
nary pictures, made the girl believe that she
had a heavenly mission, given her, as we have
seen, quite a new measure of the interest of
life. These were larger consequences than the
possibility of meeting the leaders of society at
Olive's house. She had met no one, as yet,
but Mrs. Luna; her new friend seemed to
wish to keep her quite for herself. This was
the only reproach that Mrs. Tarrant directed
to the new friend as yet ; she was disappointed
that Verena had not obtained more insight
into the world of fashion. It was one of the
prime articles of her faith that the world of
fashion was wicked and hollow, and, more-
over, Verena told her that Miss Chancellor
loathed and despised it. She couldn't have
informed you wherein it would profit her
daughter (for the way those ladies shrank
from any new gospel was notorious) ; never-
theless she was vexed that Verena shouldn't
come back to her with a little more of the
fragrance of Beacon street. The girl herself
would have been the most interested person
in the world if she had not been the most re-
signed ; she took all that was given her and
was grateful, and missed nothing that was
withheld ; she was the most extraordinary
mixture of eagerness and docility. Mrs. Tar-
rant theorized about temperaments and she
loved her daughter ; but she was only vaguely
aware of the fact that she had at her side the
sweetest flower of character (as one might
say) that had ever bloomed on earth. She
was proud of Verena's brightness, and of her
special talent ; but the commonness of her
own surface was a non-conductor of the girl's
quality. Therefore she thought that it would
add to her success in life to know a few high-
flyers, if only to put them to shame ; as if
anything could add to Verena's success, as if
it were not supreme success simply to have
fyeen made as she was made.
Mrs. Tarrant had gone into town to call
upon Miss Chancellor ; she carried out this
906
THE BOSTONIANS.
resolve, on which she had bestowed infinite
consideration, independently of Verena. She
had decided that she had a pretext; her
dignity required one, for she felt that at pres-
ent the antique pride of the Greenstreets was
terribly at the mercy of her curiosity. She
wished to see Miss Chancellor again, and to
see her among her charming appurtenances,
which Verena had described to her with great
minuteness. The pretext that she would have
valued most was wanting — that of Olive's
having come out to Cambridge to pay the
visit that had been solicited from the first ; so
she had to take the next best — she had to say
to herself that it was her duty to see what she
should think of a place where her daughter
spent so much time. To Miss Chancellor she
would appear to have come to thank her for
her hospitality ; she knew, in advance, just
the air she should take (or she fancied she
knew it — Mrs. Tarrant's airs were not al-
ways what she supposed), just the nuance
(she had also an impression she knew a little
French) of her tone. Olive, after the lapse
of weeks, still showed no symptoms of pre-
senting herself, and Mrs. Tarrant rebuked
Verena with some sternness for not having
made her feel that this attention was due to
the mother of her friend. Verena could
scarcely say to her she guessed Miss Chan-
cellor didn't think much of that personage,
true as it was that the girl had discerned this
angular fact, which she attributed to Olive's
extraordinary comprehensiveness of view.
Verena herself did not suppose that her
mother occupied a very important place in the
universe ; and Miss Chancellor never looked
at anything smaller than that. Nor was she
free to report (she was certainly now less
frank at home, and, moreover, the suspicion
was only just becoming distinct to her) that
Olive would like to detach her from her par-
ents altogether, and was therefore not inter-
ested in appearing to cultivate relations with
them. Mrs. Tarrant, I may mention, had a
further motive : she was consumed with the de-
sire to behold Mrs. Luna. This circumstance
may operate as a proof that the aridity of her
life was great, and if it should have that ef-
fect I shall not be able to gainsay it. She had
seen all the people who went to lectures, but
there were hours when she desired, for a
change, to see some who didn't go ; and Mrs.
Luna, fromVerena's description of her, summed
up the characteristics of this eccentric class.
Verena had given great attention to Olive's
brilliant sister ; she had told her friend every-
thing now — everything but one little secret,
namely, that if she could have chosen at thg
beginning, she would have liked to resemble
Mrs. Luna. This lady fascinated her, carried
off her imagination to strange lands; she
should enjoy so much a long evening with
her alone, when she might ask her ten thou-
sand questions. But she never saw her alone,
never saw her at all but in glimpses. Adeline
flitted in and out, dressed for dinners and
concerts, always saying something friendly to
the young woman from Cambridge, and some-
thing to Olive that had a freedom which she
herself would probably never arrive at (a fail-
ure of foresight on Verena's part). But Miss
Chancellor never detained her, never gave
Verena a chance to see her, never appeared
to imagine that she could have the least in-
terest in such a person; only took up the
subject again after Adeline had left them —
the subject, of course, which was always the
same, the subject of what they should do to-
gether for their suffering sex. It was not that
Verena was not interested in that — gracious,
no; it opened up before her, in those wonder-
ful colloquies with Olive, in the most inspir-
ing way; but her fancy would make a dart
to right or left when other game crossed their
path, and her companion led her, intellect-
ually, a dance in which her feet — that is, her
head — failed her at times for weariness. Mrs.
Tarrant found Miss Chancellor at home, but
she was not gratified by even the most tran-
sient glimpse of Mrs. Luna ; a fact which, in
her heart, Verena regarded as fortunate, in-
asmuch as (she said to herself) if her mother,
returning from Charles street, began to ex-
plain Miss Chancellor to her with fresh energy,
and as if she (Verena) had never seen her,
and up to this time they had had nothing to
say about her, to what developments (of the
same sort) would not an encounter with Ade-
line have given rise ?
When Verena at last said to her friend that
she thought she ought to come out to Cam-
bridge,— she didn't understand why she didn't,
— Olive expressed her reasons very frankly,
admitted that she was jealous, that she didn't
wish to think of the girl's belonging to any
one but herself. Mr. and Mrs. Tarrant would
have authority, opposed claims, and she didn't
wish to see them, to remember that they ex-
isted. This was true, so far as it went; but
Olive could not tell Verena everything —
could not tell her that she hated that dread-
ful pair at Cambridge. As we know, she had
forbidden herself this emotion as regards in-
dividuals ; and she flattered herself that she
considered the Tarrants as a type, a deplora-
ble one, a class that, with the public at large,
discredited the cause of the new truths. She
had talked them over with Miss Birdseye
(Olive was always looking after her now and
giving her things, — the good lady appeared
at this period in wonderful caps and shawls, —
THE BOSTONIANS.
907
for she felt she couldn't thank her enough),
and even Doctor Prance's fellow-lodger, whose
animosity to flourishing evils lived in the hap-
piest (though the most illicit) union with the
mania for finding excuses, even Miss Birds-
eye was obliged to confess that if you came
to examine his record, poor Selah didn't
amount to so very much. How little he
amounted to, Olive perceived after she had
made Verena talk, as the girl did immensely,
about her father and mother — quite uncon-
scious, meanwhile, of the conclusions she sug-
gested to Miss Chancellor. Tarrant was a
moralist without moral sense — that was very
clear to Olive as she listened to the history
of his daughter's childhood and youth, which
Verena related with an extraordinary artless
vividness. This narrative, tremendously fas-
cinating to Miss Chancellor, made her feel
in all sorts of ways — ■ prompted her to ask
herself whether the girl was also destitute of
the perception of right and wrong. No, she
was only supremely innocent; she didn't un-
derstand, she didn't interpret nor see the
poriee of what she described ; she had no idea
whatever of judging her parents. Olive had
wished to " realize " the conditions in which
her wonderful young friend (she thought her
more wonderful every day) had developed,
and to this end, as I have related, she
prompted her to infinite discourse. But now
she was satisfied, the realization was com-
plete, and what she would have liked to im-
pose on the girl was an effectual rupture with
her past. That past she by no means abso-
lutely deplored, for it had the merit of having
initiated Verena (and her patroness, through
her agency) into the miseries and mysteries
of the People. It was her theory that Verena
(in spite of the blood of the Greenstreets, and,
after all, who were they ?) was a flower of the
great Democracy, and that it was impossible
to have had an origin less distinguished than
Tarrant himself. His birth, in some unheard-
of place in Pennsylvania, was quite inexpres-
sibly low, and Olive would have been much
disappointed if it had been wanting in this
defect. She liked to think that Verena, in her
childhood, had known almost the extremity
of poverty, and there was a kind of ferocity
in the joy with which she reflected that there
had been moments when this delicate crea-
ture came near (if the pinch had only lasted
a little longer) to literally going without food.
These things added to her value for Olive ;
they made that young lady feel that their
common undertaking would, in consequence,
be so much more serious. It is always sup-
posed that revolutionists have been goaded,
and the goading would have been rather de-
ficient here were it not for such happy acci-
dents in Verena's past. When she conveyed
from her mother a summons to Cambridge
for a particular occasion, Olive perceived that
the great effort must now be made. Great ef-
forts were nothing new to her, — it was a great
effort to live at all, — but this one appeared
to her exceptionally cruel. She determined,
however, to make it, promising herself that
her first visit to Mrs. Tarrant should also be
her last. Her only consolation was that she
expected to suffer intensely ; for the prospect
of suffering was always, spiritually speaking,
so much cash in her pocket. It was arranged
that Olive should come to tea (the repast that
Selah designated as his supper), when Mrs.
Tarrant, as we have seen, desired to do her
honor by inviting another guest. This guest,
after much deliberation between that lady
and Verena, was selected, and the first person
Olive saw on entering the little parlor in
Cambridge was a young man with hair
prematurely, or, as one felt that one should
say, precociously white, whom she had a
vague impression she had encountered be-
fore, and who was introduced to her as Mr.
Matthias Pardon.
She suffered less than she had hoped — she
was so taken up with the consideration of
Verena's interior. It was as bad as she could
have desired; desired in order to feel that (to
take her out of such a milieu as that) she
should have a right to draw her altogether to
herself. Olive wished more and more to ex-
tract some definite pledge from her; she
could hardly say what it had best be as yet ;
she only felt that it must be something that
would have an absolute sanctity for Verena
and would bind them together for life. On
this occasion it seemed to shape itself in her
mind ; she began to see what it ought to be,
though she also saw that she would perhaps
have to wait awhile. Mrs. Tarrant, too, in
her own house, became now a complete
figure ; there was no manner of doubt left as
to her being vulgar. Olive Chancellor de-
spised vulgarity, had a scent for it which she
followed up in her own family, so that often,
with a rising flush, she detected the taint even
in Adeline. There were times, indeed, when
every one seemed to have it, every one but
Miss Birdseye (who had nothing to do with
it — she was an antique) and the poorest,
humblest people. The toilers and spinners,
the very obscure, these were the only persons
who were safe from it. Miss Chancellor would
have been much happier if the movements she
was interested in could have been carried on
only by the people she liked, and if revolu-
tions, somehow, didn't always have to begin
with one's self — with internal convulsions,
sacrifices, executions. A common end, unfor-
908 IN WINTER.
tunately, however fine as regards a special when she turned to her daughter or talked
result, does not make community impersonal, about her, might have passed for the robe of
Mrs. Tarrant, with her soft corpulence, a sort of priestess of maternity. She endeav-
looked to her guest very bleached and tumid; ored to keep the conversation in a channel
her complexion had a kind of withered glaze ; which would enable her to ask sudden in-
ner hair, very scanty, was drawn off her fore- coherent questions of Olive, mainly as to
head a la Chinoise ; she had no eyebrows, and whether she knew the principal ladies (the
her eyes seemed to stare, like those of a figure expression was Mrs. Tarrant's, not only in
of wax. When she talked and wished to insist, Boston, but in the other cities which, in her
and she was always insisting, she puckered nomadic course, she herself had visited). Olive
and distorted her face, with an effort to ex- knew some of them, and of some of them had
press the inexpressible, which turned out, after never heard; but she was irritated, and pre-
all, to be nothing. She had a kind of doleful tended a universal ignorance (she was conscious
elegance, tried to be confidential, lowered her that she had never told so many fibs), by which
voice and looked as if she wished to establish her hostess was much disconcerted, although
a secret understanding, in order to ask her her questions had apparently been questions
visitor if she would venture on an apple-fritter, pure and simple, leading nowhither and with-
She wore a flowing mantle, which resembled out bearings on any new truth,
her husband's water-proof — a garment which,
(To be continued.) Henry James.
IN WINTER.
BALLADE.
Oh, to go back to the days of June,
Just to be young and alive again,
Hearken again to the mad, sweet tune
Birds were singing with might and main :
South they flew at the summer's wane,
Leaving their nests for storms to harry,
Since time was coming for wind and rain
Under the wintry skies to marry.
Wearily wander by dale and dune
Footsteps fettered with clanking chain —
Free they were in the days of June,
Free they never can be again :
Fetters of age and fetters of pain,
Joys that fly, and sorrows that tarry —
Youth is over, and hope were vain
Under the wintry skies to marry.
Now we chant but a desolate rune — -
" Oh, to be young and alive again ! " —
But never December turns to June,
And length of living is length of pain :
Winds in the nestless trees complain,
Snows of winter about us tarry,
And never the birds come back again
Under the wintry skies to marry.
ENVOI.
Youths and maidens, blithesome and vain,
Time makes thrusts that you cannot parry,
Mate in season, for who is fain
Under the wintry skies to marry?
louise Chandler Moullon.
IN PLAIN BLACK AND WHITE.
A REPLY TO MR. CABLE.
#
It is strange that during the discussion
of the negro question, which has been wide
and pertinent, no one has stood up to speak
the mind of the South. In this discussion
there has been much of truth and more of
error — something of perverseness, but more
of misapprehension — not a little of injustice,
but perhaps less of mean intention.
Amid it all, the South has been silent.
There has been, perhaps, good reason for
this silence. The problem under debate is
a tremendous one. Its right solution means
peace, prosperity, and happiness to the South.
A mistake, even in the temper in which it is
approached or the theory upon which its so-
lution is attempted, would mean detriment,
that at best would be serious, and might easily
be worse. Hence the South has pondered over
this problem, earnestly seeking with all her
might the honest and the safe way out of its
entanglements, and saying little because there
was but little to which she felt safe in commit-
ting herself. Indeed, there was another reason
why she did not feel called upon to obtrude her
opinions. The people of the North, proceeding
by the right of victorious arms, had themselves
undertaken to settle the negro question. From
the Emancipation Proclamation to the Civil
Rights Bill they hurried with little let or hin-
drance, holding the negro in the meanwhile
under a sort of tutelage, from part in which
his former masters were practically excluded.
Under this state of things the South had little
to do but watch and learn.
We have now passed fifteen years of exper-
iment. Certain broad principles have been
established as wise and just. The South has
something to say which she can say with con-
fidence. There is no longer impropriety in
her speaking or lack of weight in her words.
The people of the United States have, by their
suffrages, remitted to the Southern people,
temporarily at least, control of the race ques-
tion. The decision of the Supreme Court on
the Civil Rights Bill leaves practically to their
adjustment important issues that were, until
that decision was rendered, covered by straight
and severe enactment. These things deepen
the responsibility of the South, increase its con-
cern, and confront it with a problem to which
it must address itself promptly and frankly.
Where it has been silent, it now should speak.
The interest of every American in the honor-
able and equitable settlement of this question is
second only to the interest of those specially —
and fortunately, we believe — charged with its
adjustment. "What will you do with it?" is a
question any man may now ask the South, and to
which the South should make frank and full
reply.
It is important that this reply shall be plain
and straightforward. Above all things it must
carry the genuine convictions of the people it
represents. On this subject and at this time
the South cannot afford to be misunderstood.
Upon the clear and general apprehension of
her position and of her motives and purpose
everything depends. She cannot let pass un-
challenged a single utterance that, spoken in
her name, misstates her case or her intention.
It is to protest against just such injustice that
this article is written.
In a lately printed article, Mr. George W.
Cable, writing in the name of the Southern
people, confesses judgment on points that they
still defend, and commits them to a line of
thought from which they must forever dissent.
In this article, as in his works, the singular
tenderness and beauty of which have justly
made him famous, Mr. Cable is sentimental
rather than practical. But the reader, en-
chained by the picturesque style and misled
by the engaging candor with which the author
admits the shortcomings of " We of the South,"
and the kindling enthusiasm with which he
tells how " We of the South " must make rep-
aration, is apt to assume that it is really the
soul of the South that breathes through Mr.
Cable's repentant sentences. It is not my pur-
pose to discuss Mr. Cable's relations to the
people for wrhom he claims to speak. Born
in the South, of Northern parents, he appears
to have had little sympathy with his South-
ern environment, as in 1882 he wrote, "To
be in New England would be enough for me.
I was there once, — a year ago, — and it seemed
as if I had never been home till then." It will
be suggested that a man so out of harmony
with his neighbors as to say, even after he
had fought side by side with them on the
battle-field, that he never felt at home until
he had left them, cannot speak understand-
ingly of their views on so vital a subject as
that under discussion. But it is with his
statement rather than his personality that we
have to deal. Does he truly represent the
*See "The Freedman's Case in Equity," by George W. Cable, in The Century for January, 1885.
Vol. XXIX.— 94.
910
IN PLAIN BLACK AND WHITE.
South ? We reply that he does not ! There
may be here and there in the South a dream-
ing theorist who subscribes to Mr. Cable's
teachings. We have seen no signs of one.
Among the thoughtful men of the South, —
the men who felt that all brave men might
quit fighting when General Lee surrendered,
— who, enshrining in their hearts the heroic
memories of the cause they had lost, in good
faith accepted the arbitrament of the sword
to which they had appealed, — who bestirred
themselves cheerfully amid the ruins of their
homes, and set about the work of rehabilita-
tion,— who have patched and mended and
builded anew, and fashioned out of pitiful re-
source a larger prosperity than they ever knew
before, — who have set their homes on the old
red hills, and staked their honor and prosperity
and the peace and well-being of the children
who shall come after them on the clear and
equitable solution of every social, industrial,
or political problem that concerns the South,
— among these men, who control and will
continue to control, I do know, there is gen-
eral protest against Mr. Cable's statement of
the case, and universal protest against his
suggestions for the future. The mind of these
men I shall attempt to speak, maintaining my
right to speak for them with the pledge that,
having exceptional means for knowing their
views on this subject, and having spared no
pains to keep fully informed thereof, I shall write
down nothing in their name on which I have
found even a fractional difference of opinion.
A careful reading of Mr. Cable's article dis-
closes the following argument : The South-
ern people have deliberately and persistently
evaded the laws forced on them for the pro-
tection of the freedman ; this evasion has been
the result of prejudices born of and surviving
the institution of slavery, the only way to
remove which is to break down every distinc-
tion between the races ; and now the best
thought of the South, alarmed at the with-
drawal of the political machinery that forced
the passage of the protective laws, which with-
drawal tempts further and more intolerable
evasions, is moving to forbid all further as-
sortment of the races and insist on their in-
termingling in all places and in all relations.
The first part of this argument is a matter of
record, and, from the Southern stand-point,
mainly a matter of reputation. It can bide its
time. The suggestion held in its conclusion is
so impossible, so mischievous, and, in certain as-
pects, so monstrous, that it must be met at once.
It is hard to think about the negro with ex-
actness. His helplessness, his generations of
enslavement, his unique position among the
peoples of the earth, his distinctive color, his
simple, lovable traits, — all these combine
to hasten opinion into conviction where he is
the subject of discussion. Three times has
this tendency brought about epochal results
in his history. First, it abolished slavery. For
this all men are thankful, even those who, be-
cause of the personal injustice and violence of
the means by which it was brought about, op-
posed its accomplishment. Second, it made
him a voter. This, done more in a sense of
reparation than in judgment, is as final as the
other. The North demanded it ; the South ex-
pected it; all acquiesced in it, and, wise or
unwise, it will stand. Third, it fixed by enact-
ment his social and civil rights. And here for
the first time the revolution faltered. Up to
this point the way had been plain, the light
clear, and the march at quick-step. Here the
line halted. The way was lost ; there was hesi-
tation, division, and uncertainty. Knowing not
which way to turn, and enveloped in doubt, the
revolutionists heard the retreat sounded by the
Supreme Court with small reluctance, and, to
use Mr. Cable's words, " bewildered by com-
plication, vexed by many a blunder,1' retired
from the field. See, then, the progress of this
work. The first step, right by universal agree-
ment, would stand if the law that made it were
withdrawn. The second step, though irrevoca-
ble, raises doubts as to its wisdom. The
third, wrong in purpose, has failed in execu-
tion. It stands denounced as null by the
highest court, as inoperative by general con-
fession, and as unwise by popular verdict.
Let us take advantage of this halt in the too
rapid revolution, and see exactly where we
stand and what is best for us to do. The sit-
uation is critical. The next moment may for-
mulate the work of the next twenty years.
The tremendous forces of the revolution, un-
spent and still terrible, are but held in arrest.
Launch them mistakenly, chaos may come.
Wrong-headedness may be as fatal now as
wrong-heartedness. Clear views, clear state-
ment, and clear understanding are the de-
mands of the hour. Given these, the common
sense and courage of the American people
will make the rest easy.
Let it be understood in the beginning, then,
that the South will never adopt Mr. Cable's
suggestion of the social intermingling of the
races. It can never be driven into accepting
it. So far from there being a growing senti-
ment in the South in favor of the indiscrim-
inate mixing of the races, the intelligence of
both races is moving farther from that prop-
osition day by day. It is more impossible (if
I may shade a superlative) now than it was
ten years ago ; it will be less possible ten years
hence. Neither race wants it. The interest, as
the inclination, of both races is against it.
Here the issue with Mr. Cable is made up.
IN PLAIN BLACK AND WHITE.
911
He denounces any assortment of the races as
unjust, and demands that white and black shall
intermingle everywhere. The South replies
that the assortment of the races is wise and
proper, and stands on the platform of equal
accommodation for each race, but separate.
The difference is an essential one. Deplore
or defend it as we may, an antagonism is bred
between the races when they are forced into
mixed assemblages. This sinks out of sight,
if not out of existence, when each race moves
in its own sphere. Mr. Cable admits this
feeling, but doubts that it is instinctive. In
my opinion it is instinctive — deeper than
prejudice or pride, and bred in the bone and
blood. It would make itself felt even in
sections where popular prejudice runs counter
to its manifestation. If in any town in Wis-
consin or Vermont there was equal popula-
tion of whites and blacks, and schools,
churches, hotels, and theaters were in com-
mon, this instinct would assuredly develop;
the races would separate, and each race would
hasten the separation. Let me give an ex-
ample that touches this supposition closely.
Bishop Gilbert Haven, of the Methodist
Episcopal Church, many years ago came to
the South earnestly, and honestly, we may be-
lieve, devoted to breaking up the assortment
of the races. He was backed by powerful in-
fluences in the North. He was welcomed by
resident Northerners in the South (then in
control of Southern affairs) as an able and
eloquent exponent of their views. His first ex-
periment toward mixing the races was made in
the church — surely- the most propitious field.
Here the fraternal influence of religion em-
phasized his appeals for the brotherhood of
the races. What was the result ? After the
first month his church was decimated. The
Northern whites and the Southern blacks left
it in squads. The dividing influences were
mutual. The stout bishop contended with
prayer and argument and threat against the
inevitable, but finally succumbed. Two sep-
arate churches were established, and each
race worshiped to itself. There had been no
collision, no harsh words, no discussion even.
Each race simply obeyed its instinct, that
spoke above the appeal of the bishop and
dominated the divine influences that pulsed
from pew to pew. Time and again did the
bishop force the experiment. Time and again
he failed. At last he was driven to the con-
fession that but one thing could effect what he
had tried so hard to bring about, and that was
miscegenation. A few years of experiment
would force Mr. Cable to the same conclusion.
The same experiment was tried on a larger
scale by the Methodist Episcopal Church.
(North) when it established its churches in the
South after the war. It essayed to bring the
races together, and in its conferences and its
churches there was no color line. Prejudice
certainly did not operate to make a division
here. On the contrary, the whites and blacks
of this church were knit together by preju-
dice, pride, sentiment, political and even so-
cial policy. Underneath all this was a race
instinct, obeying which, silently, they drifted
swiftly apart. While white Methodists of the
church North and of the church South, distant
from each other in all but the kinship of race
and worship, were struggling to effect once
more a union of the churches that had been
torn apart by a quarrel over slavery, so
that in every white conference and every
white church on all this continent white Meth-
odists could stand in restored brotherhood,
the Methodist Church (North) agreed, without
serious protest, to a separation of its Southern
branch into two conferences of whites and of
blacks, and into separate congregations where
the proportion of either race was considerable.
Was it without reason — it certainly was not
through prejudice — that this church, while
seeking anew fusion with its late enemies,
consented to separate from its new friends ?
It was the race instinct that spoke there.
It spoke not with prejudice, but against it. It
spoke there as it speaks always and every-
where — as it has spoken for two thousand
years. And it spoke to the reason of each
race. Millaud, in voting in the French Con-
vention for the beheading of Louis XVI. ,
said : " If death did not exist, it would be
necessary to-day to invent it." So of this
instinct. It is the pledge of the integrity of
each race, and of peace between the races.
Without it, there might be a breaking down
of all lines of division and a thorough inter-
mingling of whites and blacks. This once
accomplished, the lower and the weaker ele-
ments of the races would begin to fuse and
the process of amalgamation would have
begun. This would mean the disorganization
of society. An internecine war would be
precipitated. The whites, at any cost and
at any hazard, would maintain the clear in-
tegrity and dominance of the Anglo-Saxon
blood. They understand perfectly that the
debasement of their own race would not
profit the humble and sincere race with which
their lot is cast, and that the hybrid would
not gain what either race lost. Even if the
vigor and the volume of the Anglo-Saxon
blood would enable it to absorb the African
current, and after many generations recover
its own strength and purity, not all the pow-
ers of earth could control the unspeakable
horrors that would wait upon the slow process
of clarification. Easier far it would be to take
112
IN PLAIN BLACK AND WHITE.
the population of central New York, inter-
mingle with it an equal percentage of Indians,
and force amalgamation between the two.
Let us review the argument. If Mr. Cable
is correct in assuming that there is no instinct
that keeps the two races separate in the
South, then there is no reason for doubting
that if intermingled they would fuse. Mere
prejudice would noc long survive perfect
equality and social intermingling; and the
prejudice once gone, intermarrying would be-
gin. Then, if there is a race instinct in either
race that resents intimate association with the
other, it would be unwise to force such associa-
tion when there are easy and just alterna-
tives. If there is no such instinct, the mixing
of the races would mean amalgamation, to
which the whites will never submit, and to
which neither race should submit. So that in
either case, whether the race feeling is instinct
or prejudice, we come to but one conclusion :
The white and black races in the South must
walk apart. Concurrent their courses may go
— ought to go — will go — but separate. If
instinct did not make this plain in a flash,
reason would spell it out letter by letter.
Now, let us see. We hold that there is an
-instinct, ineradicable and positive, that will
keep the races apart, that would keep the
races apart if the problem were transferred to
Illinois or to Maine, and that will resist every
-effort of appeal, argument, or force to bring
them together. We add in perfect frankness,
however, that if no such instinct existed, or if
the South had reasonable doubt of its exist-
ence, it would, by every means in its power,
•so strengthen the race prejudice that it would
do the work and hold the stubbornness and
strength of instinct. The question that con-
fronts us at this point is : Admitted this in-
stinct, that gathers each race to itself. Then,
do you believe it possible to carry forward on
the same soil and under the same laws two
races equally free, practically equal in num-
bers, and yet entirely distinct and separate ?
This is a momentous question. It involves a
problem that, all things considered, is with-
out a precedent or parallel. Can the South
oarry this problem in honor and in peace to
an equitable solution ? We reply that for ten
years the South has been doing this very
thing, and with at least apparent success. No
impartial and observant man can say that in
the present aspect of things there is cause for
.alarm, or even for doubt. In the experience
of the past few years there is assuredly reason
for encouragement. There may be those who
discern danger in the distant future. We do
not. Beyond the apprehensions which must for
a long time attend a matter so serious, we see
nothing but cause for congratulation. In the
common sense and the sincerity of the negro,
no less than in the intelligence and earnestness
of the whites, we find the problem simplifying.
So far from the future bringing trouble, we feel
confident that another decade or so, confirming
the experience of the past ten years, will fur-
nish the solution to be accepted of all men.
Let us examine briefly what the South has
been doing, and study the attitude of the
races towards each other. Let us do this, not
so much to vindicate the past as to clear the
way for the future. Let us see what the situa-
tion teaches. There must be in the experience
of fifteen years something definite and sug-
gestive. We begin with the schools and school
management, as the basis of the rest.
Every Southern State has a common-school
system, and in every State separate schools
are provided for the races. Almost every city
of more than five thousand inhabitants has a
public-school system, and in every city the
schools for whites and blacks are separate.
There is no exception to this rule that I can
find. In many cases the law creating this
system requires that separate schools shall be
provided for the races. This plan works ad-
mirably. There is no friction in the adminis-
tration of the schools, and no suspicion as to
the ultimate tendency of the system. The
road to school is clear, and both races walk
therein with confidence. The whites, assured
that the school will not be made the hot-bed
of false and pernicious ideas, or the scene of
unwise associations, support the system cor-
dially, and insist on perfect equality in grade
and efficiency. The blacks, asking no more
than this, fill the schools with alert and eager
children. So far from feeling debased by the
separate-school system, they insist that the
separation shall be carried further, and the
few white teachers yet presiding over negro
schools supplanted by negro teachers. The
appropriations for public schools are in-
creased year after year, and free education
grows constantly in strength and popularity.
Cities that were afraid to commit themselves
to free schools while mixed schools were a
possibility commenced building school-houses
as soon as separate schools were assured. In
1870 the late Benjamin H. Hill found his
matchless eloquence unable to carry the sug-
gestion of negro education into popular tol-
erance. Ten years later nearly one million
black children attended free schools, supported
by general taxation. Though the whites pay
nineteen-twentieths of the tax, they insist that
the blacks shall share its advantages equally.
The schools for each race are opened on the
same day and closed on the same day. Neither
is run a single day at the expense of the
other. The negroes are satisfied with the situa-
IN PLAIN BLACK AND WHITE.
9l3
tion. I am aware that some of the Northern
teachers of negro high-schools and univer-
sities will controvert this. Touching their
opinion, I have only to say that it can hardly
be considered fair or conservative. Under the
forcing influence of social ostracism, they have
reasoned impatiently and have been helped
to conclusions by quick sympathies or resent-
ments. Driven back upon themselves and
hedged in by suspicion or hostility, their
service has become a sort of martyrdom,
which has swiftly stimulated opinion into
conviction and conviction into fanaticism.
I read in a late issue of " Zion's Herald " a
letter from one of these teachers, who de-
clined, on the conductor's request, to leave
the car in which she was riding, and which
was set apart exclusively for negroes. The
conductor, therefore, presumed she was a
quadroon, and stated his presumption in an-
swer to inquiry of a young negro man who
was with her. She says of this :
". Truly, a glad thrill went through my heart — a thrill
of pride. This great autocrat had pronounced me as
not only in sympathy, but also one in blood, with the tru-
est, tenderest, and noblest race that dwells on earth."
If this quotation, which is now before me
over the writer's name, suggests that she and
those of her colleagues who agree with her
have narrowed within their narrowing environ-
ment, and acquired artificial enthusiasm under
their unnatural conditions, so that they must
be unsafe as advisers and unfair as witnesses,
the sole purpose for which it is introduced will
have been served. This suggestion does not
reach all Northern teachers of negro schools.
Some have taken broader counsels, awakened
wider sympathies, and, as a natural result,
hold more moderate views. The influence of
the extremer faction is steadily diminishing.
Set apart, as small and curious communities
are set here and there in populous States,
stubborn and stiff for a while, but overwhelmed
at last and lost in the mingling currents, these
dissenting spots will be ere long blotted out and
forgotten. The educational problem, which is
their special care, has already been settled,
and the settlement accepted with a heartiness
that precludes the possibility of its disturb-
ance. From the stand- point of either race
the experiment of distinct but equal schools
for the white and black children of the South
has demonstrated its wisdom, its policy, and
its justice, if any experiment ever made plain
its wisdom in the hands of finite man.
I quote on this subject Gustavus J. Orr,
one of the wisest and best of men, and lately
elected, by spontaneous movement, president
of the National Educational Association. He
says : " The race question in the schools is
already settled. We give the negroes equal
advantages, but separate schools. This plan
meets the reason and satisfies the instinct of
both races. Under it we have spent over five
million dollars in Georgia, and the system
grows in strength constantly." I asked if the
negroes wanted mixed schools. His reply was
prompt : " They do not. I have questioned
them, carefully on this point, and they make
but one reply : They want their children in
their own schools and under their own
teachers." I asked what would be the effect
of mixed schools. " I could not maintain the
Georgia system one year. Both races would pro-
test against it. My record as a public-school
man is known. I have devoted my life to the
work of education. But I am so sure of the
evils that would come from mixed schools that,
even if they were possible, I would see the
whole educational system swept away before
I would see them established. There is an
instinct that gathers each race about itself. It
is as strong in the blacks as in the whites,
though it has not asserted itself so strongly. It
is making itself manifest, since the blacks are
organizing a social system of their own. It has
long controlled them in their churches, and
it is now doing so in their schools."
In churches, as in schools, the separation is
perfect. The negroes, in all denominations in
which their membership is an appreciable per-
centage of the whole, have their own churches,
congregations, pastors, conferences, and bish-
ops, their own missionaries. There is not the
slightest antagonism between them and the
white churches of the same denomination. On
the contrary, there is sympathetic interest and
the utmost friendliness. The separation is rec-
ognized as not only instinctive but wise. There
is no disposition to disturb it, and least of all
on the part of the negro. The church is with
him the center of social life, and there he wants
to find his own people and no others. Let me
quote just here a few sentences from a speech
delivered by a genuine black negro at the Gen-
eral Conference of the Methodist Episcopal
Church (South), in Atlanta, Georgia, in 1880.
He is himself a pastor of the African Methodist
Church, and came as a fraternal delegate. This
extract from a speech largely extempore is a
fair specimen of negro eloquence, as it is a
fair evidence of the feeling of that people to-
ward their white neighbors. He said :
" Mr. Chairman, Bishops, and Brethren in Christ:
Let me here state a circumstance which has just now
occurred. When in the vestry there we were consult-
ing your committee, among whom is your illustrious
Christian governor, the Honorable A. H. Colquitt
[applause], feeling an unusual thirst, and expecting in
a few moments to appear before you, thoughtlessly I
asked him if there was water to drink. He, looking
about the room, answered, ' There is none ; I will
get you some.' I insisted not; but presently it was
914
IN PLAIN BLACK AND WHITE.
brought by a brother minister, and handed me by the
governor. I said : ' Governor, you must allow me to
deny myself this distinguished favor, as it recalls so
vividly the episode of the warrior king of Israel,
when with parched lips he cried from the rocky cave
of Adullam, " Oh ! that one would give me drink of
water of the well of Bethlehem that is at the gate."
And when three of his valiant captains broke through
the host of the enemy, and returned to him with the
water for which his soul was longing, regarding it as
the water of life, he would not drink it, but poured it
out to the Lord.' [Applause.] So may this transcen-
dent emblem of purity and love, from the hand of
your most honored co-laborer and friend of the human
race, ever remain as a memorial unto the Lord of the
friendship existing between the Methodist Episcopal
Church South and the African Methodist Episcopal
Church upon this the first exchange of formal fraternal
greeting. [Applause.]
" In the name of the African Methodist Episcopal
Church, — and I declare the true sentiments of thou-
sands,— I say, that for your church and your race we
cherish the kindliest feelings that ever found a lodg-
ment in the human breast. [Applause.] Of this you
need not be told. Let speak your former missionaries
among us, who now hold seats upon this floor, and
whose hearts have so often burned within them as
they have seen the word sown by them in such hum-
ble soil burst forth into abundant prosperity. Ask
the hundred thousand of your laymen who stilfsurvive
the dead, how we conducted ourselves as tillers of the
soil, as servants about the dwelling, and as common
worshipers in the temple of God ! Ask your battle-
scarred veterans, who left their all to the mercy of
relentless circumstances, and went, in answer to the
clarion call of .the trumpet, to the gigantic and unnat-
ural strife of the second revolution ! Ask them who
looked at their interests at home [great cheering] ;
who raised their earthworks upon the field; who
buried the young hero so far away from his home, or
returned his ashes to the stricken hearts which hung
breathless upon the hour ; who protected their wives
and little ones from the ravages of wild beasts, and
the worse ravages of famine ! And the answer is re-
turned from a million heaving bosoms, as a monu-
ment of everlasting remembrance to the benevolence
of the colored race in America. [Immense applause.]
And these are they who greet you to-day, through
their chief organization, the African Methodist Epis-
copal Church in the United States of America. [Loud
and continued applause.]
" And now, though the yoke which bound the mas-
ter and the slave together in such close and mutual
responsibility has been shivered by the rude shock of
war, we find ourselves still standing by your side as nat-
ural allies against an unfriendly world. [Applause.]"
In their social institutions, as in their churches
and schools, the negroes have obeyed their in-
stinct and kept apart from the whites. They
have their own social and benevolent societies,
their own military companies, their own or-
ders of Masons and Odd-fellows. They rally
about these organizations with the greatest
enthusiasm and support them with the great-
est liberality. If it were proposed to merge
them with white organizations of the same
character, with equal rights guaranteed in all,
the negroes would interpose the stoutest ob-
jection. Their tastes, associations, and in-
clinations — their instincts — lead them to
gather their race about social centers of its
own. I am tempted into trying to explain
here what I have never yet seen a stranger
to the South able to understand. The feeling
that, by mutual action, separates whites and
blacks when they are thrown together in so-
cial intercourse is not a repellent influence in
the harsh sense of that word. It is centripetal
rather than centrifugal. It is attractive about
separate centers rather than expulsive from a
common center. There is no antagonism, for
example, between white and black military
companies. On occasions they parade in the
same street, and have none of the feeling that
exists between Orangemen arid Catholics. Of
course the good sense of each race and the
mutual recognition of the possible dangers of
the situation have much to do with maintain-
ing the good-will between the distinct races.
The fact that in his own church or society
the negro has more freedom, more chance for
leadership and for individual development,
than he could have in association with the
whites, has more to do with it. But beyond
all this is the fact that, in the segregation of
the races, blacks as well as whites obey a nat-
ural instinct, which, always granting that they
get equal justice and equal advantages, they
obey without the slightest ill-nature or with-
out any sense of disgrace. They meet the
white people in all the avenues of business.
They work side by side with the white brick-
layer or carpenter in perfect accord and friend-
liness. When the trowel or the hammer is laid
aside, the laborers part, each going his own
way. Any attempt to carry the comradeship
of the day into private life would be sternly
resisted by both parties in interest.
We have seen that in churches, schools, and
social organizations the whites and blacks are
moving along separately but harmoniously,
and that the " assortment of the races," which
has been described as shameful and unjust, is
in most part made by the instinct of each
race, and commands the hearty assent of both.
Let us now consider the question of public
carriers. On this point the South has been
sharply criticised, and not always without
reason. It is manifestly wrong to make a
negro pay as much for a railroad ticket as a
white man pays, and then force him to accept
inferior accommodations. It is equally wrong
to force a decent negro into an indecent car,
when there is room for him or for her else-
where. Public sentiment in the South has
long recognized this, and has persistently de-
manded that the railroad managers should
provide cars for the negroes equal in every
respect to those set apart for the whites, and
that these cars should be kept clean and or-
derly. In Georgia a State law requires all
public roads or carriers to provide equal ac-
IN PLAIN BLACK AND WHITE.
9*5
commodation for each race, and failure to do
so is made a penal offense. In Tennessee a
negro woman lately gained damages by prov-
ing that she had been forced to take inferior
accommodation on a train. The railroads
have, with few exceptions, come up to the re-
quirements of the law. Where they fail, they
quickly feel the weight of public opinion, and
shock the sense of public justice. This very
discussion, I am bound to say, will lessen such
failures in the future. On four roads, in my
knowledge, even better has been done than
the law requires. The car set apart for the
negroes is made exclusive. No whites are
permitted to occupy it. A white man who
strays into this car is politely told that it is re-
served for the negroes. He has the informa-
tion repeated two or three times, smiles, and
retreats. This rule works admirably and will
win general favor. There are a few roads that
make no separate provision for the races, but
announce that any passenger can ride on any
car. Here the " assortment " of the races is
done away with, and here it is that most of
the outrages of which we hear occur. On
these roads the negro has no place set apart
for him. As a rule, he is shy about asserting
himself, and he usually finds himself in the
meanest corners of the train. If he forces
himself into the ladies' car, he is apt to pro-
voke a collision. It is on just one of these
trains where the assortment of the passengers
is left to chance that a respectable negro
woman is apt to be forced to ride in a car
crowded with negro convicts. Such a thing
would be impossible where the issue is fairly
met, and a car, clean, orderly, and exclusive,
is provided for each race. The case could
not be met by grading the tickets and the
accommodations. Such a plan would bring
together in the second or third class car just
the element of both races between whom
prejudice runs highest, and from whom the
least of tact or restraint might be expected.
On the railroads, as elsewhere, the solution
of the race problem is, equal advantages for
the same money, — equal in comfort, safety,
and exclusiveness, — but separate.
There remains but one thing further to con-
sider— the negro in the jury-box. It is as-
sumed generally that the negro has no rep-
resentation in the courts. This is a false
assumption. In the United States courts he
usually makes more than half the jury. As to
the State courts, I can speak particularly as to
Georgia. I assume that she does not mate-
rially differ from the other States. In Georgia
the law requires that commissioners shall pre-
pare the jury -list for each county by selection
from the upright, intelligent, and experienced
citizens of the county. This provision was put
into the Constitution by the negro convention
of reconstruction days. Under its terms no
reasonable man would have expected to see
the list made up of equal percentage of the
races. Indeed, the fewest number of negroes
were qualified under the law. Consequently,
but few appeared on the lists. The number,
as was to be expected, is steadily increasing.
In Fulton County there are seventy-four ne-
groes whose names are on the lists, and the
commissioners, I am informed, have about
doubled this number for the present year.
These negroes make good jurymen, and are
rarely struck by attorneys, no matter what
the client or cause may be. About the worst
that can be charged against the jury system
in Georgia is that the commissioners have
made jurors of negroes only when they had
qualified themselves to intelligently discharge
a juror's duties. In few quarters of the South,
however, is the negro unable to get full and
exact justice in the courts, whether the jury
be white or black. Immediately after the war,
when there was general alarm and irritation,
there may have been undue severity in sen-
tences and extreme rigor of prosecution. But
the charge that the people of the South have,
in their deliberate and later moments, prosti-
tuted justice to the oppression of this depend-
ent people, is as false as it is infamous. There
is abundant belief that the very helplessness
of the negro in court has touched the heart
and conscience of many a jury, when the
facts should have held them impervious.
In the city in which this is written a negro,
at midnight, on an unfrequented street, mur-
dered a popular young fellow, over whose
grave a monument was placed by popular
subscription. The only witnesses of the kill-
ing were the friends of the murdered boy.
Had the murderer been a white man, it is be-
lieved he would have been convicted. He was
acquitted by the white jury, and has since been
convicted of a murderous assault on a person
of his own color. Similarly, a young white
man, belonging to one of the leading families of
the State, was hanged for the murder of a ne-
gro. Insanity was pleaded in his defense, and
so plausibly that it is believed he would have
escaped had his victim been a white man.
I quote on this point Mr. Benjamin H. Hill,
who has been prosecuting attorney of the At-
lanta, Ga., circuit for twelve years. He says :
" In cities and towns the negro gets equal
and exact justice before the courts. It is pos-
sible that, in remote counties, where the ques-
tion is one of a fight between a white man
and a negro, there may be a lingering preju-
dice that causes occasional injustice. The
judge, however, may be relied on to correct
this. As to negro jurors. I have never known
916
IN PLAIN BLACK AND WHITE.
a negro to allow his lawyer to accept a negro
juror. For the State I have accepted a black
juror fifty times, to have him rejected by the
opposing lawyer by order of his negro client.
This has occurred so invariably that I have
accepted it as a rule. Irrespective of that, the
negro gets justice in the courts, and the last
remaining prejudice against him in the jury-
box has passed away. I convicted a white
man for voluntary manslaughter under pecu-
liar circumstances. A negro met him on the
street and cursed him. The white man or-
dered him off and started home. The negro
followed him to his house and cursed him
until he entered the door. When he came
out, the negro was still waiting. He renewed
the abuse, followed him to his store, and there
struck him with his fist. In the struggle that
followed, the negro was shot and killed. The
jury promptly convicted the slayer."
So much for the relation between the races
in the South, in churches, schools, social or-
ganizations, on the railroad, and in theaters.
Everything is placed on the basis of equal ac-
commodations, but separate. In the courts the
blacks are admitted to the jury-box as they lift
themselves into the limit of qualification. Mis-
takes have been made and injustice has been
worked here and there. This was to have been
expected, and it has been less than might have
been expected. But there can be no mistake
about the progress the South is making in the
equitable adjustment of the relations between
the races. Ten years ago nothing was settled.
There were frequent collisions and constant
apprehensions. The whites were suspicious
and the blacks were restless. So simple a thing
as a negro taking an hour's ride on the cars, or
going to see a play, was fraught with possible
danger. The larger affairs — school, church,
and court — were held in abeyance. Now all
this is changed. The era of doubt and mistrust
is succeeded by the era of confidence and
good-will. The races meet in the exchange of
labor in perfect amity and understanding. To-
gether they carry on the concerns of the day,
knowing little or nothing of the fierce hostil-
ity that divides labor and capital in other sec-
tions. When they turn to social life they
separate. Each race obeys its instinct and
congregates about its own centers. At the
theater they sit in opposite sections of the
same gallery. On the trains they ride each
in his own car. Each worships in his own
church, and educates his children in his
schools. Each has his place and fills it, and
is satisfied. Each gets the same accommo-
dation for the same money. There is no col-
lision. There is no irritation or suspicion.
Nowhere on earth is there kindlier feeling,
closer sympathy, or less friction between
two classes of society than between the whites
and blacks of the South to-day. This is due
to the fact that in the adjustment of their re-
lations they have been practical and sensible.
They have wisely recognized what was essen-
tial, and have not sought to change what was
unchangeable. They have yielded neither to
the fanatic nor the demagogue, refusing to be
misled by the one or misused by the other.
While the world has been clamoring.over their
differences they have been quietly taking coun-
sel with each other, in the field, the shop, the
street and cabin, and settling things for them-
selves. That the result has not astonished the
world in the speediness and the facility with
which it has been reached, and the benefi-
cence that has come with it, is due to the fact
that the result has not been freely proclaimed.
It has been a deplorable condition of our pol-
itics that the North has been misinformed as to
the true condition of things in the South. Po-
litical greed and passion conjured pestilential
mists to becloud what the lifting smoke of bat-
tle left clear. It has exaggerated where there
was a grain of fact, and invented where there
was none. It has sought to establish the most
casual occurrences as the settled habit of the
section, and has sprung endless jeremiads from
one single disorder, as Jenkins filled the courts
of Christendom with lamentations over his dis-
severed ear. These misrepresentations will
pass away with the occasion that provoked
them, and when the truth is known it will
come with the force of a revelation to vindi-
cate those who have bespoken for the South a
fair trial, and to confound those who have
borne false witness against her.
One thing further need be said, in perfect
frankness. The South must be allowed to settle
the social relations of the races according to her
own views of what is right and best. There
has never been a moment when she could have
submitted to have the social status of her
citizens fixed by an outside power. She ac-
cepted the emancipation and the enfranchise-
ment of her slaves as the legitimate results of
war that had been fought to a conclusion.
These once accomplished, nothing more was
possible. " Thus far and no farther," she said
to her neighbors, in no spirit of defiance, but
with quiet determination. In her weakest mo-
ments, when her helpless people were hedged
about by the unthinking bayonets of her con-
querors, she gathered them for resistance at
this point. Here she defended everything
that a people should hold dear. There was
little proclamation of her purpose. Barely did
the whispered word that bespoke her resolu-
tion catch the listening ears of her sons ; but,
for all this, the victorious armies of the North,
had they been rallied again from their homes,
IN PLAIN BLACK AND WHITE.
917
could not have enforced and maintained
among this disarmed people the policy in-
dicated in the Civil Rights bill. Had she
found herself unable to defend her social in-
tegrity against the arms that were invincible
on the fields where she staked the sovereignty
of her States, her people would have aban-
doned their homes and betaken themselves
into exile. Now, as then, the South is de-
termined that, come what may, she must con-
trol the social relations of the two races whose
lots are cast within her limits. It is right that
she should have this control. The problem is
hers, whether or not of her seeking, and her
very existence depends on its proper solution.
Her responsibility is greater, her knowledge
of the case more thorough than that of others
can be. The question touches her at every
point; it presses on her from every side; it
commands her constant attention. Every con-
sideration of policy, of honor, of pride, of com-
mon sense impels her to the exactest justice
and the fullest equity. She lacks the ignorance
or misapprehension that might lead others
into mistakes ; all others lack the appalling
alternative that, all else failing, would force her
to use her knowledge wisely. For these rea-
sons she has reserved to herself the right to
settle the still unsettled element of the race
problem, and this right she can never yield.
As a matter of course, this implies the clear
and unmistakable domination of the white
race in the South. The assertion of that is
simply the assertion of the right of character,
intelligence, and property to rule. It is simply
saying that the responsible and steadfast ele-
ment in the community shall control, rather
than the irresponsible and the migratory. It is
the reassertion of the moral power that over-
threw the scandalous reconstruction govern-
ments, even though, to the shame of the republic
be it said, they were supported by the bayonets
of the General Government. Even the race
issue is lost at this point. If the blacks of the
South wore white skins, and were leagued to-
gether in the same ignorance and irresponsi-
bility under any other distinctive mark than
their color, they would progress not one step
farther toward the control of affairs. Or if
they were transported as they are to Ohio,
and there placed in numerical majority of two
to one, they would find the white minority
there asserting and maintaining control, with
less patience, perhaps, than many a Southern
State has shown. Everywhere, with such tem-
porary exceptions as afford demonstration of
the rule, intelligence, character, and property
will dominate in spite of numerical differences.
These qualities are lodged with the white race
Atlanta, Georgia.
Vol. XXIX.— 95.
in the South, and will assuredly remain there
for many generations at least; so that the
white race will continue to dominate the
colored, even if the percentages of race in-
crease deduced from the comparison of a lame
census with a perfect one, and the omission
of other considerations, should hold good and
the present race majority be reversed.
Let no one imagine, from what is here said,
that the South is careless of the opinion or
regardless of the counsel of the outside world.
On the contrary, while maintaining firmly a
position she believes to be essential, she appre-
ciates heartily the value of general sympathy
and confidence. With an earnestness that is
little less than pathetic she bespeaks the pa-
tience and the impartial judgment of all con-
cerned. Surely her situation should command
this, rather than indifference or antagonism.
In poverty and defeat, — with her cities de-
stroyed, her fields desolated, her labor disor-
ganized, her homes in ruins, her families
scattered, and the ranks of her sons decimated,
— in the face of universal prejudice, fanned
by the storm of war into hostility and hatred,
— under the shadow of this sorrow and this
disadvantage, she turned bravely to confront
a problem that would have taxed to the ut-
most every resource of a rich and powerful
and victorious people. Every inch of her prog-
ress has been beset with sore difficulties ; and
if the way is now clearing, it only reveals more
clearly the tremendous import of the work to
which her hands are given. It must be under-
stood that she desires to silence no criticism,
evade no issue, and lessen no responsibility.
She recognizes that the negro is here to stay.
She knows that her honor, her dear name,
and her fame, no less than her prosperity,
will be measured by the fullness of the justice
she gives and guarantees to this kindly and
dependent race. She knows that every mis-
take made and every error fallen into, no mat-
ter how innocently, endanger her peace and
her reputation. In this full knowledge she ac-
cepts the issue without fear or evasion. She
says, not boldly, but conscious of the honesty
and the wisdom of her convictions : " Leave
this problem to my working out. I will solve it
in calmness and deliberation, without passion
or prejudice, and with full regard for the un-
speakable equities it holds. Judge me rigidly,
but judge me by my works." And with the
South the matter may be left — must be left.
There it can be left with the fullest confidence
that the honor of the republic will be maintained,
the rights of humanity guarded, and the prob-
lem worked out in such exact justice as the finite
mind can measure or finite agencies administer.
Henry W. Grady.
NEW ORLEANS BEFORE THE CAPTURE.
In the spring of 1862 we boys of Race,
Orange, Magazine, Camp, Constance, An-
nunciation, Prytania, and other streets had
no game. Nothing was "in"; none of the
old playground sports that commonly fill the
school-boy's calendar. We were even tired
of drilling. Not one of us between seven
and seventeen but could beat the drum, knew
every bugle-call, and could go through the
manual of arms and the facings like a drill-
sergeant. We were blase old soldiers — mil-
itary critics.
Who could tell us anything? I recall but
one trivial admission of ignorance on the part
of any lad. On a certain day of grand re-
view, when the city's entire defensive force
was marching through Canal street, there
came along among the endless variety of
good and bad uniforms a stately body of tall,
stalwart Germans, clad from head to foot in
velveteen of a peculiarly vociferous fragrance,
and a boy, spelling out their name upon their
banner, said :
" H-u-s-s-a-r-s ; what's them ? "
" Aw, you fool ! " cried a dozen urchins at
once, " them's the Hoosiers ; don't you smell
'em ? "
But that was earlier. The day of grand re-
views was past. Hussars, Zouaves, and num-
berless other bodies of outlandish name had
gone to the front in Tennessee and Virginia.
Our cultivated eyes were satisfied now with
one uniform that we saw daily. Every after-
noon found us around in Coliseum Place, stand-
ing or lying on the grass watching the dress
parade of the " Confederate Guards." Most
of us had fathers or uncles in the long, spot-
less, gray, white-gloved ranks that stretched in
such faultless alignment down the hard, harsh
turf of our old ball-ground.
This was the flower of the home guard.
The merchants, bankers, underwriters, judges,
real-estate owners, and capitalists of the An-
glo-American part of the city were " all pres-
ent or accounted for " in that long line. Gray
heads, hoar heads, high heads, bald heads.
Hands flashed to breast and waist with a mar-
tinet's precision at the command of " Present
arms," — hands that had ruled by the pen —
the pen and the dollar — since long before
any of us young spectators was born, and had
done no harder muscular work than carve
roasts and turkeys these twenty, thirty, forty
years. Here and there among them were in-
dividuals who, unaided, had clothed and
armed companies, squadrons, battalions, and
sent them to the Cumberland and the Poto-
mac. A good three-fourths of them had sons
on distant battle-fields, some living, some dead.
We boys saw nothing pathetic in this array
of old men. To us there was only rich enjoy-
ment in the scene. If there was anything
solemn about it, why did the band play pol-
kas? Why was the strain every day the
same gay
^§s^n^f|ji
\Mg3&.
atSfciC
Tra la la,tra la la, tra la la la la .
Away down to the far end of the line and
back again, the short, stout German drum-
major — holding his gaudy office in this case
by virtue of his girth, not height (as he had
himself explained) — flourished his big stick
majestically, bursting with rage at us for
casually reiterating at short intervals in his
hearing that " he kot it mit his size."
In those beautiful spring afternoons there
was scarcely a man to be found, anywhere,
out of uniform. Down on the steamboat
landing, our famous Levee, a superb body of
Creoles drilled and paraded in dark-blue
uniform. The orders were given in French;
the manual was French ; the movements were
quick, short, nervy. Their " about march " was
four sharp stamps of their neatly shod feet —
un, deux, trois, qualre — that brought them
face about and sent them back, tramp, tramp,
tramp, over the smooth white pavement of
powdered oyster-shells. Ah ! the nakedness of
that once crowded and roaring mart.
And there was a " Foreign Legion." Of
course, the city had always been full of for-
eigners ; l}ut now it was a subject of amaze-
ment, not unmixed with satire, to see how
many whom every one had supposed to be
Americans or " citizens of Louisiana " bloomed
out as British, or French, or Spanish subjects.
But even so, the tremendous pressure of pop-
ular sentiment crowded them into the ranks
and forced them to make every show of read-
iness to " hurl back the foe," as we used to
call it. And they really served for much.
Merely as a gendarmerie they relieved just as
many Confederate soldiers of police duty in
a city under martial law, and enabled them
to man forts and breastworks at short notice,
whenever that call should come.
That call, the gray heads knew, was com-
ing. They confessed the conviction softly to
NEW ORLEANS BEEORE THE CAPTURE.
919
one another in the counting-rooms and idle
store-fronts when they thought no one was
listening. I used to hear them — standing
with my back turned, pretending to be look-
ing at something down street, but with both
ears turned backward and stretched wide.
They said under their breath that there was
not a single measure of defense that was not
behindhand. And they spoke truly. In fam-
ily councils a new domestic art began to be
studied and discussed — the art of hiding
valuables.
There had come a great silence upon trade.
Long ago the custom warehouses had first
begun to show a growing roominess, then
emptiness, and then had remained shut, and
the iron bolts and cross-bars of their doors
were gray with cobwebs. One of them, where
I had earned my first wages as a self-support-
ing lad, had been turned into a sword-bayo-
net factory, and I had been turned out. For
some time later the Levee had kept busy; but
its stir and noise had gradually declined, fal-
tered, turned into the commerce of war and
the clatter of calkers and ship-carpenters, and
faded out. Both receipts and orders from the
interior country had shrunk and shrunk, and
the brave, steady fellows, who at entry and
shipping and cash and account desks could
no longer keep up a show of occupation, had
laid down the pen, taken up the sword and
musket, and followed after the earlier and
vjnore eager volunteers. There had been one
new, tremendous sport for moneyed men for
a while, with spoils to make it interesting.
The seagoing tow-boats of New Orleans were
long, slender side-wheelers, all naked power
and speed, without either freight or passenger
room, each with a single, tall, slim chimney
and hurrying walking-beam, their low, taper
hulls trailing behind scarcely above the water,
j and perpetually drenched with the yeast of
1 the wheels. Some merchants of the more
audacious sort, restless under the strange new
1 quiet of Tchoupitoulas street, had got letters
j of mark and reprisal, and let slip these sharp-
nosed deerhounds upon the tardy, unsuspect-
■ ing ships that came sailing up to the Passes
unaware of any declaration of war. But that
f game too was up. The blockade had closed
; in like a prison gate; the lighter tow-boats,
1 draped with tarpaulins, were huddled together
under Slaughterhouse Point, with their cold
j boilers and motionless machinery yielding to
j rust ; the more powerful ones had been moored
j at the long wharf vacated by Morgan's Texas
; steamships; there had been a great hammering,
j and making of chips, and clatter of railroad
I iron, turning these tow-boats into iron-clad
i cotton gun-boats, and these had crawled away,
j some up and some down the river, to be seen
in that harbor no more. At length only the
foundries, the dry-docks across the river, and
the ship-yard in suburb Jefferson, where the
great ram Mississippi was being too slowly
built, were active, and the queen of Southern
commerce, the city that had once believed it
was to be the greatest in the world, was abso-
lutely out of employment.
There was, true, some movement of the
sugar and rice crops into the hands of mer-
chants who had advanced the money to grow
them; and the cotton-presses and cotton-
yards were full of cotton, but there it all
stuck; and when one counts in a feeble ex-
change of city for country supplies, there was
nothing more. Except — yes— that the mer-
chants had turned upon each other, and were
now engaged in a mere passing back and
forth among themselves in speculation the
daily diminishing supply of goods and food.
Some were too noble to take part in this,
and dealt only with consumers. I remem-
ber one odd little old man, an extensive
wholesale grocer, who used to get tipsy all
by himself every day, and go home so, but
who would not speculate on the food of a
distressed city. He had not got down to
that.
Gold and silver had long ago disappeared.
Confederate money was the currency; and
not merely was the price of food and raiment
rising, the value of the money was going
down. The State, too, had a paper issue, and
the city had another. Yet with all these there
was first a famine of small change, and then
a deluge of " shinplasters." Pah ! What a
mess it was ! The boss butchers and the
keepers of drinking-houses actually took the
lead in issuing " money." The current joke
was that you could pass the label of an olive-
oil bottle, because it was greasy, smelt bad,
and bore an autograph — Plagniol Freres, if
I remember rightly. I did my first work as a
cashier in those days, and I can remember
the smell of my cash drawer yet. Instead of
five-cent pieces we had car-tickets. How the
grimy little things used to stick together!
They would pass and pass until they were
so soft and illegible with grocers' and butch-
ers' handling that you could tell only by
some faint show of their original color what
company had issued them. Rogues did a
lively business in " split tickets," literally
splitting them and making one ticket serve
for two.
Decay had come in. In that warm, moist
climate it is always hungry, and, wherever it
is allowed to feed, eats with a greed that is
strange to see. With the wharves, always ex-
pensive and difficult to maintain, it made
havoc. The occasional idle, weather-stained
920
NEW ORLEANS BEFORE THE CAPTURE.
ship moored beside them, and resting on the
water almost as light and void as an empty
peascod, could hardly find a place to fasten
to. The streets fell into sad neglect, but the
litter of commerce was not in them, and some
of their round-stone pavements after a show-
er would have the melancholy cleanness of
weather-bleached bones. How quiet and
lonely the harbor grew ! The big dry-docks
against the farther shore were all empty.
Now and then a tug fussed about, with the
yellow river all to itself; and one or two
steamboats came and went each day, but
they moved drowsily, and, across on the other
side of the river, a whole fleet of their dingy
white sisters lay tied up to the bank, sine die.
My favorite of all the sea-steamers, the little
Habaiia, that had been wont to arrive twice
a month from Cuba, disgorge her Spanish-
American cargo, and bustle away again, and
that I had watched the shipwrights, at their
very elbows, razee and fit with three big, rak-
ing masts in place of her two small ones, had
long ago slipped down the river and through
the blockaders, and was now no longer the
Habana, but the far-famed and dreaded
Sumter.
The movements of military and naval de-
fense lent some stir. The old revenue-cutter
Washington, a graceful craft, all wings, no
steam, came and went from the foot of Canal.
She was lying there the morning Farragut's
topmasts hove in sight across the low land at
English Turn. Near by, on her starboard
side, lay a gun-boat, moored near the spot
where the " lower coast " packet landed daily ;
to which spot the crowd used to rush some-
times to see the commanding officer, Major-
General Mansfield Lovell, ride aboard, bound
down the river to the forts. Lovell was a
lithe, brown-haired man of forty-odd, a very
attractive figure, giving the eye, at first glance,
a promise of much activity. He was a showy
horseman, visibly fond of his horse. He rode
with so long a stirrup-leather that he simply
stood astride the saddle, as straight as a spear ;
and the idlers of the landing loved to see him
keep the saddle and pass from the wharf to
the steamboat's deck on her long, narrow
stage-plank without dismounting.
Such petty breaks in the dreariness got to
be scarce and precious toward the last. Not
that the town seemed so desolate then as it
does now, as one tells of it ; but the times
were grim. Opposite the rear of the store
where I was now employed — for it fronted
in Common street and stretched through to
Canal — the huge, unfinished custom-house
reared its lofty granite walls, and I used to
go to its top now and then to cast my eye
over the broad city and harbor below. When
I did so, I looked down upon a town that
had never been really glad again after the
awful day of Shiloh. She had sent so many
gallant fellows to help Beauregard, and some
of them so young, — her last gleaning, — that
when, on the day of their departure, they
marched with solid column and firm-set, un-
smiling mouths down the long gray lane
made by the open ranks of those old Confed-
erate guards, and their escort broke into
cheers and tears and waved their gray shakoes
on the tops of their bayonets and seized the
dear lads' hands as they passed in mute self-
devotion and steady tread, while the trumpets
sang " Listen to the Mocking-bird," that was
the last time; the town never cheered with
elation afterward ; and when the people next
uncovered it was in silence, to let the body of
Albert Sidney Johnston, their great chevalier,
pass slowly up St. Charles street behind the
muffled drums, while on their quivering hearts
was written with a knife the death-roll of that
lost battle. One of those who had brought
that precious body — a former school-mate
of mine — walked beside the bier, with the
stains of camp and battle on him from head
to foot. The war was coming very near.
Many of the town's old forms and habits
of peace held fast. The city, I have said, was
under martial law ; yet the city management
still went through its old routines. The vol-
unteer fire department was as voluntary and
as redundantly riotous as ever. The police
courts, too, were as cheerful as of old. The
public schools had merely substituted " Dixie,"
the " Marseillaise," and the " Bonnie Blue
Flag " for " Hail Columbia " and the " Star-
Spangled Banner," and were running straight
along. There was one thing besides, of which
many of us knew nothing at the time, — a
system of espionage, secret, diligent, and
fierce, that marked down every man suspected,
of sympathy with the enemy in a book whose
name was too vile to find place on any page.
This was not the military secret service, — that
is to be expected wherever there is war, — nor
any authorized police, but the scheme of
some of the worst of the villains who had
ruled New Orleans with the rod of terror for
many years — the "Thugs."
But the public mind was at a transparent
heat. Everybody wanted to know of every-
body else, " Why don't you go to the front ? "
Even the gentle maidens demanded tartly,
one of another, why each other's brothers or
lovers had not gone long ago. Whereas, in
truth, the laggards were few indeed. The
very children were fierce. For now even we,
the uninformed, the lads and women, knew
the enemy was closing down upon us. Of
course we confronted the fact very valorously,
NEW ORLEANS BEFORE THE CAPTURE.
921
CAPTAIN THEODORUS BAILEY AND LIEUTENANT GEORGE H. PERKINS ON THEIR WAY TO DEMAND THE SURRENDER OF NEW ORLEANS.
we boys and mothers and sisters — and the
newspapers. Had we not inspected the forti-
fications ourselves ? Was not every man in
town ready to rush into them at the twelve
taps of the fire-alarm bells ? Were we not
ready to man them if the men gave out ?
Nothing afloat could pass the forts. Nothing
that walked could get through our swamps.
The Mississippi — and, in fact, she was a
majestically terrible structure, only let us
complete her — would sweep the river clean !
But there was little laughter. Food was
dear ; the destitute poor were multiplying ter-
ribly ; the market men and women, mainly
Vol. XXIX.— 96.
Germans, Gascon- French, and Sicilians, had
lately refused to take the shinplaster cur-
rency, and the city authority had forced them
to accept it. There was little to laugh at.
The Mississippi was gnawing its levees and
threatening to plunge in upon us. The city
was believed to be full of spies.
I shall not try to describe the day the
alarm-bells told us the city was in danger and
called every man to his mustering-point. The
children poured out from the school gates and
ran crying to their homes, meeting their sob-
bing mothers at their thresholds. The men
fell into ranks. I was left entirely alone in
922
NEW ORLEANS BEFORE THE CAPTURE.
charge of the store where I was employed.
Late in the afternoon, receiving orders to close
it, I did so, and went home. But I did not
stay. I went to the river-side. There until far
into the night I saw hundreds of drays carry-
ing cotton out of the presses and yards to the
wharves, where it was fired. The glare of those
sinuous miles of flame set men and women
weeping and wailing thirty miles away on the
farther shore of Lake Pontchartrain. But the
next day was the day of terrors. During the
night fear, wrath, and sense of betrayal had run
through the people as the fire had run through
the cotton. You have seen, perhaps, a family
fleeing with lamentations and wringing of
hands out of a burning house ; multiply it by
thousands upon thousands : that was New
Orleans, though the houses were not burning.
The firemen were out ; but they cast fire on the
waters, putting the torch to the empty ships and
cutting them loose to float down the river.
Whoever could go was going. The great
mass, that had no place to go to or means to
go with, was beside itself. "Betrayed! be-
trayed ! " it cried, and ran in throngs from
street to street, seeking some vent, some vic-
tim for its wrath. I saw a crowd catch a poor
fellow at the corner of Magazine and Com-
mon streets, whose crime was that he looked
like a stranger and might be a spy. He was the
palest living man I ever saw. They swung him
to a neighboring lamp-post, but the Foreign
Legion was patroling the town in strong squads,
and one of its lieutenants, all green and gold,
leaped with drawn sword, cut the rope, and
saved the man. This was one occurrence;
there were many like it. I stood in the rear door
of our store, Canal street, soon after reopen-
ing it. The junior of the firm was within. I
called him to look toward the river. The
masts of the cutter Washington were slowly
tipping, declining, sinking — down she went.
The gun-boat moored next her began to
smoke all over and then to blaze. My em-
ployers lifted up their heels and left the city
— left their goods and their affairs in the
hands of one mere lad — no stranger would
have thought I had reached fourteen — and
one big German porter. I closed the doors,
sent the porter to his place in the Foreign
Legion, and ran to the levee to see the sights.
What a gathering ! The riff-raff of the
wharves, the town, the gutters. Such women
— such wrecks of women ! And all the ju-
venile rag-tag. The lower steamboat landing,
well covered with sugar, rice, and molasses,
was being rifled. The men smashed; the
women scooped up the smashings. The river
was overflowing the top of the levee. A rain-
storm began to threaten. " Are the Yankee
ships in sight ? " I asked of an idler. He
pointed out the tops of their naked masts as
they showed up across the huge bend of the
river. They were engaging the batteries at
Camp Chalmette — the old field of Jackson's
renown. Presently that was over. Ah, me !
I see them now as they come slowly round
Slaughterhouse Point into full view, silent, so
grim, and terrible; black with men, heavy
with deadly portent ; the long-banished Stars
and Stripes flying against the frowning sky.
Oh, for the Mississippi I the Mississippi ! Just
then here she came down upon them. But
how ? Drifting helplessly, a mass of flames.
The crowds on the levee howled and
screamed with rage. The swarming decks
answered never a word ; but one old tar on
the Hartford, standing with lanyard in hand
beside a great pivot-gun, so plain to view that
you could see him smile, silently patted its
big black breech and blandly grinned.
And now the rain came down in sheets.
About one or two o'clock in the afternoon
(as I remember), I being again in the store
with but one door ajar, came a roar of shout-
ings and imprecations and crowding feet
down Common street. " Hurrah for Jeff
Davis ! Hurrah for Jeff Davis ! Shoot them !
Kill them ! Hang them ! " I locked the door
on the outside and ran to the front of the
mob, bawling with the rest, " Hurrah for
Jeff Davis ! " About every third man there
had a weapon out. Two officers of the
United States Navy were walking abreast,
unguarded and alone, looking not to right or
left, never frowning, never flinching, while the
mob screamed in their ears, shook cocked
pistols in their faces, cursed and crowded and
gnashed upon them. So through the gates
of death those two men walked to the City
Hall to demand the town's surrender. It was
one of the bravest deeds I ever saw done.
Later events, except one, I leave to other
pens. An officer from the fleet stood on the
City Hall roof about to lower the flag of
Louisiana. In the street beneath gleamed the
bayonets of a body of marines. A howitzer
pointed up and another down the street. All
around swarmed the mob. Just then Mayor
Monroe — lest the officer above should be
fired upon and the howitzers open upon the
crowd — came out alone and stood just be-
fore one of the howitzers, tall, slender, with
folded arms, eying the gunner. Down sank
the flag. Captain Bell, tall and stiff, marched
off with the flag rolled under his arm and the
howitzers clanking behind. Then cheer after
cheer rang out for Monroe. And now, I
daresay, every one is well pleased that, after
all, New Orleans never lowered her colors
with her own hands.
George W. Cable.
THE OPENING OF THE LOWER MISSISSIPPI.*
APRIL, 1862.
THE most impor-
tant event of the
War of the Rebellion,
with the exception of
the fall of Richmond,
was the capture of
New Orleans and the
forts Jackson and St.
Philip, guarding the
approach to that city.
To appreciate the na-
ture of this victory, it
is necessary to have
been an actor in it,
and to be able to com-
prehend not only the
immediate results to
the Union cause, but the whole bearing of the
fall of New Orleans on the Civil War, which
at that time had attained its most formidable
proportions.
Previous to fitting out the expedition
against New Orleans, there were eleven
Southern States in open rebellion against the
Government of the United States, or, as it
was termed by the Southern people, in a state
of secession. Their harbors were all more or
less closed against our ships-of-war, either by
THE MAN WHO WOULD NOT
HAUL DOWN THE UNION
FLAG AT THE PENSACOLA
NAVY- YARD. (FROM A
SKETCH FROM LIFE BY
WILLIAM WAUD.)
the city were in no way behind the most
zealous secessionists in energy of purpose and
in hostility to the Government of the United
States.
The Mississippi is thus seen to have been
the backbone of the Rebellion, which it should
have been the first duty of the Federal Gov-
ernment to break. At the very outset of the
war it should have been attacked at both
ends at the same time, before the Confederates
had time to fortify its banks or to turn the
guns in the Government forts against the
Union forces. A dozen improvised gun-boats
would have held the entire length of the
river if they had been sent there in time.
The efficient fleet with which Dupont, in
November, 1861, attacked and captured the
works at Port Royal could at that time have
steamed up to New Orleans and captured the
city without difficulty. Any three vessels could
have passed Forts Jackson and St. Philip a
month after the commencement of the war,
and could have gone on to Cairo, if neces-
sary, without any trouble. But the Federal
Government neglected to approach the mouth
of the Mississippi until a year after hostilities
had commenced, except to blockade. The
Confederates made good use of this interval,
the heavy forts built originally by the General putting forth all their resources and fortifying
Government for their protection, or by torpe-
does and sunken vessels. Through four of
these seceding States ran the great river Mis-
sissippi, and both of its banks, from Memphis to
its mouth, were lined with powerful batteries.
On the west side of the river were three impor-
tant States, Louisiana, Arkansas, and Texas,
with their great tributaries to the Mississippi,
— the White, the Arkansas, and the Red, —
which were in a great measure secure from city with oysters and fish that very little prog
not only the approaches to New Orleans, but
both banks of the river as far north as Memphis.
While in command of the Powhatan, en-
gaged in the blockade of the South-west Pass
of the Mississippi, — a period of seventy-six
days, — I took pains to obtain all possible in-
formation concerning the defenses of the river.
I learned from the fishermen who supplied the
the attacks of the Union forces. These States
could not only raise half a million soldiers,
but could furnish the Confederacy with pro-
visions of all kinds, and cotton enough to
supply the Rebel Government with the sin-
ews of war. New Orleans was the largest
Southern city, and contained all the resources
of modern warfare, having great workshops
ress had been made in strengthening the forts,
and that no vessel of any importance was being
built except the ram Manassas, which had not
much strength and but a single gun. The only
Confederate vessel then in commission was a
small river-boat, the Ivy, mounting one four-
pounder rifled gun. Had I been able to cross
the bar with my ship, I would have felt justi-
where machinery of the most powerful kind fied in going up to the city and calling on the
could be built, and having artisans capable of authorities to surrender, 1 could easily have
building ships in wood or iron, casting heavy passed the forts under cover of the night with-
guns, or making small arms. The people of out the aid of a pilot, as I had been up and
* For a description of the " Operations of the Western Flotilla " (including the opening of the Mississippi
from Cairo to Memphis), see the paper by Rear-Admiral Walke in The Century for January, 1885.
924
THE OPENING OF THE LOWER MISSISSIPPI.
down the river some thirty times in a large
mail steamer. But the Powhatan drew three
feet too much water, and there was no use
thinking about such an adventure.
This was the position of affairs on May 31,
1 86 1, only forty-five days after Fort Sumter
had been fired on.
On the 9th of November, 1861, I arrived at
New York with the Poiuhatan and was ordered
to report to the Navy Department at Washing-
ton, which I did on the 12th. In those days it
was not an easy matter for an officer, except
one of high rank, to obtain access to the Sec-
retary of the Navy, and I had been waiting
nearly all the morning at the door of his
office when Senators Grimes and Hale came
along and entered into conversation with me
concerning my service on the Gulf coast.
During this interview I told the senators of
a plan I had formed for the capture of New
Orleans, and when I had explained to them
liow easily it could be accomplished, they
expressed surprise that no action had been
taken in the matter, and took me in with
them at once to see Secretary Welles. I then
gave the Secretary, in as few words as pos-
sible, my opinion on the importance of cap-
turing New Orleans, and my plan for doing
:so. Mr. Welles listened to me attentively,
and when I had finished what I had to say
'he remarked that the matter should be laid
before the President at once ; and we all went
forthwith to the Executive Mansion, where
we were received by Mr. Lincoln.
My plan, which I then stated, was as fol-
lows : To fit out a fleet of vessels-of-war
with which to attack the city, fast steam-
ers drawing not more than eighteen feet of
water and carrying about two hundred and
fifty heavy guns ; also a flotilla of mortar- ves-
sels, to be used in case it should be necessary
to bombard Forts Jackson and St. Philip be-
fore the fleet should attempt to pass them. I
also proposed that a body of troops should be
sent along in transports to take possession of
the city after it had been surrendered to the
navy. When I had outlined the proposed
movement the President remarked :
" This should have been done sooner. The
Mississippi is the backbone of the Rebellion ;
it is the key to the whole situation. While
the Confederates hold it they can obtain
supplies of all kinds, and it is a barrier against
our forces. Come, let us go and see General
McClellan."
At that time General McClellan com-
manded the Army of the Potomac, and was
in the zenith of his power. He held the con-
fidence of the President and the country, and
was engaged in organizing a large army
'with which to guarantee the safety of the
Federal seat of government, and to march
upon Richmond. '
Our party was now joined by Mr. Seward,
the Secretary of State, and we proceeded
to McClellan's headquarters, where we found
that officer diligently engaged in the duties of
his responsible position. He came to meet
the President with that cheery manner which
always distinguished him, and, seeing me,
shook me warmly by the hand. We had
known each other for some years, and I al-
ways had the highest opinion of his military
abilities.
" Oh," said the President, " you two know
each other ! Then half the work is done."
He then explained to the general the ob-
ject of his calling at that time, saying :
" This is a most important expedition.
What troops can you spare to accompany it
and take possession of New Orleans after the
navy has effected its capture ? It is not only
necessary to have troops enough to hold New
Orleans, but we must be able to proceed at
once towards Vicksburg, which is the key to
all that country watered by the Mississippi
and its tributaries. If the Confederates once
fortify the neighboring hills, they will be able
to hold that point for an indefinite time, and
it will require a large force to dislodge them."
In all his remarks the President showed a
remarkable familiarity with the state of affairs.
Before leaving us, he said :
"We will leave this matter in the hands of
you two gentlemen. Make your plans, and
let me have your report as soon as possible."
General McClellan and myself were then
left to talk the matter over and draw up the
plan of operations. With a man of McClellan's
energy, it did not take long to come to a con-
clusion ; and, although he had some difficulty
in finding a sufficient number of troops without
interfering with other important projects, he
settled the matter in two days, and reported
that his men would be ready to embark on the
15th of January, 1862.
The plan of the campaign submitted to
the President was as follows : A naval ex-
pedition was to be fitted out, composed of
vessels mounting not fewer than two hun-
dred guns, with a powerful mortar-flotilla,
and with steam transports to keep the fleet
supplied. The army was to furnish twenty
thousand troops, not only for the purpose
of occupying New Orleans after its capture,
but to fortify and hold the heights about
Vicksburg. The navy and army were to push
on up the river as soon as New Orleans was
occupied by our troops, and call upon the
authorities of Vicksburg to surrender. Orders
were to be issued to Flag-officer Davis, who
commanded the iron-clad fleet on the Upper
Vol. XXIX. — 97.
926
THE OPENING OE THE LOWER MISSISSIPPI.
Mississippi, to join the fleet above Vicksburg
with his vessels and mortar-boats.
The above plans were all approved by the
President, and the Navy Department imme-
diately set to work to prepare the naval part
of the expedition, while General McClellan
prepared the military part. The officer selected
to command the troops was General B. F.
Butler, a man supposed to be of high admin-
istrative ability, and at that time one of the
most zealous of the Union commanders.
The Assistant Secretary of the Navy, Mr.
G. V. Fox, selected the vessels for this expe-
dition, and to me was assigned the duty of
PRESENT ASPECT OF FORT JACKSON,
FROM SUMMIT OF THE LEVEE LOOKING SOUTH FROM
THE RIVER.
purchasing and fitting out a mortar flotilla, to
be composed of twenty large schooners, each
mounting one heavy thirteen-inch mortar and
at least two long thirty-two-pounders. It was
not until December, 1861, that the Navy De-
partment got seriously to work at fitting out
the expedition. Some of the mortar-vessels
had to be purchased, the twenty mortars, with
their thirty thousand bombshells, had to be
cast at Pittsburgh and transported to New York
and Philadelphia, and the mortar-carriages
made in New York. It was also necessary to
recall ships from stations on the coast and fit
them out ; also to select officers from the few
MAPS OF THE LOWER MISSISSIPPI.
THE OPENING OE THE LOWER MISSISSIPPI. 927
I had known Farragut ever since I was
five years old. He stood high in the navy
as an officer and seaman, and possessed such
undoubted courage and energy that no possi-
ble objection could be made to him. On the
first sign of war Farragut, though a South-
erner by birth and residence, had shown his
loyalty in an outspoken manner. The South-
ern officers had used every argument to in-
duce him to desert his flag, even going so far
as to threaten to detain him by force. His
answer to them has become historical: " Mind
what I tell you : You fellows will catch the
devil before you get through with this busi-
ness."* Having thus expressed himself in a
manner not to be misunderstood, he left Nor-
folk with his family and took a house on the
Hudson River, whence he reported to the
Navy Department as ready for duty. I knew
Farragut better than most other officers of the
navy knew him ; and as he is here to appear as
the central figure of the greatest naval achieve-
ment of our war, I will give a brief sketch of
his early naval life.
Farragut was born in Tennessee, from which
State his family moved to New Orleans. His
father was not a man of affluence, and had a
large family to support. In 1807 Captain
David Porter, United States Navy, was ap-
pointed to the command of the New Orleans
station. His father, David Porter, senior (who
had been appointed by General Washington a
sailing-master in the navy, for services per-
formed during the Revolution), accompanied
him to this post and served under his com-
mand. Being eighty-four years of age, his
services were nominal, and he only lived in
New Orleans for the sake of being near his
son. One day, while fishing on Lake Pont-
MAP SHOWING THE DEFENSES OF THE MISSISSIPPI AND THE
POSITIONS OF THE MORTAR-FLEET AT THE OPEN-
ING OF THE BOMBARDMENT.
NOTE. The top of the map is west.
available at that time to fill the various posi-
tions where efficiency was required — espe-
cially for the mortar flotilla, the operation of
which imposed unfamiliar duties.
By the latter part of January the mortar flo- chartrain, the old gentleman fell over with
tilla got off. In addition to the schooners, it a sunstroke, and Farragut's father took him
included seven steamers (which were necessary to his house near by, and treated him with
to move the vessels about in the Mississippi the most assiduous attention. Mr. Porter died
River) and a store-ship. Seven hundred picked at the residence of Mr. and Mrs. Farra-
men were enlisted, and twenty-one officers were gut, it being considered dangerous to move
selected from the merchant marine
to command the mortar-schooners.
An important duty now devolved
on the Secretary of the Navy, viz.,
the selection of an officer to com-
mand the whole expedition. Mr. Fox
and myself had often discussed the
matter. He had had in his mind
several officers of high standing and
unimpeachable loyalty ; but, as I
knew the officers of the navy better
than he did, my advice was listened
to, and the selection fell upon Cap-
tain David Glasgow Farragut. entrance to fort st. philip. (present aspect.)
* It is worthy of note in this connection that in 1833, during the nullification troubles, Farragut was sent by
Andrew lackson to South Carolina to support his mandate that " the Union must and shall be preserved."— Ed.
928
THE OPENING OE THE LOWER MISSISSIPPI.
him. Captain Porter then, in order to show
his gratitude to the Farraguts for their kind-
ness to his father, offered to adopt their son
Glasgow. This offer was gladly accepted, and
from that time young Farragut became a
member of Captain Porter's family, and was
recognized as his adoptive son. The boy was
placed, Farragut maintained his reputation
as a fine officer, and genial, cheery compan-
ion. He was esteemed by all who knew him,
and no one in the navy had more personal
friends or fewer enemies. At the time of his
appointment to the command of the New Or-
leans expedition, he was over sixty years of
MORTAR-SCHOONERS ENGAGED AGAINST FORT JACKSON.*
(Distance of leading schooner from the fort, 2850 yards. Duration of fire, six days. Total number of shells fired, 16,800.)
placed at school when he was eight years old,
and on the 17th of December, 1810, he was
appointed an acting midshipman in the navy.
He accompanied Captain Porter in the cruise
of the Essex around Cape Horn, and was
with him at the memorable capture of that
frigate, on which occasion he showed the
spirit of a brave boy. He remained with his
adopted father some years, and served under
him in the " mosquito fleet " of the West
India squadron. In whatever position he was
age; but he was as active as a man of fifty,
with an unimpaired constitution, and a mind
as bright as ever.
On his return to the North with his family,
he had been assigned to duty by the Depart-
ment as president of a board for the examina-
tion of officers, and he accepted it as an ac-
knowledgment on the part of the Government
that he was a loyal man. The Department
hesitated for some time, however, when his
name was proposed as commander of the im-
* The drawings of vessels in action printed with this article, except the general view, are from sketches by
Admiral Porter, and all have received his criticism and final approval. — Ed.
THE OPENING OE THE LOWER MISSISSIPPI.
929
JfotcS ruaMA. t>y lo-rnhs Tef
» « ' *> sk.str
trauirCh ~Vt\&£ we.l"G* htA^rnecL
Zfi-iu-rceS oiiy Tfce. **ajm.paJrLa
re]o3j.re<
PLAN OF FORT JACKSON, SHOWING THE EFFECT OF THE BOMBARDMENT, APRIL 18TH TO 24TH. (FROM THE GOVERNMENT MAP
SURVEYED BY J. S. HARRIS UNDER THE DIRECTION OF F. H. GERDES, U. S. COAST SURVEY.)
t" All the scows and boats near the fort except three small ones were sunk. The drawbridge, hot-shot furnaces, and fresh-water cisterns were
destroyed. The floors of the casemates were flooded, the levee having been broken. All the platforms for pitching tents on were destroyed by fire or
shells. All the casemates were cracked (the roof in some places being entirely broken through) and masses of brick dislodged in numerous instances.
The outer walls of the fort were cracked from top to bottom, admitting daylight freely." — Inscription on the original plan.]
portant expedition against New Orleans. A
widespread feeling prevailed at that time
that Southern officers should not be given
active duty afloat ; for, although their loyalty
was not doubted, it was naturally thought that
they would find no duty congenial that would
compel them to act offensively against their
friends and relations. It was afterwards
proved that this opinion was unjust, for among
the officers who hailed from the South were
some of the most zealous and energetic de-
fenders of the Union flag — men who did their
duty faithfully. When Farragut came North
he simply reported himself to the Department
as ready for duty, without applying for active
service against the enemy. It was owing to
this fact that the Department was so long in
coming to a conclusion, and this explains
why the commander of the expedition was
not (as he ought to have been) the very first
man selected.
I continually urged Farragut's appointment,
and finally the Department directed me to go
on to New York, and ascertain in a personal
interview whether he would accept the com-
mand and enter warmly into the views of the
Government. I found him, as I had expected,
loyal to the utmost extent; and, although he
did not at that time know the destination of
the expedition, he authorized me to accept for
him the Secretary's offer, and I telegraphed
the Department : " Farragut accepts the com-
mand, as I was sure he would."
In consequence of this answer he was called
to Washington, and on the 20th of January,
1862, he received orders to command the ex-
pedition against New Orleans. In the orders
are included these passages : " There will be
attached to your squadron a fleet of bomb-ves-
sels, and armed steamers enough to manage
them, all under command of Commander D.
D. Porter, who will be directed to report to you.
As fast as these vessels are got ready they will
be sent to Key WTest to await the arrival of all,
and the commanding officers will be permitted
to organize and practice with them at that
port. When these formidable mortars arrive,
and you are completely ready, you will collect
such vessels as can be spared from the block-
ade, and proceed up the Mississippi River,
and reduce the defenses which guard the
approaches to New Orleans, when you will
93°
THE OPENING OF THE LOWER MISSISSIPPI.
appear off that city and take possession of Orleans, which were expected to sweep the
it under the guns of your squadron, and
hoist the American flag therein, keeping
possession until troops can be sent to you.
If the Mississippi expedition from Cairo shall
not have descended the river, you will take
advantage of the panic to push a strong
whole Southern coast clear of Union vessels.
An iron-clad ram, the Arkansas, was building
at Yazoo City, and several other iron-clad
vessels were under construction at different
points on the tributaries.
This energy and forethought displayed by
MAJOR-GENERAL MANSFIELD LOVELL, COMMANDER OF CONFEDERATE DEPARTMENT NO. I, WITH HEADQUARTERS
AT NEW ORLEANS. (FROM A PHOTOGRAPH BY COOK.)
force up the river to take all their defenses in
the rear."
As soon as possible Farragut proceeded to
his station and took command of the West
Gulf Blockading Squadron. In the mean
time the Confederates had not been idle.
They had early been made acquainted with the
destination of the expedition, and had put forth
all their energies in strengthening Forts Jack-
son and St. Philip, obstructing the river, and
preparing a naval force with which to meet
the invaders. The ram Manassas was fin-
ished and placed in commission, and the iron-
clad Louisiana, mounting sixteen heavy guns
and heavily armored, was hurried toward
completion. Besides these vessels there were
two other powerful iron-clads building at New
the South will seem marvelous when compared
with what was done by the North during the
same period of time ; for among all the ships
that were sent to Farragut there was not one
whose sides could resist a twelve-pound shot.
Considering the great resources of the North-
ern States, this supineness of the Government
seems inexcusable. Up to the time of the
sailing of the expedition, only one small iron-
clad, the Monitor, had been commenced ; and
it was only after her encounter with the Mer-
rimac that it was seen how useful vessels of this
class would be for the attack on New Orleans,
particularly in contending with the forts on
the banks of the Mississippi.
Flag-officer Farragut did not arrive at Ship
Island with the Hartford until the 20th of
THE OPENING OF THE LOWER MISSISSIPPI.
93i
COMMANDER DAVID D. PORTER (NOW ADMIRAL U. S. N.), — IN COMMAND OF THE MORTAR-FLEET AT
FORTS JACKSON AND ST. PHILIP.
February, 1862, he having been detained for
some time at Key West, where he commenced
arranging his squadron for the difficult task
that lay before him.
The vessels which had been assigned to
his command soon began to arrive, and by
the middle of March the following ships and
gun-boats had reported: Hartford, 25 guns,
Commander Richard Wainwright ; Brooklyn,
24 guns, Captain T. T. Craven; Richmond, 26
guns, Commander James Alden ; Mississippi,
12 guns, Commander Melancton Smith; Pen-
saco/a, 24 guns, Captain H. W. Morris; Cayu-
ga, 6 guns, Lieutenant-com'g N. B. Harrison ;
Oneida, 9 guns, Commander S. P. Lee; Varuna,
10 guns, Commander Charles S. Boggs; Ka-
tahdin,^ guns, Lieutenant-com'g George H.
Preble; Kinco, 4 guns, Lieutenant-com'g
George M. Ransom; JVissa/iic/con, 4 guns,
Lieutenant-com'g A. N. Smith ; Jfinona, 4
guns, Lieutenant-com'g E. T. Nichpls ; Itasca,
4 guns, Lieutenant-com'g C. H. B. Caldwell ;
Pino/a, 4 guns, Lieutenant-com'g Pierce
Crosby ; Kennebec, 4 guns, Lieutenant-com'g
John H. Russell; Iroquois, 9 guns, Com-
mander John De Camp ; Sciota, 4 guns,
MAJOR-GENERAL BENJAMIN F. BUTLER, IN COMMAND OF THE MILITARY FORCES OF THE NEW ORLEANS EXPEDITION.
(FROM A PHOTOGRAPH TAKEN IN VIRGINIA IN 1864.)
THE OPENING OF THE LOWER MISSISSIPPI.
933
Lieutenant-com'g Edward Donaldson. Total
guns, 177. Also the following steamers be-
longing to the mortar flotilla : Harriet Lane,
Owasco, Clifton, Westfield, Miami, Jackson;
besides the mortar-schooners, the names of
which will be given farther on. The frigate
Colorado, mounting fifty guns, had arrived, but
mortars ; in north-west casemate, eight thirty-
two-pounders ; in north-east casemate, six
thirty-two-pounders; in bastion casemates,
ten short guns, two brass field-pieces. Extend-
ing from the fort down the river was a water
battery, containing two large rifled guns, one
ten-inch and one nine-inch columbiad, and
Flag-officer Farragut and Captain Bailey both three thirty-two-pounders on the outer cur-
came to the conclusion that she could not be
lightened sufficiently to cross the bar.
On the 1 8th of March all the mortar-
schooners crossed the bar at Pass a l'Outre,
towed by the steamers Harriet Lane, Owasco,
Westfield, and Clifton. They were ordered by
Farragut to proceed to South-west Pass.
As yet the only vessels that had crossed the
bar were the Hartford and Brooklyn. The
Navy Department had made a mistake in
sending vessels of too great draught of water,
such as the Colorado, Pensacola, and Missis-
sippi. The two latter vessels succeeded in
crossing with great difficulty, but the whole
fleet was delayed at least twelve days.
tain. This was a very formidable part of the
defenses, its heavy guns having a command-
ing range down the river. The main works
had been strengthened by covering its bomb-
proofs and vulnerable parts with bags of sand
piled five or six feet deep, making it proof
against the projectiles of ordinary guns carried
by ships-of-war in those days. The fort was
also well supplied with provisions and muni-
tions of war, which were stowed away in a
heavily built citadel of masonry situated in
the center of the works. Altogether, it was
in very good condition to withstand either
attack or siege. Fort Jackson was under the
immediate command of Lieutenant-Colonel
The first act of Farragut was to send Cap- Edward Higgins, formerly an officer of the
tain Henry H.Bell, his chief-of-staff, up the river United States Navy, and a very gallant and
with the steamers Kennebec and Wissahickon, to intelligent man.
ascertain, if possible, what preparations had
been made by the enemy to prevent the pas-
Fort St. Philip was situated on the other
side of the river, about half a mile above Fort
sage of the forts. This officer reported that Jackson, and, in my opinion, was the more
" the obstructions seemed formidable. Eight
hulks were moored in line across the river,
with heavy chains extending from one to the
other. Rafts of logs were also used, and the pas-
sage between the forts was thus entirely closed."
The Confederates had lost no time in
strengthening their defenses. They had been
working night and day ever since the expedi-
tion was planned by the Federal Govern-
ment. Forts Jackson and St. Philip were two
strong defenses on each side of the river, the
former on the west bank and the latter on the
formidable of the two works. It covered a
large extent of ground, and although it was
open, without casemates, its walls were
strongly built of brick and stone, covered
with sod. The guns were all mounted in bar-
bette, and could be brought to bear on any
vessel going up or down the river. There
were in all 53 pieces of ordnance, as follows :
Forty-three guns (mostly thirty-two-pound-
ers), one thirteen-inch mortar, four ten-inch
sea-coast mortars, one ten-inch siege mortar,
one eight-inch siege mortar, three pieces of
east. As they are to hold an important place light artillery. One heavy rifled gun bore on
in the following narration of events, it will be
well to give a description of them.
Fort Jackson was built in the shape of a
star, of stone and mortar, with heavy bomb-
proofs. (See page 929.) It set back about one
hundred yards from the levee, with its case-
mates just rising above it. I am told that the
masonry had settled somewhat since it was first
built, but it was still in a good state of preser-
vation. Its armament consisted of forty-three
heavy guns in barbette, and twenty in case-
mates ; also two pieces of light artillery and
three mortars ; also seven guns in water battery
— in all, seventy-five guns, distributed as fol-
lows : On main parapet, thirty-three thirty-
two-pounders, two ten-inch columbiads, one
six-inch rifle ; in second bastion, one nine-
inch mortar, two ten-inch columbiads ; in
third bastion, one columbiad, two eight-inch
Vol. XXIX.— 98.
the position of the mortar-fleet, and caused
us considerable disturbance until the second
or third day after the bombardment com-
menced, when it burst.
Each of the forts held a garrison of about
seven hundred men, some of whom were
from the Northern States, besides many for-
eigners (Germans or Irish). The Northern
men had applied for duty in the forts to
avoid suspicion, and in the hope that they
would not be called upon to fight against
the Federal Government. In this hope they
had been encouraged by their officers, all of
whom, including the colonel in command,
were of the opinion that no naval officer
would have the hardihood to attack such
strong positions.
All of the land defenses were under Brig-
adier-General Johnson K. Duncan, who
934
THE OPENING OF THE LOWER MISSISSIPPI.
showed himself to be an able and gallant
commander.
The best passage up the river was near the
west bank close under the guns of Fort
Jackson, where the current was not very
rapid and few eddies existed. Across this
channel the Confederates had placed a raft
of logs, extending from the shore to the com-
mencement of a line of hulks which reached
to the other side of the river. These hulks
were anchored and connected to each other
by chains. The raft was so arranged that it
could be hauled out of the way of passing
vessels, and closed when danger threatened.
Although this plan of blocking the river
was better than the first one tried by the
Confederates, viz., to float a heavy chain
across on rafts, it was not very formidable or
ingenious.
In addition to the defenses at the forts,
the Confederates worked with great diligence
to improvise a fleet of men-of- war, using
for this purpose a number of heavy tugs,
that had been employed in towing vessels
up and down the river, and some merchant
steamers. These, with the ram Manassas and
the iron-clad Louisiana, made in all twelve
vessels. The whole naval force was nomi-
nally under the control of Commander John
K. Mitchell, C. S. N.
In order that we may come to a full un-
derstanding of the composition of this fleet,
It will be necessary to give a detailed account
of each vessel, stating the authority which
directed her movements. The following ves-
sels belonged to the regular navy, and were,
from the first, under the exclusive control of
Commander Mitchell :
The iron-clad Louisiana, mounting sixteen
heavy guns, with a crew of two hundred men.
She was a powerful vessel, almost impervious
to shot, and was fitted with a shot-proof gal-
lery from which her sharp-shooters could fire
at an enemy with great effect. Her machin-
ery was not completed, however, and during
the passage of the Union fleet she was secured
to the river-bank and could only use one
broadside and four of her stern guns. At this
time she was under the immediate command
of Lieutenant Charles F. Mcintosh, formerly
of the United States Navy. (See page 938.)
Also the McRae, Lieutenant Thomas B. Huger,
a sea-going steamer mounting six thirty-two-
pounders and one nine-inch shell gun; steamer
Jacksoii, Lieutenant F. B. Renshaw, mounting
two thirty-two-pounders ; iron-clad ram Man-
assas, Lieutenant A. F. Warley, mounting one
thirty-two-pounder (in the bow) ; and two
launches, mounting each one howitzer. Also
the following converted sea-steamers into
Louisiana State gun-boats, with pine and cot-
ton barricades to protect the machinery and
boilers : The Governor Moore, Commander
Beverly Kennon,two thirty-two-pounder rifled
guns, and the General Quitman, Captain Grant,
two thirty-two-pounders. " All the above
steamers, being converted vessels," says Com-
mander Mitchell, " were too slightly built for
war purposes." The following unarmed steam-
ers belonged to his command, viz. : The
Phoenix, W. Burton, and Landis. The follow-
ing named steamers, chartered by the army,
were placed under his orders, viz. : The
Mosher, Belle Algerine, Star, and Music
(small tugs).
The River Defense gun-boats, under the
command of a merchant captain named
Stephenson, were also ordered to report to
Commander Mitchell ; but they proved of lit-
tle assistance to him owing to the insubordina-
tion of their commander. This fleet consisted
of the following converted tow-boats, viz. :
The Warrior, Stonewall Jackson, Resolute,
Defiance, General Lovell, R. J. Breckinridge,
" All of the above vessels," says Com-
mander Mitchell, " mounted from one to two
pivot thirty-two-pounders each, some of them
rifled. Their boilers and machinery were all
more or less protected by thick, double pine
barricades, filled in with compressed cotton."
They were also prepared for ramming by flat
bar-iron casings around their bows.
The Confederate fleet mounted, all told,
thirty-nine guns, all but two of them being
thirty-two-pounders, and one-fourth of them
rifled.
It is thus seen that our wooden vessels,
which passed the forts carrying 177 guns, had
arrayed against them 128 guns in strongly
built works, and 39 guns on board of partly
armored vessels.
In addition to the above-mentioned de-
fenses, Commodore Mitchell had at his com-
mand a number of fire-rafts (long flat-boats
filled with pine-knots, etc.), which were ex-
pected to do good service, either by throwing
the Union fleet into confusion or by furnishing
light to the gunners in the forts. On com-
paring the Confederate defenses with the at-
tacking force of the Union fleet, it will be seen
that the odds were strongly in. favor of the
former. It is generally conceded by military
men that one gun in a fort is about equal to
five on board of a wooden ship, especially
when, as in this case, the forces afloat are
obliged to contend against a three-and-a-half-
knot current in a channel obstructed by chains
and fire-rafts. Our enemies were well aware
of their strength, and although they hardly
expected us to make so hazardous an attack,
they waited impatiently for Farragut to " come
on," resting in the assurance that he would
THE OPENING OF THE LOWER MISSISSIPPI.
935
CONFEDERATE SHARP-SHOOTERS AND SWAMP HUNTERS ATTACKING MORTAR-BOATS.
meet with a disastrous defeat. They did not
neglect, however, to add daily to the strength
of their works during the time that our ships
were delayed in crossing the bar and ascend-
ing the river.
Having now described the state of the
Confederate defenses, we will continue our
narrative of the doings of the Union fleet.
Farragut experienced great difficulty in
getting the larger vessels over the bar. The
Hartford and Brooklyn were the only two
that could pass without lightening. The Rich-
mond stuck fast in the mud every time she
attempted to cross. The Mississippi drew two
feet too much water, and the Pensaco/a, after
trying several times to get over, ran on a
wreck a hundred yards away from the chan-
nel. There she lay, with her propeller half
out of water, thumping on the wreck as she
was driven in by the wind and sea. Pilots
had been procured at Pilot Town, near
by ; but they were either treacherous or ner-
vous, and all their attempts to get the heavy
ships over the bar were failures. Farragut felt
extremely uncomfortable at the prospect be-
fore him, but I convinced him that I could
get the vessels over if he would place them
under my control, and he consented to do
936
THE OPENING OF THE LOWER MISSISSIPPI.
so. I first tried with the Richmond {Commander
Alden), and, although she had grounded seven
times when in charge of a pilot, I succeeded
at the first attempt, crossed the bar, and an-
chored off Pilot Town. The next trial was with
the frigate Mississippi. The vessel was light-
ened as much as possible by taking out her
spars, sails, guns, provisions, and coal. All the
steamers of the mortar-fleet were then sent to
her assistance, and after eight days' hard work
they succeeded in pulling her through. To
get the Pensacola over looked even more dif-
ficult. I asked Captain Bailey to lend me the
Colorado for a short time, and with this vessel
I went as close as possible to the Pe?isacola,
ran out a stream-cable to her stern, and, by
backing hard on the ^Colorado, soon released
her from her disagreeable position. The next
day at twelve o'clock I passed her over the
bar and anchored her off Pilot Town. All the
available vessels were now safely over, and
Farragut was at liberty to proceed up the
river as soon as he pleased.
The U. S. Coast Survey steamer Sachem,
commanded by a very competent officer, Mr.
F. H. Gerdes, had been added to the expe-
dition for the purpose of sounding the bar and
river channel, and also to establish points and
distances which should serve as guides to the
commander of the mortar flotilla. Mr. Gerdes
and his assistants selected the positions of the
bomb-vessels, furnished all the commanders
of vessels with reliable charts, triangulated the
river for eight miles below the forts, and planted
small poles with white flags on the banks
opposite the positions of the different vessels,
each flag marked with the name of a vessel
and the distance from the mouth of its mortar
to the center of the fort. The boats of the
surveyors were frequently attacked by sharp-
shooters, who fired from concealed positions
among the bushes of the river bank. During
the bombardment the Coast Survey officers
were employed day and night in watching that
the vessels did not move an inch from their
places, and the good effect of all this care was
shown in the final result of the mortar practice.
Having finished the preliminary work, on
the 1 6th of April Farragut moved up with
his fleet to within three miles of the forts, and
informed me that I could commence the bom-
bardment as soon as I was ready. The ships
all anchored as they came up, but not in very
good order, which led to some complications.
The place which I had selected for the
first and third divisions of the mortar-vessels
was under the lee of a thick wood on the right
bank of the river, which presented in the
direction of the fort an almost impenetrable
mass. The forts could be plainly seen from the
mastheads of the mortar-schooners, which had
been so covered with brush that the Confed-
erate gunners could not distinguish them from
the trees.
The leading vessel of the first division,
under Lieutenant-commanding Watson Smith,
was placed at a point distant 2850 yards
from Fort Jackson and 3680 yards from Fort
St. Philip. This division was composed of
the following seven vessels : Norfolk Packet,
Lieutenant Smith ; O. H. lee, Acting Master
Godfrey ; Para, Acting Master Furber ; C. P.
Williams, Acting Master Langthorne; Arietta,
Acting Master Smith ; Bacon, Acting Master
Rogers; Sophronia, Acting Master Barthol-
omew.
The third division, commanded by Lieu-
tenant Breese, came next in order, as follows :
John Griffiths, Acting Master Henry Brown ;
Sarah Bruen, Acting Master Christian ; Racer,
Acting Master Phinney ; Sea Foam, Acting
Master Williams ; Henry James, Acting
Master Pennington ; Dan Smith, Acting Mas-
ter George Brown.
The following six vessels, composing the
second division, under Lieutenant Queen, I
placed on the east side of the river, the head
of the line being 3680 yards from Fort Jack-
son : T A. Ward, Lieutenant Queen ; M. J.
Carlton, Acting Master Jack ; Matthew Vassar,
Acting Master Savage; George Man gham, Act-
ing Master Collins ; Orvetta, Acting Master
Blanchard; Sydney C. Jones, Acting Master
Graham.
The curious nomenclature of this flotilla is
accounted for by the fact that the schooners
retained the names which they bore when pur-
chased by the Government.
The vessels now being in position, the sig-
nal was given to open fire ; and on the morn-
ing of the 1 8th of April the bombardment
fairly commenced, each mortar-vessel having
orders to fire once in ten minutes.
The moment that the mortars belched forth
their shells, both Jackson and St. Philip re-
plied with great fury; but it was some time
before they could obtain our range, as we
were well concealed behind our natural ram-
part. Their fire was rapid, and, finding that it
was becoming rather hot, I sent Lieutenant-
commanding Guest up to the head of the line
to open fire on the forts with his eleven-inch
pivot. This position he maintained for one
hour and fifty minutes, and only abandoned
it to fill up with ammunition. In the mean
time the mortars on the left bank (Queen's
division) were doing splendid work, though
suffering considerably from the enemy's fire.
I went on board the vessels of this division
to see how they were getting on, and found
them so cut up that I considered it necessary
to remove them, with Farragut's permission, to
Vol. XXIX. -99.
93»
THE OPENING OF THE LOWER MISSISSIPPI.
COMMANDER JOHN K. MITCHELL, C. S. N., IN COMMAND OF THE
NAVAL FORCES AGAINST FARRAGUT.
(FROM A PHOTOGRAPH BY ANDERSON.)
the opposite shore, under cover of the trees,
near the other vessels, which had suffered but
little. They held their position, however, until
sundown, when the enemy ceased firing.
At five o'clock in the evening Fort Jackson
was seen to be on fire, and, as the flames
spread rapidly, the Confederates soon left
their guns. There were many conjectures
among the officers of the fleet as to what was
burning. Some thought that it was a fire-raft,
and I was inclined to that opinion myself
until I had pulled up the river in a boat and,
by the aid of a night-glass, convinced myself
that the fort itself was in flames. This fact I
at once reported to Farragut.
At nightfall the crews of the mortar-vessels
were completely exhausted; but when it be-
came known that every shell was falling inside
of the fort, they redoubled their exertions
and increased the rapidity of their fire to a
shell every five minutes, or in all two hundred
and forty shells an hour. During the night, in
order to allow the men to rest, we slackened
our fire, and only sent a shell once every half
hour. Thus ended the first day's bombard-
ment, which was more effective than that of
any other day during the siege. Had the fleet
been ready to move, it could have passed up
at this time with little or no difficulty.
Next morning the bombardment was re-
newed and continued night and day until the
end, with a result that is thus described in an
unpublished letter from Colonel Edward Hig-
gins, dated April 4, 1872, which I received in
answer to my inquiry on the subject :
" Your mortar-vessels were placed in position on
the afternoon of the 17th of April, 1862, and opened
fire at once upon Fort Jackson, where my headquar-
ters were established. The practice was excellent from
the commencement of the fire to the end, and con-
tinued without intermission until the morning of the
24th of April, when the fleet passed at about four
o'clock. Nearly every shell of the many thousand
fired at the fort lodged inside of the works. On the
first night of the attack the citadel and all buildings
in rear of the fort were fired by bursting shell, and
also the sand-bag walls that had been thrown around
the magazine doors. The fire, as you are aware, raged
with great fury, and no' effort of ours could subdue it.
At this time, and nearly all this night, Fort Jackson
was helpless; its magazines were inaccessible, and we
could have offered no resistance to a passing fleet.
The next morning a terrible scene Of destruction pre-
THE CONFEDERATE IRON-CLAD "LOUISIANA" ON THE WAY TO FORT ST. PHILIP.
Mr. Wm. C. Whittle, who was third lieutenant on the Louisiana during the contest against Farragut's fleet in the Mississippi, has sent to the
Editor the following statement concerning her armament : —
" The hull of the Louisiana was almost entirely submerged. Upon this were built her heavy upper works, intended to contain her battery, machinery,
etc. This extended to within about twenty-five feet of her stem and stern, leaving a little deck forward and aft, nearly even with the water, and sur-
rounded by a slight bulwark. The structure on the hull had its ends and sides inclined inward and upward from the hull, at an angle of about forty-
five degrees, ana covered with T railroad iron, the lower layer being firmly bolted to the wood-work, and the upper layer driven into it from the end
so as to form a nearly solid plate and a somewhat smooth surface. This plating resisted the projectiles of Farragut's fleet (none of which perforated
our side), although one of his largest ships lay across and touching our stem, and in that position fired her heavy guns. Above this structure was an
open deck which was surrounded by a sheet-iron bulwark about four feet high, which was intended as a protection against sharp-shooters and small
arms, but was entirely inefficient, as the death of our gallant commander, Mcintosh, and those who fell around him, goes to prove,
" The plan for propelling the Louisiana was novel and abortive. She had two propellers aft, which we never had an opportunity of testing. The
novel conception, which proved entirely inefficient, was that right in the center section of the vessel there was a large well in which worked the two
wheels, one immediately forward of the other. I suppose they were so placed to be protected from the enemy's fire.
" The machinery of these two wheels was in order when my father, Commodore W. C. Whittle, the naval commanding officer at New Orleans,
against his better judgment, was compelled to send the vessel down to the forts. The vessel left New Orleans on the 20th of April, I think. The work
on the propellers was incomplete, the machinists and mechanics being still on board, and most of the guns were not mounted. The center wheels were
started, but were entirely inefficient, and, as we were drifting helplessly down the stream, tow-boats had to be called to take us down to the point
about half a mile above "Fort St. Philip, on the left side of the river, where we tied up to the bank with our bow down-stream. Thus, as Farragut's
fleet came up and passed, we could only use our bow-guns and the starboard broadside.
" Moreover, the port-holes for our guns were entirely faulty, not allowing room to train the guns either laterally or in elevation. I had practical
experience of this fact, for I had immediate charge of the bow division when a vessel of Admiral Farragut's fleet got across our stem, and I could only
fire through and through her at point blank instead of depressing my guns and sinking her."
THE OPENING OE THE LOWER MISSISSIPPI.
939
CHARLES F. MCINTOSH, COMMANDER OF THE "LOUISIANA."
(FROM PHOTOGRAPH BY BENDANN BROS.)
sented itself. The wood-work of the citadel being all
destroyed, and the crumbling walls being knocked
about the fort by the bursting shells, made matters still
worse for the garrison. The work of destruction from
now until the morning of the 24th, when the fleet
passed, was incessant.
" I was obliged to confine the men most rigidly to
the casemates, or we should have lost the best part
of the garrison. A shell, striking the parapet over one
of the magazines, the wall of which was seven feet
thick, penetrated five feet and failed to burst. If that
.shell had exploded, your work would have ended.
Another burst near the magazine door, opening the
earth and burying the sentinel and another man five
feet in the same grave. The parapets and interior of
the fort were completely honeycombed, and the large
number of sand-bags with which we were supplied
alone saved us from being blown to pieces a hundred
times, our magazine doors being much exposed.
" On the morning of the 24th, when the fleet passed,
the terrible precision with which your formidable ves-
sels hailed down their tons of bursting shell upon the
devoted fort made it impossible for us to obtain
either rapidity or accuracy of fire, and thus rendered
the passage comparatively easy. There was no very
considerable damage done to our batteries, but few
of the guns being dismounted by your fire ; everything
else in and around the fort was destroyed."
PLAN OF THE "LOUISIANA. (AFTER SKETCH MADE BY COMMANDER
ABOUT THE TIME OF THE ENGAGEMENT.)
A. Bulkhead around wheels. B. Guns used in action.
' LIEUTENANT JOHN WILKINSON OF THE " LOUISIANA,
AFTERWARD IN COMMAND OF THE " R. E. LEE."
(FROM PHOTOGRAPH BY S. W. GAl'LT.)
I was not ignorant of the state of affairs in
the fort ; for, on the third day of the bom-
bardment, a deserter presented himself and
gave me such an account of the havoc created
by our shells that I had great doubts of
the truth of his statements. He represented
that hundreds of shells had fallen into the
fort, breaking in the bomb-proofs, setting fire
to the citadel, and flooding the interior by
cutting the levees. He also stated that the
soldiers were in a desperate and demoralized
condition. This was all very encouraging to us,
and so stimulated the crews of the mortar-
boats that they worked with unflagging zeal
and energy. I took the deserter to Farragut,
who, although impressed by his statement,
was not quite prepared to take advantage of
the opportunity ; for at this time the line of
hulks across the river was considered an
insurmountable obstruction, and it was de-
termined to examine and, if possible, remove
it before the advance of the fleet.
On the night of
the 20th an expe-
dition was fitted out
for the purpose of
breaking the chain
which was sup-
posed to extend
from one shore to
the other. Two
steamers,the Pinola,
Lieutenant Crosby,
and Itasca, Lieu-
tenant Caldwell,
were detailed for
T. K. MITCHELL
94°
THE OPENING OF THE LOWER MISSISSIPPI.
CAPTAIN (AFTERWARD REAR-ADMIRAL) THEODORUS BAILEY, IN COMMAND OF THE FIRST DIVISION OF THE FLEE"
(FROM A PHOTOGRAPH BY BRADY.)
this purpose and placed under the direction of
Captain Bell, chief-of- staff. Although the at-
tempt was made under cover of darkness, the
sharp eyes of the Confederate gunners soon
discovered their enemies, and the whole fire of
Fort Jackson was concentrated upon them. I
had been informed of the intended movement
by Farragut,so was ready to redouble the fire of
the mortars at the proper time with good effect,
in Farragut's words : " Commander Porter,
however, kept up such a tremendous fire on
them from the mortars that the enemy's shot
did the gun-boats no injury, and the cable
was separated and their connection broken
sufficiently to pass through on the left bank
of the river."
The work of the mortar-fleet was now
nearly over. We had kept up a heavy fire
night and day for nearly five days — about
2800 shells every twenty-four hours ; in all
about 16,800 shells. The men were nearly worn
out for want of sleep and rest. The ammuni-
tion was giving out, one of the schooners was
sunk, and although the rest had received little
actual damage from the enemy's shot, they
were badly shaken up by the concussion of
the mortars.
On the 23d instant I represented the state
of affairs to the flag-officer, and he concluded
to move on past the works, which I felt sure he
could do with but little loss to his squadron.
He recognized the importance of making an
immediate attack, and called a council of the
commanders of vessels, which resulted in a
determination to pass the forts that night.
The movement was postponed, however, until
the next morning, for the reason that the car-
penters of one of the larger ships were at work
down the river, and the commander did not
wish to proceed without them. The iron-clad
Louisiana had now made her appearance, and
her commander was being strongly urged by
General Duncan to drop down below the
forts (see the map on page 927) and open fire
THE OPENING OE THE LOWER MISSISSIPPI.
941
CAPTAIN BAILEY, IN THE " CAYUGA, BREAKING THROUGH THE CONFEDERATE FLEET.
upon the fleet with his heavy rifle-guns. On
the 2 2d General Duncan wrote to Commander
Mitchell from Fort Jackson :
" It is of vital importance that the present fire of the
enemy should be withdrawn from us, which you alone
can do. This can be done in the manner suggested
this morning under the cover of our guns, while your
work on the boat can be carried on in safety and secur-
ity. Our position is a critical one, dependent entirely
on the powers of endurance of our casemates, many of
which have been completely shattered, and are crum-
bling away by repeated shocks ; and, therefore, I re-
spectfully but earnestly again urge my suggestion of
this morning on your notice. Our magazines are also
in danger."
Fortunately for us, Commander Mitchell was
not equal to the occasion, and the Louisiana
remained tied up to the bank, where she could
not obstruct the river or throw the Union
fleet into confusion while passing the forts.
While Farragut was making his prepara-
tions, the enemy left no means untried to
drive the mortar-boats from their position. A
couple of heavy rifled guns in Fort St. Philip
kept up a continual fire on the head of the
mortar column, and the Confederates used
their mortars at intervals, but only succeeded
in sinking one mortar-schooner and damaging
a few others. A body of riflemen was once
sent out against us from the forts, but it was
met by a heavy fire and soon repulsed.
Two o'clock on the morning of the 24th
instant was fixed upon as the time for the
fleet to start, and Flag-Officer Farragut had
previously given the necessary orders to the
commanders of vessels, instructing them to
prepare their ships for action by sending
down their light spars, painting their hulls
mud-color, etc. ; also to hang their chain-
cables over the sides abreast the engines, as
a protection against the enemy's shot. He
issued the following
GENERAL ORDER.
United States Flag-ship Hartford,
Mississippi River, April 20, 1862.
The flag-officer, having heard all the opinions ex-
pressed by the different commanders, is of the opin-
ENGAGEMENT BETWEEN THE U. S.
GUN-BOAT "VARUNA" AND THE CONFEDERATE RAMS "GOVERNOR
"STONEWALL JACKSON."
942
THE OPENING OF THE LOWER MISSISSIPPI.
McRae.
Iroquois.
FIGHT BETWEEN UNION CORVETTE " IROQUOIS " AND CONFEDERATE VESSELS.
[Commander De Camp, of the Iroquois, in his official report says : " At 4 A. M. we were hotly engaged witli the forts, and shortly after a ram and
the Rebel gun-boat McRae came upon our quarter and astern of us, and poured into the Iroquois a most destructive fire of grape-shot and langrage,
part of which was copper slugs ; a great many of them were found on our decks after the action. We succeeded in getting one 11-inch shell into the
McRae and one stand of canister, which drove her from us." — ED. J
ion that whatever is to be done will have to be done
quickly, or we shall be again reduced to a blockading
squadron, without the means of carrying on the bom-
bardment, as we have nearly expended all the shells
and fuses, and material for making cartridges. He
has always entertained the same opinions which are
expressed by Commander Porter; that is, there are
three modes of attack, and the question is, which is
the one to be adopted ? His own opinion is that a
combination of two should be made, viz. : the forts
should be run, and when a force is once above the
forts, to protect the troops, they should be landed at
quarantine from the gulf side by bringing them through
the bayou, and then our forces should move up the
river, mutually aiding each other as it can be done to
advantage.
When, in the opinion of the flag-officer, the propi-
tious time has arrived, the signal will be made to
weigh and advance to the conflict. If, in his opinion,
at the time of arriving at the respective positions of
the different divisions of the fleet, we have the advan-
tage, he will make the signal for close action, No. 8,
and abide the result, conquer or to be conquered,
drop anchor or keep under way, as in his opinion is
best.
Unless the signal above mentioned is made, it will
be understood that the first order of sailing will be
formed after leaving Fort St. Philip, and we will pro-
ceed up the river in accordance with the original opin-
ion expressed. The programme of the order of sail-
ing accompanies this general order, and the com-
manders will hold themselves in readiness for the
service as indicated.*
Very respectfully, your obedient servant,
D. G. Farragut,
Flag-Officer West Gulf Blockading Squadron.
* The order of battle for the fleet was inclosed with this, but as it was not adopted and contained errors
afterward officially corrected by Farragut, it is here omitted. — Fd.
THE OPENING OF THE LOWER MISSISSIPPI.
ll||||!l|||||ji||||!l|
1 II- i T"i 'I,', l
life''
COMMANDER (NOW REAR-ADMIRAL) CHARLES S. BOGGS, OF THE
"VARUNA." (FROM A PHOTOGRAPH BY BRADY.)
Farragut's first plan was to lead the fleet
with his flag-ship, the Hartford, to be closely
followed by the Brooklyn, Richmond, Pensacola,
and Mississippi, thinking it well to have his
heavy vessels in the van, where they could im-
mediately crush any naval force that might
appear against them. This plan was a better
one than that afterwards adopted ; but he was
induced to change the order of his column by
the senior commanders of the fleet, who rep-
resented to him that it was unwise for the
commander-in-chief to take the brunt of the
battle. They finally obtained his reluctant
consent to an arrangement by which Captain
Bailey was to lead in the gun-boat Cayuga,
commanded by Lieutenant N. B. Harrison, —
a good selection, as it afterwards proved, for
these officers were gallant and competent
men, well qualified for the position. Captain
Bailey had volunteered for the service, and
left nothing undone to overcome Farragut's
reluctance to give up what was then con-
sidered the post of danger, though it turned
out to be less hazardous than the places in
the rear.
The mortar-flotilla steamers under my com-
mand were directed to move up before the
fleet weighed anchor, and to be ready to en-
gage the water batteries of Fort Jackson as
the fleet passed. These batteries mounted
some of the heaviest guns in the Confederate
defenses, and were depended upon to do
efficient work.
943
The commanders of vessels were informed
of the change of plan and instructed to follow
in line in the following
ORDER OF ATTACK.
First Division,
Capt. Bailey.
t Cayuga.
t Pensacola.
t Mississippi.
t Oneida.
t Varuna.
t Katahdin.
t Kineo.
\ Wissahickon.
Center Division,
Flag-officer Farragut.
t Hartford.
t Brooklyn.
f Richmond.
Third Division,
Capt. H. H. Bell.
t Sciota.
t Iroquois.
t Kennebec.
t Pinola.
t Itasca.
t Winona.
At two o'clock on the morning of April
24th all of the Union vessels began to heave
up their anchors. It was a still, clear night,
and the click of the capstans, with the grating
of the chain-cables as they passed through
the hawse-holes, made a great noise, which
we feared would serve as a warning to our
enemies. This conjecture proved to be cor-
rect, for the Confederates were on the alert
in both forts and steamers, and were prepared,
as far as circumstances would admit, to meet
the invaders. One fact only was in our favor,
and that was the division of their forces
under three different heads, which prevented
SECTION OF FORT ST. PHILIP DURING THE ENGAGEMENT.
(THE FORT IS DRAWN FROM A RECENT PHOTOGRAPH.)
944
THE OPENING OF THE LOWER MISSISSIPPI.
French admiral and Captain Preedy, of the
English frigate Mersey, had both been up
as far as the forts and had communicated
with the military commanders. On their re-
turn, they gave discouraging accounts of the
defenses, and pronounced it impossible for
our fleet to pass them. This, of course, did
not tend to cheer our sailors. There were
some in the fleet who were doubtful of suc-
cess, and there was not that confidence on
our side that should have existed on such an
occasion; but when it was seen that the river
obstructions and rafts had been washed away
by the currents, and that there appeared to be
an open way up the river, every one became
more hopeful.
The entire fleet did not get fully under way
until half-past two a. m. The current was
strong, and although the ships proceeded
as rapidly as their steam-power would permit,
our leading vessel, the Cayuga, did not get
under fire until a quarter of three o'clock,
when both Jackson and St. Philip opened on
her at the same moment. Five steamers of
the mortar flotilla took their position below the
water battery of Fort Jackson, at a distance of
less than two hundred yards, and, pouring in
Before Farragut ascended the river, the grape, canister, and shrapnel, kept down the
LIEUTENANT THOMAS B. HUGER, C. S. N., IN COMMAND OF THE
"MCRAE." (FROM A PHOTOGRAPH BY JACOBS.)
unanimity of action. In every other respect
the odds were against us.
FLAG-SHIP " HARTFORD" ATTACKED BY A FIRE-RAFT, PUSHED BY THE CONFEDERATE TUG-BOAT "MOSHER."
Commander Albert Kautz, who was at this time lieutenant on the Hartford, in a letter to the Editor thus describes this memorable scene :
" No sooner had Farragut given the order ' Hard-a-port,' than the current gave the ship abroad sheer, and her bows went hard up on a mud bank.
As the fire-raft came against the port side of the ship, it became enveloped in flames. We were so near to the shore that from the bowsprit we could
reach the tops of the bushes, and such a short distance above Fort St. Philip that we could distinctly hear the gunners in the casemates give their orders ; and
as they saw Farragut's flag at the mizzen, by the bright light, they fired with frightful rapidity. Fortunately they did not make sufficient allowance
for our close proximity, and the iron hail passed over our bulwarks, doing but little damage. On the deck of the ship it was bright as noonday, but out
over the majestic river, where the smoke of many guns was intensified by that of the pine knots of the fire-rafts, it was dark as the blackest midnight.
For a moment it looked as though the flag-ship was indeed doomed, but the firemen were called away, and with the energy of despair rushed a" to the
quarter-deck. The flames, like so many forked tongues of hissing serpents, were piercing the air in a frightful manner,, that struck terror to all hearts.
As I crossed from the starboard to the port side of the deck, I passed close to Farragut, who, as he looked forward and took in the situation, clasped
his hands high in air, and exclaimed, ' My God, is it to end in this way ! ' Fortunately it was not to end as it at that instant seemed, for just then
Master's Mate Allen, with the hose in his hand, jumped into the mizzen rigging, and the sheet of flame succumbed to a sheet of water. It was but
the dry paint on the ship's side that made the threatening flame, and it went down before the fierce attack of the firemen as rapidly as it had sprung
up. As the flames died away the engines were backed 'hard,' and, as if providentially, the ram Manassas struck the ship a blow under the counter,
which shoved her stern in against the bank, causing her bow to slip off. The ship was again free ; and a loud, spontaneous cheer rent the air,
as the crew rushed to their guns with renewed energy."
THE OPENING OE THE LOWER MISSISSIPPI.
fire of that battery. The mortars opened at
the same moment with great fury, and the
action commenced in earnest.
Captain Bailey, in the Cayuga, followed by
the other vessels of his division in compact
order, passed the line of obstructions without
945
feet and passed safely above. He was here
met by the enemy's gun-boats, and, although
he was beset by several large steamers at
the same time, he succeeded in driving them
off. The 0?ieida and Varuna came to the
support of their leader, and by the rapid fire
U. S. S. "BROOKLYN" ATTACKED BY CONFEDERATE RAM "MANASSAS."
[The Manassas was described by her commander, Lieutenant Warley, as " a tug-boat that had been converted into a ram, covered with half-inch
iron, and had a thirty-two-pounder carronade ; her crew consisted of thirty-five persons, officers and men. She was perforated in the fight by shot and
shell as if she had been made of paper."
Admiral Melancton Smith thus describes his encounter with the ram (see page 946) :
" Having discovered the Manassas stealing up along the St. Philip side of the river behind me, I signaled Farragut for permission to attack,
which was given. The Mississippi turned in mid-stream and tried to run down the ram, barely missing her, but driving her ashore, when her crew
escaped, fired at by the Kineo, which had not yet anchored. The ram's engines were found to be still in motion, but the approach of a burning
wreck compelled me to abandon the idea of attaching a hawser. Her machinery was destroyed by my boats, and after receiving a broadside or two
from the Mississippi, she floated down the river in flames and blew up."— ED.]
difficulty. He had no sooner attained this
point, however, than he was obliged to face
the guns of Fort St. Philip, which did him
some damage before he was able to fire a shot
in return. He kept steadily on, however, and,
as soon as his guns could be brought to bear,
poured in grape and canister with good ef-
Vol. XXIX.— 100.
of their heavy guns soon dispersed the enemy's
flotilla. This was more congenial work for
our men and officers than that through which
they had just passed, and it was soon evi-
dent that the coolness and discipline of our
navy gave it a great advantage over the fleet
of the enemy. Bailey dashed on up the river,
946
THE OPENING OE THE LOWER MISSISSIPPI.
COMMANDER (NOW REAR-ADMIRAL) MELANCTON SMITH, U. S. N.
OF THE "MISSISSIPPI." (DRAWN FROM A PHOTOGRAPH.)
followed by his division, firing into everything
they met ; and soon after the head of the flag-
officer's division had passed the forts, most of
the river craft were disabled, and the battle
was virtually won. This was evident even to
Lieutenant-Colonel Higgins, who, when he
saw our large ships pass by, exclaimed, " Bet-
ter go to cover, boys ; our cake is all dough ! "
In the mean time the Vanma (Commander
Boggs), being a swift vessel, passed ahead
of the other ships in the division, and pushed
on up the river after the fleeing enemy, until
he found himself right in the midst of them.
The Confederates, supposing in the dark that
the Vanma was one of their own vessels, did
not attack her until Commander Boggs made
himself known by delivering his fire right and
left. One shot exploded the boiler of a large
steamer crowded with troops, and she drifted
ashore; three other vessels were driven ashore
in flames. At daylight the Vanma was at-
tacked by the Governor Moore, a powerful
steamer, fitted as a ram, and commanded by
Lieutenant Beverly Kennon, late of the U.
S. Navy. This vessel raked the Vanma with
her bow-gun along the port gangway, killing
five or six men ; and while the Union vessel
was gallantly returning this fire, her side was
pierced below the water-line by the iron prow
of the ram Stonewall Jackson. The Con-
federate backed off and struck again in the
same place ; the Vanma at the same mo-
ment punished her severely with grape and
canister from her eight-inch guns, and finally
drove her out of action in a disabled condi-
tion and in flames. But the career of the
Vanma was ended ; she began to fill
rapidly, and her gallant commander was
obliged to run her into shoal water, where
she soon went to the bottom. Captain Lee,
of the Oneida, seeing that his companion
needed assistance, went to his relief, and res-
cued the officers and men of the Vanma.
The two Confederate rams were set on fire by
their crews and abandoned. Great gallantry
was displayed on both sides during the con-
flict of these smaller steamers, which really
bore the brunt of the battle, and the Union
U. S. STEAMER "MISSISSIPPI" ATTEMPTING TO RUN DOWN CONFEDERATE RAM "MANASSAS."
THE OPENING OF THE LOWER MISSISSIPPI.
947
commanders showed great skill in managing
their vessels.
Bailey's division may be said to have swept
everything before it. The Pensacola, with her
heavy batteries, drove the men from the guns
at Fort St. Philip, and made it easier for the
ships astern to get by. Fort St. Philip had
not been at all damaged by the mortars, as it
was virtually beyond their reach, and it
was from the guns of that work that our
ships received the greatest injury.
As most of the vessels of Bailey's division
swept past the turn above the forts, Farragut
came upon the scene with the Hartford and
Brooklyn. The other ship of Farragut's divi-
sion, the Richmond, Commander J ohn Alden,
got out of the line and passed up on the
west side of the river, near where I was en-
gaged with the mortar-steamers in silencing
the water batteries of Fort Jackson. At
this moment the Confederates in Fort Jack-
son had nearly all been driven from their
guns by bombs from the mortar-boats and
the grape and canister from the steamers. I
hailed Alden, and told him to pass close to the
fort and in the eddy, and he would receive
little damage. He followed this advice, and
passed by very comfortably.
By this time the river had been illuminated
by two fire-rafts, and everything could be seen
as by the light of day. I could see every ship
and gun-boat as she passed up as plainly as
possible, and noted all their positions.
It would be a difficult undertaking at any
time to keep a long line of vessels in compact
order when ascending a crooked channel
against a three- and-a-half-knot current, and
our commanders found it to be especially so
under the present trying circumstances. One
of them, the Iroquois, Commander De Camp,
as gallant an officer as ever lived, got^out of
line and passed up ahead of her consorts ; but
De Camp made good use of his opportunity
by engaging and driving off a ram and the
gun-boat McRae, which attacked him as soon
as he had passed Fort Jackson. The McRae
was disabled and her commander (Huger)
mortally wounded. The Iroquois was much
cut up by Fort St. Philip and the gun-boats,
but did not receive a single shot from Fort
Jackson, although passing within fifty yards
of it.
While the events above mentioned were
taking place, Farragut had engaged Fort St.
Philip at close quarters with his heavy ships,
and driven the men away from their guns.
He was passing on up the river, when his
flag-ship was threatened by a new and formi-
dable adversary. A fire-raft in full blaze was
seen coming down the river, guided towards
the Hartford by a tug-boat, the Mosher. It
seemed impossible to avoid this danger, and
as the helm was put to port in the attempt to
do so, the flag-ship ran upon a shoal. While
in this position the fire-raft was pushed against
her, and in a minute she was enveloped in
flames half-way up to her tops, and was in a
condition of great peril. The fire department
was at once called away, and while the Hart-
ford's batteries kept up the fight with Fort
St. Philip, the flames were extinguished and
the vessel backed off the shoal into deep
water, — a result due to the coolness of her
commander and the good discipline of the
officers and men. While the Hartfoj'd was in
this perilous position, and her entire destruc-
tion threatened, Farragut showed all the qual-
ities of a great commander. He walked up
and down the poop as coolly as though on
dress-parade, while Commander Wainwright
directed the firemen in putting out the flames.
At times the fire would rush through the ports
and almost drive the men from the guns.
" Don't flinch from that fire, boys," sang
out Farragut ; " there's a hotter fire than that
for those who don't do their duty ! Give that
rascally little tug a shot, and don't let her go
off with a whole coat ! " But she did get off,
after all.
While passing the forts the Hartford was
struck thirty-two times in hull and rigging,
and had three men killed and ten wounded.
The Brooklyn, Captain Thomas T. Craven,
followed as close after the flag-ship as the
blinding smoke from guns and fire-rafts would
admit, and the garrison of the fort was again
driven to cover by the fire of her heavy battery.
She passed on with severe punishment, and
was immediately attacked by the most power-
ful vessel in the Confederate fleet, excepting
the Louisiana — the ram Manassas, com-
manded by Lieutenant Warley, a gallant
young officer, of the old service. The first
blow that the Manassas struck the Brook-
lyn did but little apparent injury, and the
ram backed off and struck her again in
the same place ; but the chain armor on the
Brooklyn's side received the blow, and her
adversary slid off in the dark to seek other
prey. (It must be remembered that these
scenes were being enacted on a dark night,
and in an atmosphere filled with dense
smoke, through which our commanders had
to grope their way, guided only by the
flashes of the guns in the forts and the
fitful light of burning vessels and rafts.)
The Brooklyn was next attacked by a large
steamer, which received her broadside at
the distance of twenty yards, and drifted out
of action in flames. Notwithstanding the
heavy fire which the Brooklyn had gone
through, she was only struck seventeen times
948
THE OPENING OF THE LOWER MISSISSIPPI.
in the hull. She lost nine men killed and
twenty-six wounded.
When our large ships had passed the forts,
the affair was virtually over. Had they all
been near the head of the column, the enemy
would have been crushed at once, and the
flag-ship would have passed up almost unhurt.
As it was, the Hartford was more exposed
and imperiled than any of her consorts, and
that at a time when, if anything had happened
to the commander-in-chief, the fleet would
have been thrown into confusion.
The forts had been so thoroughly silenced
by the ships' guns and mortars that when
Captain Bell came along in the little Sciota,
at the head of the third division, he passed by
nearly unharmed. All the other vessels suc-
ceeded in getting by, except the Itasca, Lieu-
tenant Caldwell ; the Winona, Lieutenant
Nichols ; and the Kennebec, Lieutenant Rus-
sell. The first two vessels, having kept in
line, were caught at daylight below the forts
without support, and, as the current was swift
and they were slow steamers, they became
mere targets for the Confederates, who now
turned all that was left of their fighting power
upon them. Seeing their helpless condition, I
signaled them to retire, which they did after
being seriously cut up. The Itasca had a shot
through her boiler, and was so completely
riddled that her commander was obliged to
run her ashore just below the mortar-fleet in
order to prevent her sinking. She had re-
ceived fourteen shot and shell through her
hull, but her list of killed and wounded was
small. Had not the people in the forts been
completely demoralized, they would have sunk
these two vessels in ten minutes.
While these events were taking place, the
mortar-steamers had driven the men from the
water batteries and had kept up a steady
fire on the walls of Fort Jackson. Although
at first sight my position in front of these bat-
teries, which mounted seven of the heaviest
guns in the Confederate works (one ten-inch
and one nine-inch columbiad, two six-inch
rifles, and three thirty-two-pounders), seemed
a very perilous one, it was not at all so. I
ran the steamers close alongside of the levee
just below the water batteries, and thus pro-
tected their hulls below the firing-decks. I
got in my first broadside just as the middle
of Bailey's column was opened upon by Fort
Jackson. The enemy responded quickly, but
our fire was so rapid and accurate that in ten
minutes the water battery was deserted. I
had twenty-five eight-inch and thirty-two-
pounders on one side and two eleven-inch
pivot-guns. During the remainder of the ac-
tion I devoted most of my attention to the
battlements of the main fort, firing an occa-
sional shot at the water battery. The Harriet
La7ie had two men killed, but the only dam-
age done to the vessels was to their masts and
rigging, their hulls having been well protected
by the levees.
While engaged on this duty I had an ex-
cellent opportunity of witnessing the move-
ments of Farragut's fleet, and, by the aid of
powerful night-glasses, I could almost distin-
guish persons on the vessels. The whole
scene looked like a beautiful panorama.
From almost perfect silence — the steamers
moving slowly through the water like phan-
tom ships — one incessant roar of heavy can-
non commenced, the Confederate forts and
gun-boats opening together on the head of
our line as it came within range. The Union
vessels returned the fire as they came up, and
soon the hundred and seventy guns of our
fleet joined in the thunder, which seemed to
shake the very earth. A lurid glare was
thrown over the scene by the burning rafts,
and, as the bombshells crossed each other
and exploded in the air, it seemed as if a
battle were taking place in the heavens as
well as on the earth. It all ended as sud-
denly as it had commenced. In one hour and
ten minutes after the vessels of the fleet had
weighed anchor, the affair wras virtually over,
and Farragut was pushing on towards New
Orleans, where he was soon to crush the last
hope of Rebellion in that quarter by opening
the way for the advance of the Union army.
From what I had seen of the conflict I did
not greatly fear for the safety of our ships.
Now and then a wreck came floating by, all
charred and disabled, but I noted with my
night-glass that these were side- wheel vessels,
and none of ours.
I must refer here to a gallant affair which
took place between the Mississippi and the
ram Manassas. The latter vessel proved the
most troublesome of the Confederate fleet.
She had rammed the Brooklyn, the Hartford,
and the Mississippi at different times during the
action.
At early daylight, as the vessels approached
the quarantine above the forts, the Manassas
was seen coming up the river as rapidly as
her steam would allow.
As she approached the fleet, Flag-Officer
Farragut directed Commander Smith in the
Mississippi to turn and run her down. The
order was instantly obeyed by the Mississippi
turning and going at the ram at full speed;
but when it was expected to see the Manas-
sas annihilated, the vessels being within fifty
yards of each other, the ram put her helm
hard-a-port, dodged the Mississippi, and ran
ashore, where her crew deserted her. Com-
mander Smith set fire to her, and then so
THE OPENING OE THE LOWER MISSISSIPPI.
949
Clifton and IVestJield (altered New York City ferry-boats). Owasco. Harriet Lane.
MORTAR-STEAMERS ATTACKING THE WATER BATTERY OF FORT JACKSON.
riddled her with shot that she was dislodged
from the bank and drifted below the forts,
where she blew up and sank.
Previous to this a kind of guerrilla warfare
had been carried on, and ten of the enemy's
river boats had been run ashore or otherwise
destroyed, while the Varitna lay sunk at the
bank with two of her adversaries wrecked
beside her, a monument to the gallantry of
Commander Boggs.
When the fleet had passed the forts, and
there was no longer any necessity for me to
hold my position, I dropped down the river
with the steamers to where the mortar-boats
were anchored, and gave the signal to cease
firing. I knew that our squadron had failed
to destroy all of the enemy's fleet. The iron-
clad Louisiana lay at the bank apparently un-
injured, the McRae was at anchor close to
Fort Jackson, and three other vessels whose
character I could not make out were moving
back and forth from one shore to the other.
This looked serious, for such a force, if properly
handled, was superior to mine; and I had to
provide immediately against contingencies.
There were now seven efficient gun-boats un-
der my command, and I at once prepared
them to meet the enemy. My plan was to
get as many of my vessels as possible along-
side of the Louisiana, each one to make fast
to her, let go two anchors, and then " fight
it out on that line."
Meantime Farragut was speeding on his
way up the river with all his fleet except the
Mississippi and one or two small gun-boats,
which were left to guard the lazaretto. On his
way up the flag-officer encountered more Con-
federate batteries at Chalmette, the place made
famous by the battle of January 8th, 181-5.
The Chalmette batteries on both sides of
the river mounted twenty heavy guns, and
were all ready to meet our fleet, which was
advancing towards them in two lines as rap-
idly as the swift current would permit. Far-
ragut made short work of them, however, and
our fleet, meeting with no further resistance,
passed on and anchored before New Orleans.
The Queen City of the South lay at the con-
queror's feet, unable to do anything in the
way of defense, as the Confederate General
Lovell had retreated, leaving the city in the
hands of the civil authorities.
At noon of the 25th instant I sent Lieuten-
ant-com'g Guest with a flag of truce to Fort
Jackson, to call on the commanding officer
to surrender the two forts and what was left
of the Confederate navy into the possession
of the United States, telling him that it
was useless to have any more bloodshed, as
Farragut had passed up the river with very
little damage to his fleet, and was now prob-
ably in possession of New Orleans. I also
took advantage of the occasion to compli-
ment the enemy on his gallant resistance, and
further to inform him that, if his answer was
unfavorable, I would renew the bombard-
ment. General Duncan sent me a very civil
95°
THE OPENING OE THE LOWER MISSISSIPPI.
reply, but declined to surrender until he
should hear from New Orleans; whereupon I
immediately opened a very rapid fire on Fort
Jackson with all* the mortars, and with such
good effect that a mutiny soon broke out
among the Confederate gunners, many of
whom, refusing to stay in the fort and be
slaughtered uselessly, left their posts and
went up the bank out of range of our
shell. Those who remained declined to fight
any longer. They had borne without flinch-
ing a terrible bombardment, and their officers
had exposed themselves throughout the try-
ing ordeal with great courage ; but it was now
the opinion of all that the fort should be sur-
rendered without further loss of life. The
mortars kept up their fire until late in the
evening, when their bombshells were all ex-
pended. On the 26th instant I ordered the
schooners to get under way, proceed to Pi-
lot Town, and fill up with ammunition. Six
of them were ordered to cross the bar and
proceed to the rear of Fort Jackson, and be
ready to open fire when signaled.
In the mean time we kept a lookout on the
Louisiana and the Confederate gun-boats.
On the 27th instant five mortar-vessels ap-
peared in the rear of Fort Jackson, and the
U. S. steamer Miami commenced landing
troops close to Fort St. Philip. The garrison
of Jackson was still mutinous, refusing to do
duty, and General Duncan at midnight of
the 28th sent an officer on board the Harriet
Lane to inform me of his readiness to capit-
ulate. On the following day I proceeded
with nine gun-boats up to Fort Jackson,
under a flag of truce, and upon arrival sent
a boat for the commanding officer of the
river defenses, and such others as he might
think proper to bring with him.
I received these officers at the gangway,
and treated them as brave men who had de-
fended their trusts with a courage worthy of
all praise ; and though I knew that they felt
mortified at having to surrender to what they
must have known was in some respects an
inferior force, their bearing was that of men
who had gained a victory, instead of under-
going defeat.
I knew nothing of the mutiny in the forts,
or the inconvenience to which the people there
were subjected ; I was in total ignorance of
what was happening up the river, whether
Farragut had sustained much damage in
passing the forts, or whether he had been
able to get by the formidable batteries at
English Turn. In any case I knew that it was
important to obtain possession of the forts as
quickly as possible, and had prepared terms
of capitulation, which were accepted by Gen-
eral Duncan and Lieutenant-Colonel Higgins.
As we were about to sign the terms, I was quite
surprised to find that it was not expected that
the vessels of war were to be included in the
terms agreed to by the Confederate officers.
General Duncan told me that he had no
authority whatever over the naval vessels,
and that, in fact, Commander Mitchell, of
the regular naval forces, had set the military
authorities at defiance. So I waived the
point, being determined in my own mind what
I would do when the forts were in our pos-
session.
We were all sitting at the table on board
the Harriet Lane, with the terms of capitulation
before us ; I had signed it, as had also Com-
mander Renshaw, of the Westfteld ; and Lieu-
tenant-commanding Wainwright, of the Har-
riet Lane, was about to follow our example,
when he was suddenly called on deck by one
of his officers. He returned immediately, and
informed me that the iron-clad Louisiana was
in flames and drifting down the river towards
the mortar flotilla (steamers), through which
there was not room for her to pass, as our ves-
sels were anchored within thirty yards of each
other.
" This is sharp practice," I said to the Con-
federate officers, " but if yon can stand the
explosion when it comes, we can. We will
go on and finish the capitulation." At the
same time I gave Lieutenant Wainwright or-
ders to hail the vessel next to him and pass
the word to each of the others to veer to the
end of their chains and be ready, by using
steam, to sheer out of the way of the Louisiana
if necessary, but not to leave their anchorage.
Then I handed the pen to General Duncan
and Colonel Higgins, who coolly signed their
names in as bold a hand as if they were not
momentarily in danger of being blown up.
Then we all sat quietly awaiting the result.
In a few moments an explosion took place
that fairly shook us all out of our seats and
threw the Harriet Lane over on her side, but
we finished with the terms of capitulation. The
Louisiana had blown up just before reaching
the flotilla. The Confederate officers severely
condemned this performance, and assured us
that they did not feel responsible for any-
thing that the navy did? as it was entirely
under Commander Mitchell's control.
When I went on deck the Louisiana was
nowhere to be seen, and not even a ripple
showed where she had gone down. Thus we
lost a powerful vessel, which would have been
of much use to us in our future operations.
General Duncan and his companions now
left the Harriet Lane and went on shore. In
less than ten minutes afterwards the Confed-
erate flags were hauled down, and both forts
delivered over to the officers appointed to
THE OPENING OF THE LOWER MISSISSIPPI.
951
COMMANDER PORTER RECEIVING CONFEDERATE OFFICERS ON THE "HARRIET LANE."
take possession of them. Our victory was
not yet complete, however, for the ^enemy's
flag still floated on the river, and my next
duty lay in this direction. When Commander
Mitchell set fire to the Louisiana, he trans-
ferred his officers and men to a river steamer
and ran over to the opposite shore, a mile
above the forts. His movements had been
reported to me, and as soon as General
Duncan had left the ship I gave orders for
the Harriet Lane to weigh anchor and beat
to quarters. We steered directly for the ves-
sel carrying Mitchell's flag, and the order
was given to fire at the flag-pole; but the
smoke was not out of the gun before the
Confederate flag was hauled down. Lieuten-
ant Wainwright was sent on board the enemy
to take possession, and was met by Com-
mander Mitchell, who demanded the same
terms as the officers of the forts had received.
Wainwright informed him that no terms
would be granted him or his officers, that he
and they would be held as close prisoners to
answer for violating the sanctity of a flag of
truce, and that they would all be sent to the
North. Mitchell at once wrote me a letter re-
lieving all the officers (except three or four)
from the odium of having set fire to the
Louisiana, and thus endangering the Union
vessels while under a flag of truce.
I sent all the prisoners up to Flag-Ofhcer
Farragut, to be disposed of as he thought best,
and that was the end of the affair. The forts
were ours, the city was ours, and the river was
open and free all the way up to New Orleans.
After the battle the officers of the Confed-
erate army complained greatly of Commander
Mitchell's behavior, saying, first, that he had
failed to cooperate heartily with the land
forces ; secondly, that he had not made good
use of the Louisiana (as far as I can learn
she was not ready for action when the fleet
passed up, and I am of the opinion that had
she been properly managed, she might have
952
THE OPENING OE THE LOWER MISSISSIPPI.
thrown our fleet into confusion) • thirdly, that
he had failed to ignite and send down all the
fire-rafts that were under his charge, at the
proper time to meet our fleet as it came up the
river. He had quite a number of these tied up
to the bank, and it can well be imagined what
the effect of millions of burning pine-knots on
thirty or forty rafts would have been, when it
is remembered how seriously the Hartford
was endangered by one of those which were
actually sent.*
After all the defenses were in our power, I
sent a steamer down to the bar and brought
up one of General Butler's ships, on board
of which was General Phelps with one or two
regiments of infantry, who took possession
of the forts.
Farragut's vessels were only struck twenty-
three times in their hulls by shots from Fort
Jackson, while they received their great dam-
age from Fort St. Philip, as appears from the
official reports. This shows how difficult it was
for the Confederate gunners in the former work
to fight while enduring the terrible pounding
of the mortars. There can be no doubt that
its fire prevented a greater loss of life in the
Federal fleet and materially assisted towards
the final result. Our total loss in the fleet
was — killed, 35; wounded, 128. The ships
which suffered most were the Pensacola, 37 ;
Brooklyn, 35 ; and Iroquois, 28.
When the sun rose on the Federal fleet
the morning after the fight, it shone on
smiling faces, even among those who were
suffering from their wounds. Farragut re-
ceived the congratulations of his officers with
the same imperturbability that he had ex-
hibited all through the eventful battle ; and
while he showed great feeling for those of
his men who had been killed or wounded,
he did not waste time in vain regrets, but
made the signal, " Push on to New Or-
leans." The fact that he had won imperish-
able fame did not seem to occur to him, so
intent were his thoughts on following up his
great victory to the end.
David D. Porter.
* It is but just to say that Commander Mitchell and the other Confederate naval officers denied that they
had any intention of endangering the Union vessels, or that they were guilty of any " sharp practice " in
destroying the Louisiana. They were put in close confinement at Fort Warren, Boston Harbor ; but on
making the above representations to the Secretary of the Navy they were treated as ordinary prisoners of
war. A Confederate naval court of inquiry afterward investigated and approved the conduct of Commander
Mitchell. The following extract from the letter from Lieutenant Whittle quoted on page 938, bears on the
point in question : " On the morning of the 24th, when Farragut's fleet passed, the work on the propellers
was still incomplete, and so our vessel was only an immovable floating battery. When, on the morning of
April 28th, the work was finished, and we were about to test the efficiency of the motive power, we were
notified by General Duncan, commanding Forts Jackson and St. Philip, that he had accepted the terms of
capitulation offered by Commander Porter and before rejected. As the Louisiana was not included in the
surrender, and Commander Porter's fleet was coming up under a flag of truce, in answer to a flag of truce
from the forts, a council of war decided to destroy the Louisiana, and I was dispatched by Commander
Mitchell to notify Commander Porter that although we had done what we could to drown the magazine and
the charges in the guns, our hawsers might burn, and the Louisiana drift down among his vessels. While on
my way to deliver this message. the Louisiana blew up. I continued, however, and delivered the message in
person to Commander D. D. Porter on board his flag-ship, the Harriet Lane.'''' — Ed.
THE FLAG-SHIP "HARTFORD." (FROM A PHOTOGRAPH.)
TOPICS OF THE TIME.
Practical Politics.
It strikes us that even the humorous anecdotes in
Mr. Theodore Roosevelt's paper in this number of
The Century have a value beyond their mere capac-
ity to drive dull care away. The entire paper will, we
think, be found an incentive to active and wholesome
participation in political affairs on the part of the honor-
ably aspiring youth of America; and these lighter
passages tend toward righteousness, for they show
that the path of duty, though thorny, has its roses.
It is evident, moreover, that a sense of humor may
be as valuable for a reforming legislator as it proved
to be in the case of our great, harassed, perplexed, and
fate-o'erwhelmed President.
Will not the young man who intends going into
politics, after reading this record of the experiences
of the youthful legislative reformer, turn back to the
January number of The Century, and read again
Mr. Wigmore's " Open Letter " on " Political Work
for Young Men" ? With these two essays before him,
he will possess a practical guide to American politics,
which will doubtless prove a useful supplement to
such moral and mental equipment as Heaven may
have blessed him with.
These two papers, and others of similar import that
have appeared in The Century, certainly seem to re-
veal a field of manly action of the very highest interest,
as well, of course, as of the greatest usefulness and im-
portance. The study of practical politics might indeed
well take the name given to the study of the classics :
it is preeminently a study of "the humanities." The
politician studies and deals with human nature in many
of its most curious and entertaining aspects. It is the
fashion to call every branch of investigation nowadays
a" science " : if practical politics be called a "science,"
it is, according to Mr. Roosevelt at any rate, not a
dull one. **
Mr. Roosevelt's reminiscences and comments, how-
ever, are not only addressed to the intending legis-
lator, but no less to the general well-intentioned
public. The testimony of this "practical reformer"
to the power of public opinion, and the neces-
sity for its assistance in the procurement of all
just and desirable legislation, is most emphatic and
monitory. "Just as soon," he says, "as politicians
realize that the people are in earnest in wanting a
thing done, they make haste to do it." The check to
legislative vice and recklessness furnished by a watch-
ful constituency and by individual interest and exer-
tion is everywhere theoretically acknowledged ; but
Mr. Roosevelt makes the fact freshly clear and im-
pressive, and his illustrations of an old truth bring
the matter home with redoubled force to the conscience
of the citizen.
One reason why legislators and other officers are
not looked after as sharply as they should be is that
many think that unless the candidate for whom they
voted is the one elected, they personally have no re-
sponsibility for the "member " or the " officer," and
Vol. XXIX.— ioi.
they therefore take no interest in him or in his doings.
This is, of course, a wrong idea of political office,
and is, in fact, an outgrowth of an exaggerated and
somewhat old-fashioned partisanship. With the prog-
ress upward and downward of the principles of the
merit system, the theory is extending of the responsi-
bility not only of public servants, but also of the public
that is served.
"Not the American Way."
Probably no unphysical argument addressed to
genuine dynamiters would be likely to have any pow-
erful effect. But words may not be entirely misapplied
when addressed to certain American politicians who
seem at times to hesitate in their attitude toward dyna-
miters themselves, the aiders and abettors of dyna-
miters, or the sentimental sympathizers with such
outlaws. The reason for hesitation is generally ob-
vious. It is a question of political votes — of personal
or of party success.
Well, there is one thing to be said to such doubting
and hesitating politicians : Gentlemen, you are mak-
ing a mistake. To use an expression made popular,
we believe, by General Hawley some years ago in
regard to a very different question, dynamiting is " not
the American way!'''' The methods of the assas-
sin, of the sneaking and cowardly murderer, are not,
and never will be, popular in this country. It is true
that two of our Presidents have met their death at the
hands of the illegal taker of life, but there was no
popular support to either mad and murderous act.
Lynch-law, on our borders especially, has had too
much vogue, but this is decreasing ; and there is a long
distance between lynching a villain who it is feared
may escape justice, and the dastardly and reckless use of
explosives, where invaluable works of art, and innocent
men, women, and children, together with the supposed
" oppressor," are confounded in a common destruction.
Let the question once be brought to an issue in our
American communities, and the politician who hesi-
tates to denounce dynamite, and all that goes with it, —
all cowardly and conscienceless attempts to settle either
public or private questions by means of private and
secret violence, — such a man is lost. He will find too
late that his deference to an unreasoning, brutal, and
restricted sentiment has brought him into contact
with the great, sound, uncowardly, law-abiding sen-
timent of the people of these United States.
The Difference between a Painting and a Pound of
Sugar.
The advocates of the present Chinese-Wall Amer-
ican art-tariff make what they believe is a strong
point in favor of the existing law when they call atten-
tion to the fact that works of art for public museums
are admitted free of duty. They say that the educa-
tional effects of foreign art are secured by this specific
exemption ; that, so far as the public uses of art are
concerned, the tariff is liberal. These gentlemen seem
954
TOPICS OF THE TIME.
always to be forgetting that works of art, in their es-
sence and potentialities, differ very widely from hams,
sugar, pig-iron, and silk or woolen underclothing. A
pound of sugar consumed by a single individual, and
by him alone, is not likely to prove of the slightest
use, physical, mental, or moral, to any other human
being ; whereas an etching of Rembrandt or a pastel
of Millet consumed, or rather studied and admired,
by a single intelligent art-student or artist, and by
him alone, is most likely to prove of decided use to
others than himself, and ultimately to the public at
large. We suggest that if the Old World's art, of any
age or country, is considered to be of such value to
the nation that whoever imports the same and places it
upon public exhibition is to be considered a benefactor
of the people, and subject to no duty or tax whatever
in the prosecution of his laudable undertaking, — then
such works of art, in all places, private or public, are
valuable and precious objects, whose importation
should be encouraged, and not discouraged, by an
enlightened government. If this argument is sound,
then the present tariff of thirty per cent., which is
avowedly a prohibitive measure, is a blot upon the
statute-book of the United States.
But the gentlemen who approve of taxing private
buyers thirty per cent, while public institutions are
exempt from the payment of import duties should
know that public collections are constantly being en-
riched from private galleries ; and that the thirty per
cent, taken by the Government must decrease private
importations, which our public institutions often ulti-
mately get the full benefit of, at least thirty per cent. ;
that, in fact, the tariff limits the importation to a much
greater extent than this, without being of the slightest
benefit pecuniarily to our own artists. Indeed, as a
protective measure the scheme has been a laughable
failure. If it is to have any effect on its "protective "
side at all, that effect seems likely to be curiously dis-
tant from the one intended by its ingenious authors.
Foreign painters are beginning to come over to Amer-
ica, where the charm of novelty and the courtesy of
hospitality serve, in some cases at least, in place of
genuine distinction ; they set up their temporary
studios in the great cities, and our rich " patrons "
of art hasten to secure the supposed prestige of
European wares, gloriously free from the pains and.
penalties of the great American art-tariff. We do not,
ourselves, object to this kind of art competition; the
more of it the better. But we do not believe that the
framers of the present law had it in mind, and we
respectfully urge upon their attention the necessity of
an additional clause taxing the imported painter, no
less than his imported products.
We have said that private collectors should be
encouraged, rather than hindered, in their efforts to
bring to our shores the master-pieces of foreign art,
partly because if even a few among us see these works
it may still result in public benefit, and also because
these private collections often find their way, in whole
or in part, into the public galleries. But there are,
moreover, private collections to which the public have
constant access, either by means of " loan exhibitions "
or such freedom of admission as is frequently granted.
The galleries, for instance, in which Mr. Walters, of
Baltimore, has stored the marvelous results of a life-
time of conscientious study and rigid and generous selec-
tion, are accessible, at proper times and under proper
restrictions, to all lovers of art throughout the country.
We have so often explained in these pages the prin-
ciples which appear to us to favor a liberal policy with
regard to art importations that we have, at present,
only a few words to add. The movement has recently
had the approval of President Arthur, in his custom-
ary message to Congress ; and the replies to a circular
sent out by the Art Committee of the Union League
Club, of New York, show that our artists are nearly
unanimously opposed to the present tariff, and in favor
of free art. (Number of artists heard from February
13, 1885, 1242. In favor of free art, 1 150; ten per
cent, duty, 25 ; thirty per cent, duty, 8 ; specific duty,
42; partly free, 17.) Nevertheless we fear that the
movement against the present duty will come to little
or nothing until there is an organized effort made
to enlighten the public and Congress itself. The au-
thors of America, as is well known, have made a per-
manent organization, a Copyright League, which will
be continued, if necessary, from generation to genera-
tion, till some Congress is found at once honest and
intelligent enough to enact justice in their behalf and
in behalf of their foreign brethren in authorship.
American artists, in the cause of free art, which they
have so rightly and generously espoused, will prob-
ably find it necessary to proceed in some such sys-
tematic fashion as this.
The Attempt to Save Niagara.
A natural phenomenon of the proportions of Ni-
agara constitutes a public trust. The people cannot
escape responsibility for its care and preservation,
even if they would. The experiment of private own-
ership and management of the lands about the Falls
has been fully tried, under circumstances more favor-
able than can ever exist in the future, and has failed
completely. The existing state of things is one which
no intelligent person can defend. The demoralization
is natural and inevitable ; competition between the
owners of rival " points of view " naturally develops
a tendency to the employment of tawdry, sensational
attractions. The increasing ugliness everywhere ; the
destruction of all vernal beauty and freshness ; the
crowding of unsightly structures for manufactures of
various kinds around the very brink of the Falls ; the
incessant hounding of travelers, and the enormous
exactions of which they are the victims, — all these evils
are inseparable from the system of private ownership
of the land, and nothing could be more idle or fruit-
less than to find fault with individuals because the
results of the system are disagreeable and mischievous.
The only practicable remedy is ownership by the
State, and suitable permanent guardianship over these
lands, with such provision for the safety, conven-
ience, and comfort of myriads of visitors as can be sup-
plied only by a competent directory clothed with the
authority of the State, and acting in the interest of the
general community. This is the object of the meas-
ures recommended by the Commissioners appointed
by Governor (now President) Cleveland in the spring
of 1883. These Commissioners have selected about one
hundred and eighteen acres of land contiguous to the
Falls, comprising Goat Island and all the other islands,
in the river, with a narrow strip of land on the " Amer-
OPEN LETTERS.
955
ican shore," running from the upper suspension bridge
to Port Day, and including Prospect Park. The vari-
ous separate portions constituting this tract have been
appraised, and the Supreme Court has confirmed
the appraisement, which fixes the value of the lands
in question at $1,433,429.50. The Commissioners rec-
ommend the appropriation of this sum by the Legisla-
ture for the purchase of these lands, and the estab-
lishment of a State Reservation, as the only means of
preserving the scenery of Niagara. The highest inter-
ests of the people of our State will be promoted by the
passage of the bill in which this plan is embodied.
There is no ground for opposition except what is sor-
did, and hostile to public spirit. No man in public
life will hereafter be able to feel pride or satisfaction
in the remembrance that he resisted the endeavor of
the people of the State of New York to rescue the
scenery of Niagara from destruction.
OPEN LETTERS.
The "Solid South:"
ITS CAUSES AND PROBABLE DISAPPEARANCE.
What is the "Solid South"? How came the
South to be solid ? In what way can its solidity be
broken ?
The " Solid South," as a current political expression,
came into vogue during the Hayes-Tilden canvass of
1876. The Democratic "tidal wave" in the elections
of 1874 had shown a powerful, if not irresistible, drift
toward Democracy in all the then lately reconstructed
States, as well as in their sisters on the old border-
line which had also maintained slavery, but which had
not gone into the rebellion. The alliterative term
commended itself to the Republican stump speakers
and newspaper organs as a happy catch-word, and the
idea which underlay it was impressive enough to arrest
the attention of the whole country. That sixteen com-
monwealths, stretching from Cape May down the At-
lantic and around the Gulf to the Rio Grande, and
thence back up the Mississippi to its junction with the
Ohio and the Missouri, should all be controlled by the
same political party, as has now happened in three suc-
cessive Presidential elections (not counting the disputes
over the electoral votes of South Carolina, Florida, and
Louisiana in 1876), is truly a fact of the first magnitude.
Dividing the male population of the voting age ac-
cording to the census of 1880 in this section between
the two races, it will be found that in two States the
possible black voters exceed the white, in South Caro-
lina as 7 to 5 and in Mississippi as 6 to 5 ; in Louisi-
ana the two races are almost exactly equal in numbers ;
in Georgia, Florida, and Alabama the blacks stand to
the whites as 5 to 6, in Virginia as 2 to 3, and in
North Carolina as 5 to 9. The proportion then drops
rapidly, being 1 to 3 in Arkansas and Tennessee, 1
to 4 in Maryland and Texas, I to 5 in Delaware and
Kentucky, 1 to 15 in Missouri, and only 1 to 21 in
West Virginia. The " black belt " thus takes in all the
coast States from the Potomac to the Mississippi, and
Louisiana beyond; while outside those eight States
the percentage of negroes sinks till it reaches a point
scarcely higher than is found in some parts of the North.
This is the "Solid South." How came it to be
solid ? One element, which should be the most obvi-
ous, is so often overlooked that its very statement will
surprise most people. This is the operation of what
may be called the law of political heredity — the influ-
ence of tradition and inheritance. No fact is more
clearly demonstrated by our political history than the
tendency toward a transmission of party fealty in a
community of pronounced conviction from one gener-
ation to another. The more homogeneous the com-
munity, the more binding is this law of political
heredity. Vermont has received but a small infusion
of outside blood during the last thirty years, and the
population of the State to-day approaches more nearly
to being the offspring of the inhabitants of a genera-
tion ago, unaffected by external influences, than that
of any other commonwealth in the Union. The stu-
dent of political statistics will find that the vote for
Fremont in the Green Mountain State in 1856 (39,-
561) was almost exactly identical with that for Blaine
in 1884 (39,514); and the relative division of parties
has remained practically unchanged during the whole
intervening period.
The slave States were all strongly Democratic be-
fore the war. It was therefore not only natural, but
almost inevitable, that by the law of political heredity
they should have continued strongly Democratic after
the war, provided there had been no change in the
character of the voting class other than that produced
by the trifling immigration into the section. That
Mississippi, for example, should go overwhelmingly
Democratic in 1884 would be a thing to be as much
expected as that Vermont should go overwhelmingly
Republican, provided that the suffrage in the Southern
State, as in the Northern, were now confined to the
same class of voters as wielded it thirty years ago.
It was expected by the Republican leaders who
carried through the reconstruction measures that the
enfranchisement of the negro would change all this.
They took it for granted that the blacks would become
always and everywhere the firm supporters of the party
under whose administration they had received both
freedom and suffrage. They supposed that the white
men would divide, as white men had always divided,
even in the most strongly Democratic States of the
South, before the war. They expected that a large
percentage of the surviving " Old Line Whigs," and
of the descendants of those who had carried half the
Southern States for Harrison in 1840, would embrace
a party which found so many of its Northern sup-
porters among men of similar political descent. The
census showed that in two of the States the black
males outnumbered the white, and in a third equaled
them, while in several of the others they were so
numerous that their vote, combined with that of a
vigorous white Republican element, would constitute
a majority. It seemed an easy matter, seventeen or
eighteen years ago, with a pencil and a piece of paper
to figure out sure Republican victories in nearly every
Southern S<-ate. Indeed, a census computation and a
firm belief m the power of Federal "patronage " were
956
OPEN LETTERS.
almost sufficient to make the South — in Republican
imagination — " solid " for that party.
But a stupendous blunder had crept into all these
little sums in addition. Looking back calmly upon
it now, it seems almost incomprehensible that men
familiar with the history of the world could have en-
tertained such delusions. Just think of it. Here was
a race of men who, through no fault of their own, had
been sunk by slavery and ignorance to a condition
but little above that of the brutes, like which they had
been bought and sold at auction. They, and their an-
cestors before them for generations, had been mere
chattels, whom it was a grave crime to teach even to
read. They were absolutely devoid of the first quali-
fication for participation in the government of a coun-
try which had always denied them the right to govern
even their own persons. They were viewed, not merely
with distrust, but even with violent hostility, by their
late masters, who still felt wronged at being dispossessed
by the Federal power of what they had been educated
to consider as really property as stocks and bonds.
They were scarcely better fitted to wield the suffrage
than the beasts of the field. And yet they were intrusted
with the power, under the law of majorities, to abso-
lutely rule more than one American commonwealth !
The results which followed, at the hands first of the
blacks and later of the whites, were horrible ; horrible,
and yet, the historian will say, in both cases inevit-
able. The ignorant negroes became, of course, the
easy prey of the worst white leaders. The sentiment
of the white race being so hostile to the very idea of
negro suffrage, but few respectable natives of that
race, comparatively speaking, attached themselves to
the Republican party. The carpet-baggers, who so
largely assumed its command, despite some honorable
exceptions, were for the most part unprincipled men,
with little honest regard for the interests of either
race, but with a strong desire to line their own pock-
ets. The saturnalia of corruption, the carnival of mis-
rule which followed, constitute the most frightful
satire upon popular government ever known. The
climax was reached in the black Legislature and " the
robber Governor," in South Carolina. It became
evident that there must be either a revolution by
the white minority, or ruin for whites and blacks
alike. A revolution was resolved upon by the whites,
and it was carried through. The negroes were intim-
idated from going to the polls, so far as possible, and
when violence did not suffice to keep them away,
their ballots were tampered with and neutralized after
they had been cast. By force or by fraud the race
which possessed in more than one State an actual
numerical majority was reduced into an apparent
minority. The negro vote was practically suppressed,
and the majority ceased to rule.
This result was inevitable. Reconstruction had
sought to " put the bottom rail on top," to reverse
the highest and lowest strata of society, to place igno-
rance and poverty in authority over intelligence and
property. Such an attempt had never before suc-
ceeded in the world's history ; it could not have suc-
ceeded permanently in the South without destroying
civilization. It was from the first only a question
how soon and in what way it should be defeated.
Let another truth be told : the same result would
have been reached under similar conditions in any
Northern State. People commonly overlook the fact
that, although the negroes had lived in the South
so long, their admission to the suffrage was like the
sudden incorporation into the body politic of a vast
foreign element. Suppose that there had been unex-
pectedly distributed over the State of Massachusetts,
on a certain day sixteen years ago, a new body of
voters, of an alien race, so immense that it outnum-
bered the previous wielders of the ballot in the pro-
portion of seven to five, so ignorant that it possessed
no conception of its trust, and so inexperienced that it
readily followed any demagogue who bid for its sup-
port by cultivating the distrust which it naturally felt
of the former ruling element. Suppose that the Con-
stitution and laws of the State had never required
either an educational or property qualification for the
suffrage, so that there was no legal way of preventing
this horde of illiterates from casting ballots which they
could not read. Suppose that the men who had made
the Bay State rich and prosperous discovered all at
once that the control of the Legislature, the admin-
istration of justice, the fixing of the tax-rate, the ap-
propriation of the public money, the whole govern-
ment of the commonwealth, had fallen into the hands
of this vast aggregation of ignorance. Suppose that
there had emerged from this mob and had been at-
tracted from a distant section of the country the worst
set of leaders that ever brought disgrace upon repre-
sentative government. Suppose that corruption and
misrule had run riot until the well-being, and even
the very existence, of society was threatened. In other
words, suppose that Massachusetts had been put in
South Carolina's place. Does any intelligent and can-
did man, born and bred in Massachusetts, doubt that
the former residents — the property-holders and tax-
payers— would speedily have forgotten old differ-
ences, struck hands in defence of their threatened
interests, and, minority though they were, have con-
trived some way to put the majority under their feet ?
In short, the South became " solid " because it had
to be — that is to say, so far as States with a large ne-
gro population were concerned. The negroes proved
to be Republicans, as was expected by those who had
made them voters. Their treatment by the whites
operated to strengthen this tendency. A natural fear
of an attempt at their reenslavement, cunningly culti-
vated by their unprincipled leaders, still further con-
firmed their opposition to the party which included
their old masters. Broadly speaking, the blacks as a
class were Republicans. This forced the whites as a class
to be Democrats, in order that they might present a
" united front." A feeling of sympathy led to a similar
union of the whites, more or less complete, in States
where the black element was not dangerously large. The
hereditary drift in favor of Democracy added the only
other element necessary to make the South solid.
How can this solidity be broken ? Obviously, only
by removing the cause which produced it. That
cause was the massing of the negroes in one party.
The recollection of negro misrule in South Carolina
has hitherto checked an evidently strong tendency
among the whites of that State to divide their votes,
and has made the race almost unanimous in support
of the regular Democratic ticket, although a large ele-
ment has often at heart opposed it. What was a real
danger in a commonwealth where the whites were
OPEN LETTERS.
957
largely outnumbered by the blacks has been exagger-
ated out of all reason in States where the negro vote
by itself could never threaten white dominance, and
the bugbear has hitherto proved terrible enough to
maintain Democratic supremacy everywhere.
The way in which this supremacy is to be finally
overthrown has already been foreshadowed. Through
the last decade, when the Democrats have controlled
every Southern State, certain Congressional districts
have either remained Republican or have been con-
tested by the two parties on equal terms. Investiga-
tion will show the very striking and significant fact
that, with two or three exceptions (like the heavily
black sections along the coast of the two Carolinas,
where the few whites have made no struggle for
power), these Republican or doubtful districts have
been districts which contained scarcely any blacks.
That is to say, Republican representatives have been
elected by white Southerners, without any help from
black Republicans. Kentucky has always been con-
sidered a typical Southern Democratic State ; yet in
the mountain region which includes its south-eastern
counties lies a district which, has more often sent a
Republican than a Democrat to the national Capitol
since the war. In this district the white preponder-
ance is so pronounced that the negroes constitute but
a fourteenth of the whole population, which shows
that the whites have divided almost equally between
the two parties. The tendency, on the other hand, of
a large negro element to unite the whites in the
party opposed to the blacks may be seen in the same
State of Kentucky. Nearer the heart of the common-
wealth is a Congressional district where the negroes
number nearly half as many souls as the whites, so
that anything like such an even division of the whites
as exists in the mountains would give the Republicans
an overwhelming majority of the voters. But, in
point of fact, this district is always strongly Demo-
cratic, the presence of the negroes having driven the
whites together, and the proportion of the Republican
vote to the total poll does not much exceed the pro-
portion of the negro inhabitants to the whole popula-
tion. Moreover, if the analysis be carried a stage
farther, the surprising discovery is made that the
only two counties in the mountain district which con-
tain many blacks (in each case a little over a third of
the whole population) are both Democratic, although
it would take but a bare fourth of the whites to con-
stitute with the blacks a majority of their voters. So
strong is the influence of race feeling, even in a section
where, for the most part, that issue is not raised.
The mountain country of eastern Tennessee also con-
tains but a small negro element, and here, too, are
Congressional districts which the Republicans either
carry without difficulty or render always doubtful.
The hill country of northern Georgia has a similar
population, and here the white opponents of the Bour-
bon Democracy have repeatedly proved strong enough
to elect Independents to Congress with but little help
from black voters. The State of West Virginia is a
still more conspicuous illustration of the tendency to
division among the whites where the race issue is not
brought home to them. The blacks here constitute
less than five per cent, of the entire population, which
is but a trifle larger than the proportion of blacks in
New Jersey. The whites divide with apparently little
more regard to the blacks in the Southern than in the
Northern State, and Cleveland carried each by a plu-
rality which did not vary far from four thousand.
The reason why this normal and natural division
of the whites between the parties exists in West Vir-
ginia and in the specified regions of the other States
is evidently because in these parts of the South there
is no fear of negro rule. It would be ridiculous to prate
to the 132,777 male whites in West Virginia about the
danger of their race being " dominated " by the 6384
blacks unless they vote the Democratic ticket, and they
vote it or not, according as they believe or not in the
Democratic party. Even in a State like Georgia,
where the negroes stand to the whites in the ratio of
five to six, the whites, in counties where they easily
control the local administration by reason of the small
black population, have not always been held to the
support of the Democratic party by the strongest ap-
peals of their white brethren in the black districts.
Obviously, all that is necessary to widen this division
among the whites, which is already apparent in a few
quarters, is to relieve them everywhere from the fear
of negro rule in case they divide. It is useless to ridi-
cule this fear. The fact must be recognized that it ex-
ists, and that it is the most potent factor in Southern
politics. So long as the whites in South Carolina see
the blacks ready to march to the polls in a solid col-
umn, and to vote almost as one man against the party
which includes nine-tenths of the wealth and intelli-
gence in the community, so long will the whites dis-
regard all ordinary causes for division, and unite for
what seems to them — and really is — the protection
of the State. The massing of ignorance and poverty
under one banner will marshal knowledge and prop-
erty under another; and there never has been but
one issue to such a contest, as there never can be.
Each union is abnormal, but the one forces the other.
Disintegration of the higher stratum cannot be ex-
pected until the lower has begun to split apart. A
division of the negro vote is therefore the prerequisite
to anything like a general division of the white vote.
Two motives have hitherto conspired to make the
negroes Republicans — the two strongest motives
which could influence an ignorant and impressible race
— gratitude and fear. Gratitude, not only in the shape
of thankfulness to the party which had freed and en-
franchised them, but as " that lively sense of favors to
come " which the traditional promise of " forty acres
and a mule " had aroused. Fear, lest the race which
had formerly held them in bondage still plotted for
their reduction to servitude, and lest the elevation of
the Democracy to power in the nation might mean their
reenslavement.
Time dulls the edge of gratitude. Young colored
men are now coming on the stage of action who were
born in freedom, and who recognize no indebtedness
to any party for their liberty. The " favors to come "
from Republican rule have largely proved illusive. A
Republican administration at Washington has practi-
cally left the negro in the South to shift for himself.
On the other hand, the Democratic State governments
have pleasantly disappointed him. The appropriations
for schools have, almost without exception, been
steadily increased above the amounts provided by
Republican legislatures, and his children now have
better teachers and longer terms than ten years ago.
958
OPEN LETTERS.
A distinct advance in kindliness of relations on the
part of the white man is already so perceptible as to have
favorably affected the negro's sentiment toward him.
The fear of harm from a Federal administration con-
trolled by Democrats has survived. Natural enough
in its origin, it has been sedulously cultivated by the
leaders of their party as the easiest device for keeping
the blacks solid for the Republicans. The support of
that party by the negroes has never represented any
intelligent acceptance of its principles; it has been
only, so far as it was not an expression of gratitude,
an attempt to secure a periodical renewal of an insur-
ance policy against apprehended evil. The election
of a Democratic President will emancipate the blacks
from this nightmare of apprehension. The absurdity
of their dread lest they might be put back into slavery
by the Democrats will be demonstrated by the one
convincing test of experience. A few months will
suffice to prove its folly, even to the most timorous.
- Freed from this overmastering fear, relieved from
the sway of leaders who were for the most part Re-
publicans "for revenue only," the negroes will, for
the first time, be governed in casting their ballots by
the same motives, good and bad, which sway voters
elsewhere. Instead of blindly following some alien
Federal office-holder against the whites among whom
they live, they will, more or less quickly, come to ac-
cept the lead of their white neighbors. The negro
already often seeks and follows the advice of his old
master as to his material interests. Only the deep-
seated fear of his master's party has kept him from
heeding the white man's suggestions as to his political
course. Convince him that the white man means him
no harm in his relations as a citizen, and he will soon
be ready to accept his leadership in public affairs, as
he already often does in private.
Once divide the negro vote, and the " Solid South "
is broken. The whites have only been held together
by the union of the blacks. The elements of division
among the whites already exist, as is clearly seen in
West Virginia and parts of several other Southern
States. Even now leaders of rival parties, or leaders
of rival factions in the same party, divide the votes of
whites in the mountain districts, where negroes are
scarce ; they will do the same thing in the cotton, rice,
and sugar sections, where the negroes most abound,
as soon as the latter escape from their bondage to a
superstition, and are ready to divide their votes also.
Thus at last, for the first time, we shall see parties
at the South separated by something else than the
race line. This is by no means the same thing as say-
ing that the South is at once going to become Repub-
lican. On the contrary, in most of the cotton States at
least there may be, probably will be, at first a tempo-
rary depression of the Republican party below even
its present weak condition. The Republican Federal
office-holders, who have looked after its machinery,
will disappear, and the machinery, with nobody paid
to keep it in running order, will rust and decay.
The blacks, convinced that they can vote the Demo-
cratic ticket as safely as the Republican, will be
much more likely to do so, as their employers will
make it seem for their interest to do so, precisely
as Northern employers of white laborers do with
their workmen. It will not be strange if next year,
and perhaps the year after, the elections in some
Southern States are carried by the Democrats almost
without opposition. But such a development will call
for no tears from any friend of honest politics and
good government. Indeed, the more rapid and com-
plete the disintegration of the old Republican party
of the South, with its rank and file composed almost
exclusively of ignorant blacks, the sooner will come
about the division of the Democratic whites in that
section. When such a division occurs, the "Solid
South " is broken, never to be reunited.
Brooklyn, N. Y.
Edzvard P. Clark.
"The School of Dishonesty."
In the " Open Letter " department of The Century
for November there is a contribution entitled, " The
School of Dishonesty, " which, while containing much
that is true, is yet fallacious in that its charges will
not admit of a general application, and must neces-
sarily fail to account for the great prevalence of" crime
in its multitude of forms."
No ; " the primary cause of crime " does not come
from mercantile life, which is no more a school of dis-
honesty than any other branch of labor. In answer to
the question as to when the evil-doer first loses his
sense of honesty and integrity, Mr. Tyrer says : " If
we knew the facts, how often the answer would be :
At the time that the offender was first placed in contact
with the world, when from one cause or another he
was first forced from the care of his parents, and com-
pelled to contend alone for his existence ; when he first
entered upon his apprenticeship to the merchant, the
manufacturer, the professional man, the farmer." In
the visible facts of the case this is true, but the evil lies
far deeper, and the crimes of dishonesty are but the
outward manifestations of a diseased condition of
society behind them. It is much like saying the erup-
tions in measles are the cause of the disease, when
they are but the result of forces much deeper.
If the family and social life of the country to-day was
what it should be, these outward schools of dishonesty
would not exist. Where do the innocent and honest
youths, upon whom Mr. Tyrer predicates his argument,
come from ? Are they the sons of " merchants, manufac-
turers, professional men, farmers," apprenticeship to
whom means moral ruin ? Do thistles produce figs ?
It seems to me that the American youth of both
sexes are trained to a false standard of life, to the
accumulation of wealth — the boys to get it, the girls
to marry it. This is the teaching of parents in all walks
of life, from the cottage of the poor man to the man-
sion of the already rich. It is the worship of the
almighty dollar, the golden calf, which is at the basis
of so much crime. The youth goes out into the world
"on the make," and the results soon follow. Until
the American people live for something besides money,
and have some other aim in life, " crime in its multitude
of forms " will ever be with us, and laws to "compel
men to do an honest business " will not need to be
suggested. Statute laws cannot remedy the evil, for
there are none to enforce them. The only remedy is
the inculcating of a higher standard of life, according
to the principles of Christianity; but here the work
of the layman ends, and that of the preacher begins.
St. Louis, Mo.
P. H. Felker.
BRIC-A-BRAC.
CHANGING THE SUBJECT.
Professor Gotsuchakoff: "To change the subject, Miss Daisy, is the Delesseria common in this vicinity?'
Miss Daisy: "Dear me! Change it again, Professor."
Atropos vs. Lachesis.
" Lachesis, twist, and Atropos, sever."
Lowell.
He. — I've looked for her these ten or fifteen years;
My faith is shaken ;
My foolish hopes are giving way to fears —
I must have been mistaken.
And yet, she is a " not impossible she,"
She's very human.
I think she's young; I know she's fancy-free,
And every inch a woman.
I can't describe her, but if I should chance
To see her only,
I'm certain I should know her at a glance,
And be no longer lonely.
She. — I often am just where he ought to be —
Why don't he come there?
I'm sure I'd recognize him instantly ;
He must be somewhere !
It is a paradox — whate'er he be,
He's not intrusive ;
Yet, if he is he, it also seems to me
He's not illusive !
I'm certain I should know him at a glance.
Most men are stupid.
I wonder if these things are left to chance,
Or if there is a Cupid !
So either mused ; time passed ; they did not meet,
Though they were living in the self-same street.
He to an office went at half-past eight,
Never too early, or a minute late ;
And fifteen minutes afterward she went
To the large school where she her mornings spent.
No dream, no vision came to either one ;
Their paths kept onward as they had begun —
Parallel lines, which never were to meet,
Though but divided by a narrow street.
One eager glance had proven her to be
His sweet, most human, "not impossible she";
One long, shy look from her deep eyes had made
Her heart go singing to him unafraid.
Kingdoms there are for all of us, may be,
But every kingdom opens with a key.
Margaret Vandegrift.
960
BRIC-A-BRAC.
Ethiopiomania.
Vers de Societ6 (new style). Dedicated to a Fashionable Young
Lady who Plays the Banjo.
Piano put away
In de garret for to stay ;
De banjo am de music dat de gals am crazed about.
De songs dat now dey choose
Am 'spired by de colored muse,
An' de ole kind o' poeckry am all played out.
Chorus. Oh, Maud Elaine,
Sweet as sugar-cane !
Hush dat music, let my poor heart go.
For hit's sweeter dan de band
To heah yo' little hand
A-plunk-plunk-plunkin' on de ole banjo.
Clog dance.
11.
I ain't from de Souf;
But yo' pretty, pretty mouf
Done took to singin' darky songs in such angelic
tones
Dat jest fo' yo' sake
I'se a-gwine fo' to take
Some lessons on de tambourine, an' learn to play de
bones.
Chorus, and double shuffle.
in.
Oh, when Maudie sings,
And picks 'pon de strings,
'Twould charm a deaf-and-dummy, or a possum from a
tree.
She holds dat banjo so,
In her arms as white as snow,
I'd gib a half-a-dollah if dat instrument was me !
Chorus, and walk-around.
IV.
Love's Seasons.
'Twas spring when I first found it out ;
'Twas autumn when I told it;
The gloomy winter made me doubt,
And summer scarce could hold it:
" She loves," the mating robins sang
In sweet, delicious trebles,
And in the brooks the echo rang
In music o'er the pebbles.
The fresh air, filled with fragrant scent
Of blossoms, softly hinted
The self-same song ; where'er I went
I found the message printed
On bud and leaf, on earth and sky,
Through sun and rain it glistened,
And though I never reasoned why,
I always read or listened.
The summer dawned, and still the birds
Sang in their tree-top glory,
And something seemed to make their words
A sequel to my story:
" You love," they twittered in the trees ;
Whene'er the light wind stirred them, —
Distracting words! — on every breeze
They fluttered, and I heard them.
At last the mellow autumn came,
And all the leaves were turning,
The fields and forests were aflame
In golden sunlight burning ;
The parting birds sang out again
A sentimental message :
" Go tell her," whispered they, and then
I thought 'twas love's first presage.
O timid-hearted twenty-four,
To faint and lose your courage,
Or half-reluctantly implore
A pretty girl at her age !
For when I stammered what they sung,
And all their secrets told her,
She said the birds were right, and hung
Her head upon my shoulder.
So play, play an' sing,
For de banjo am de king,
Its music brings de belles an' beaux a-knockin' at
de doah.
We'll dance heel an' toe
Till de lamp burns low,
An' de Turkey carpet's worn away from off de par-
lor floah.
Chorus, and grand break-down.
Frank Dempster Sherman.
A Waif.
Henry Tyrrell.
Distance.
The captured bird is sweet, but sweeter the bird
that flies,
And the sweetest voice of the lark is his song from
the highest skies ;
The fish from the nets are good, but the best re-
main in the sea.
If fickle the woman you love, what woman so fair
as she ?
Berry Benson.
Her dress is ragged and torn and old,
Her feet are bare, and the day is cold ;
Some shaving curls on her shoulders fall,
And a train is made of a worn-out shawl.
Some flowers that once were a beauty's pride,
And now are withered and thrown aside,
She holds as close as her fingers can,
While a crumpled hand-bill serves for a fan.
You would never have guessed, as you saw her there,
With those withered flowers, and feet all bare,
That the gloomy street was a brilliant hall,
And she dancing there, the belle of the ball.
Alice Trumbull Learned.
.Ot'i.oty.OVCe'H
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